nuh uh

Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, did well in creating you.

The god of love, you surmised, was one that, in recent times seems more closed off, standoffish even compared to the humans that she rules over. She is a woman, who is seemed to have no love left for her people, an irony of all things considered her title and role, yet to compensate for that, she created the cupid race. Born to the Tsaritsa's command in order bring forth humans in romantic and platonic kinship, that was your purpose, your fate, and you couldn't have had it better.

Humans, for their endless entropy of emotions, were quite entertaining to watch when all you have to do is to observe and tie the strings to their soulmates. Their tears, their smiles, their blushes, emotions that you could never experience yourself with such detail compared to your mortal counterparts. And, in a way, you didn't mind. Observing these mortals brought you great joy in and of itself, as did bringing forth soulmates regardless of how far apart they existed.

Though, Snezhnaya was a nation quick to adapt to her majesty's mood, for now the nation of love was just an endless tundra, filled to the brim with scowls and alcohol brewing under their chins. You couldn't blame them. To live in a nation, whose reputation remained tarnished due to its aggressive military, was bound to make one grumpy. Even your mood fouled far often than it should have in these solemn conditions.

So, you took a different approach.

The north had no place for your everlasting boredom, so you ventured, from Snezhnaya to Nod Krai, skipping over the regions till you came to Mondstadt. The nation of wine and freedom. Even the air here was no short of impressive, with the scent of dandelions wafting through the air like the subtlest yet soothing companion. This region... Was all you could ask for in regards to humanity. Here, the knights wore honor as their greatest badge, the church worshipped with fervor regardless of their absentee archon, the men and women mingled with such unique romances, that you yourself could not help but sigh in utter delight at the sight of a couple giving each other flowers, or perhaps having a picnic together at the fresh meadow.

Truly, this is where you belonged.

Day by day, you sat on the windrise tree, munching on either a sunsettia or apple, positioning your (harmless) bow and arrow to an unsuspecting couple, and watching your arrow disappear into the wind to tighten the bond between the two humans. You watched, as their eyes lit up with renewed yearning, and the grip of their hands enveloped in their partner's grew stronger.

This was your whole life really. You slept on most days, when you yearned for a snack you'd simply wander around, careful to avoid the hillichurl camps and just pick up a fruit or two for your indulgence. And, when inspiration struck you'd carefully position your bow and arrow to strengthen the string of love regardless of its nature as romantic or platonic.

Ah but of course, people would catch on about your little whimsical life.

Sometimes, you left your bow on the tree during your wanderings, others you'd be a bit sloppy and fail to conceal your presence as much as you would've liked. It didn't matter, for the people of Mondstadt noticed, and you were happy to oblige to their little whims.

You'd see girlish letters asking you to send it to the object of their admiration, and you did. You'd see couples asking for your blessings and you gave them. You'd see little kids playing house, begging to allow their friendship to continue forevermore, and you'd help fulfill that wish. All anonymously of course. And yet, with each letter, heartfelt wish and whatnot, your heart didn't grow cold at the monotony, but warmer at the prospect of human kinship, sometimes bold and sometimes more reserved, growing even greater by the decade. You have practically lost count of the romances and friendships you've supported up until now, and you couldn't have had it any better.

But did romances only have to occur between humans? Why of course not!

Right now as of the moment, you sat on the branches of another tree, the grip of your legs over the branch taut, and the precision of your bow even greater. You were pointing your arrow to two lovely birds singing along in melodious harmony, and to think to not bind them in friendship was absolutely blasphemous. Obviously, the intensity of the arrow had to be lessened according to the bodies of the birds, but the calculations leading to that point were too vague and the chances of you messing up were far higher than expected. Too much intensity would kill them, might even cook them from the potency, and too little wouldn't do anything.

But mulling over it won't do much now would it? The birds would finish their singing sooner or later. You shot your arrow...

...And it turned into fowl. How great. You really needed to improve upon your arche-

"That was a nice shot there!"

You almost fell off of your branch.

Quickly adjusting your position so as to not fall off startled, your graze drifted upon the snarky and boyish voice below you. You really should've practiced concealing your presence better, but oh well. Instead of, what you would've preferred, a clean grass field, you were met with a young man, eyes dark, dead and crimson and with lovely dark hair. His uniform, you could tell, belonged with the knights of favonius, and he was covered in... Blood. You scrunched up your nose in discomfort.

"Hey now, don't look so displeased, I'm just a knight passing by!"

"A knight with so much blood," you secured your bow on your back. "I'm afraid I can't exactly trust a man with that much gore on his person."

"Just a few hilichurls ravaging the place out of order," he laughed, a bit maniacal, and your discomfort grew by the slightest. "I'm Lohen, vice captain of the fifth company of the knights of favonius," what a mouthful, "and what might your name be?"

Should you even tell him? Staring down at the man, grin undeniably cheshire and his eyes holding a sort of lack of light that you couldn't discern the emotion of, he still seemed earnest, if in a twisted way. His grip on his spear tightened the lightest, and his eyes always found themselves attracted to that bow on your back. Of course. War mongerers will always look for a sign to fight.

"Not a talker, eh?" You didn't answer either, and ended up going back to staring at the dead bird on the branch. You pitied it, it didn't deserve being at the end of your bow.

"Are you perhaps a hunter?"

"... What makes you say that?"

"Your precision at that bird was exquisite," oh? You didn't expect him to be the type for flattery. "And your bow seems to be high quality," he crossed his arms. Your gaze drifted again, and you couldn't help but watch as the blood dripped from his bangs to his nose, before eventually falling on the ground again.

"And yet, you're not dressed like one."

You narrowed your eyes. He was perceptive. You weren't all too familiar with Mondstadt laws, but poaching without a permit was surely enough a grave offense that had to be paid with a fine. Well, you would think, you haven't been interacting with human life directly for a long time now. To be faced with the implications of your own mistakes to not hide your presence better was truly distressing, especially since he knew your face and voice now.

"I'm just a typical wanderer, you don't have to worry about me," you paused, before speaking again. "I'm not here to cause trouble," in a way, the man questioning you looked like he caused greater issues than what of you might have done.

He chuckled, for whatever reason, you didn't exactly know. Instead, he brought his gloved hand to shoulder and waved, before eventually walking off into the distance, towards the city of Mondstadt. Though, with the way he kept glancing at you even after he left the scene, told you enough that he'd try to find you again, if only for the thrill of a good fight. You recognize that look all the way from the humans in Snezhnaya.

"Well, it's been a while since I had to tackle bloodlust instead of its other counterpart," you muttered to yourself, before jumping off that branch of yours, staring at the other tree and the fowl, that still had your arrow stuck through its eyes. Guess you were having meat for sustenance today then.

This Lohen was a real pain.

Day by day, you often spent your time sleeping or fulfilling the wishes of your fellow Mondstatians, yet you never did much after that. Explore? Sure, but due to the egregious amount of hilichurls near Mondstadt you weren't one to risk it. And yet, despite all your laxness, your lack of enthusiasm for anything that wasn't your purpose, you found it that Lohen wasn't one to like to leave someone peacefully minding their own business alone.

You rest near a pond or perhaps in Windrise, and you found that dastard Lohen grinning stupidly, his hand mildly shaking from gripping his polearm so hard, and always covered in crimson. You've grown to learn to ignore him, more often than not, since there wasn't much reason to just attack someone out of nowhere. At least he had the dignity for that of all things, even if most times he's just poking your bow to get a reaction out of you.

"It's a very fine quality bow. Say, care telling me where you had it made?"

"It's a family heirloom."

It wasn't, but its not like he could really do anything about that. You made your own bow and arrow, but he didn't need to know that.

Most times you just run away from him, your feet gliding across the harsh blades of grass as he calls after you with brash and hurried apologies that has no actual weight. All he wanted to do was fight, and you weren't one prone to violence by any means, especially when you knew, even with your limited combat experience, that you could end his life if you tried just the slightest. He wanted your bow to injure, but unfortunately for him you were created for love, and to hurt humans was something you didn't want to explicitly do in all things.

As of the moment, there you were, watching the crystalflies land on your index and watching as its wings flap with such beauty, yet as soon as Lohen came, it flew away, as if knowing that his bloodlust will get them killed. You remained nonchalant nonetheless, despite missing the pretty sight on your finger.

There came your dark haired knight, already covered in blood from Barbatos knows what he did, still with that annoying grin plastered on his face. It was beginning to become a part of your daily routine, and you couldn't have been more distraught at the fact that you were getting used to humans like these. You sat up from the grass, brushing the dirt from your outfit and already turning your back on him.

And he was... Pouting. Gosh, how much attention did he need really?

"Oh come on, not interested in a fight?"

"Not particularly."

Ignore, ignore ignore, that was all that was chanting in your head right now. Why did you even respond to his question? That you yourself didn't even know, people like him are bound to give up if you don't give them the thought of day, but here you were falling into a trap that he himself didn't know he placed.

"What do you even do then? Such great precision on your archery, and yet you're without a permit."

"Just for self defence," you breathed through your nose, "I might just attack you from your incessant questions now." Said through gritted teeth.

"Oh please do!"

"No thank you," your expression turned to one of disgust again. "Won't exactly count as self defence."

"I say it would, if I just strike right now," what was he even saying?! His body shifted, and now he was taking a stance for... Fighting! This man really doesn't know when to quit!

"I said no, Lohen!"

He pouted, and you practically shivered in your cloth. "Ahh what a buzz kill," he rolled his neck, and you could hear the cracks pop one by one, which was disturbing. Gods, he really was just planning on attacking you right then and there. One had to be a real kind of crazy to even do that without warning.

"And besides, it wouldn't exactly be a fair fight anyway. You have a vision and I don't." Why were you even trying to reason with him? You could've just walked away, never to see him again as you reside in a more secluded area. Your love for humans must have been so great to indulge even the irrational of humans, those who have only fight in their heart and brain.

"I'll throw away my vision."

You quirked an eyebrow. So much for just a fight? You wonder if he became a knight just to duel people. "You're a knight and I'm just a passing Traveler. Still wouldn't be fair."

"I'll compensate you!"

With what exactly? You almost said, but instead rolled your eyes. You've had enough conversation with this man and it was getting on your nerves. So, as promptly as you could, you began walking away from the man, ignoring his pouty protests.

He was interesting to observe however, maybe you should do more research on people like him.

You stood in front of Mondstadt gates, and could only sigh as you walked in.

To be completely honest, interactions with humans (aside from... You hate to say it but Lohen) were few and negligible in your long life, so, approaching the city with stone gates left you feeling a tad bit nervous. The guards greeted you kindly, which should be a source of comfort, and you bowed your head in turn, if only to be polite.

The city was quite... Lively. Lively for your taste specifically, with the children running amok and the constant company that was the bustling conversation between the people. You even saw some people releasing love letters into the air, which you cheekily collected and made sure to carefully place in your handbag. No rest for the cupid you supposed, you smiled into your cloak. But, as always, you wouldn't have had it any other way.

Your intention for even coming into the city, was, for one, to observe how Mondstadtians get along in their day to day lives, and to also gather more information about Lohen's environment to find out about what made him such a battle maniac. He was a tad bit of an enigma for you, inhibiting characteristics of a psychopath, yet still holding this humanity in him that signifies that he was more than just a man who liked to wander about and fight things and creatures for no reason. He was annoying, but in a way you wanted to study him. Just that, asking him directly, knowing that he'll be on your tails for as long as you exist afterwards, was not your particular cup of tea.

And this city was too cheerful. Too much for someone like him.

You truly wonder, you really do, what about this freeing environment made him so battle hungry? Even those with the more serious disposition, always carried that air of softness, or had at least some kind of care for their own city to crack a smile every once in a while. Him? He belonged more in Natlan than he did in Mondstadt. What made him so bored of this lovely city? You truly wondered.

Here, it felt as if the word "home" was personified in a way, the cozy warm feeling and the general public adding to that whole vibe of the place. And yet, Lohen feels like such a stark, cold contrast against that home which you've lived in for so many decades. You're not sure how to feel, and yet surprisingly enough you don't feel malice.

For now, you'd just enjoy your day. The children around brought you dandelions to your palms, and you smiled and pat their heads as a thanks for their gesture. With the limited mora you carried, you used it to buy some food from good hunter, and it was far more pleasing than of what you might have expected. You walked from area to area, taking in this glorious city with fresh eyes and a warmer heart, and your little love for humanity sparkled just a tad bit brighter, and it felt like such a great euphoria.

... If it weren't for the fact that you were being watched.

You noticed almost immediately when you checked out the Knights of favonius headquarters and then left to discover more parts of the city, but someone was certainly following you if anything. They were sneaky, that was to be sure, and certainly not to be messed with, but you couldn't sense any bloodlust on their person even with the unnerving presence watching you. You sighed, wishing you had eyes at the back of your head. It would save you the trouble of constantly looking back and seeing that your assailant had all but disappeared.

Couldn't even enjoy an afternoon. You sighed.

You suspect that Lohen might be following you. Why? Well, regardless of how well he did at deception, he couldn't hide his elemental traces regardless of how hard he tried. It didn't help that your senses were far more attuned to Teyvat than that of the normal person, but considering that Lohen hadn't done anything yet, you'd let him slide for once.

For now, you'd just buy a memoir to remember your trip.

"Any flower you'd like?"

Flora, you heard, offered you the array of flowers, and you couldn't help but chew on your fingers for a bit. Even if this was just a personal gift, it didn't make the act of buying something any less difficult. Sighing you asked for the Cecilias, but unfortunately someone had bought them already. The whole stock. Which was... Strange, but you could manage, and instead bought some small lamp grass.

The flowers were pretty at least, and the sun was already setting. You were about to leave the city gate, but unfortunately, were stopped by an all too familiar voice.

"Wait a sec!" It was Lohen.

He ran up to you while you were already on the path with a frightening speed that you hadn't seen him use before, which, to be fair, was expected since you hadn't seen him actually in combat before, and left him in the dust before he could actually catch up. He panted the faintest, and you could see from your vision that his top was the slightest ruffled. His face however, was a whole other story. It was flushed, a tad bit pink, likely from running to you so fast and so hurriedly, and yet he still kept that manic grin on his face that you've grown accustomed to.

"Lohen?"

"Yes, my liege?"

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, and then sighed, exasperated.

"Why are you here, exactly?" Choosing your words carefully. You wouldn't want to catch the unnecessary attention of the guards, who were watching your interaction with far too much interest than of what you might be comfortable with. Somehow, Lohen noticed your discomfort, and moved his body so that he was covering the sight of you from the guards.

That was oddly thoughtful.

"Can't get a chance to see the lovely you?"

"You can but I'm pretty sure that flattery wasn't in the topic of "meeting" me."

"Is it really flattery if it's all true?"

You raised a brow. Now he was acting slightly suspicious. He didn't seem like the type to care about overt complementing, especially since you assumed him to only acknowledge those that matched his fighting prowess. You didn't even clash your bow against his yet.

"Just tell me what you want Lohen."

You crossed your arms, and he pouted again. Seriously, you might just have to start counting the number of times he's being dramatic.

"Trying to get rid of me?"

"If you don't hurry up I might just," your glare didn't exactly match his carefree look, but then again your threat must have worked since he took out the thing that he was hiding behind his back-

And it was Cecilias. Huh.

... But they were covered in blood.

You stared at Lohen, then back at the flowers again, holding the crimson carnage and the distinct scent of iron. Tentatively, you grabbed the flowers, narrowing your eyes when the blood dripped into your palm.

"Why blood?"

"Well, I feel like red suits you."

"It suits you more," you sighed, picking one flower and twirling it between your index and middle. "Considering you're so battle hungry. I'd prefer it if it was white."

"Well, it wouldn't exactly say anything that it would match me now would it? I feel like I had to impart at least some of my charm."

Ugh. He had a point.

But then again... "Where did you get the blood from?"

"Oh do you really need to know?"

"I feel as if I must."

You stared at Lohen, who was consequently staring off into the distance with the most neutral expression you had ever seen, likely to not give away his thoughts. You narrowed your eyes and furrowed your brow, and he still had the audacity to act unbothered. You were seriously considering kicking him.

Forcibly shoving his body, which was frustratingly sturdy and didn't seem to want to budge, you looked behind him. There was nothing out of the ordinary of course, just guards doing their job and the sun setting from the long day that it spent. However, you were not one easily deterred. Squinting your eyes, you saw a few people walking out the city gates in the adventurer's guild uniform, their expressions foul and all, and as they walked passed, you noticed how the biggest one was holding his head covered in bandages, and his lackeys were talking about a concussion of sorts.

You whipped your head back to Lohen, not impressed in the slightest.

"Why would you fight someone so carelessly, Lohen?"

He was... whistling now? Gosh why doesn't he ever stay on topic?!

"Lohen."

"Oh fine, you really wanna know?"

Yes, you really did. And you were mostly sure that your expression conveyed that perfectly fine, much to his likely dismay.

He leaned into you, and for a moment you thought he was about to do something absolutely ridiculous, but instead all he did was whisper into your ear:

"I did it for the thrill. Say, isn't it fun to see these pitiful men limping and scampering all caused by my gift for you?"

"Wha- no, Lohen! Why would I ever want people to be hurt because of me?!"

"Eh, why not? I mean, personally speaking if you fought someone for me I'd be at your neck and call like a pitiful servant," you tried not to think about the implications of that.

"That's for you personally, not me!"

"Well, they are known to be slackers in the adventurer's guild, I was just roughing them up!"

You sighed, pointedly sighed, attempting to not let your absolute irritation with him show. He was at least observant enough to know he had fucked up, but at the same time it seemed like he didn't give a rat's ass about what you thought of it.

"Then take it as a token of... My gratitude!" Now he was just spewing bullshit, but who were you to call him out really? At least he returned to normal. His snarky, cheerful voice returned again, and you couldn't help but find it ridiculous that you were glad he returned to his original personality of all things. Seriously, you were growing soft.

"Gratitude for what?" You raised a brow, and all he did was chuckle.

"Well, as the knights say, for not running off when I quote on quote "behaved like a freak"."

You still behave like one, you almost uttered whilst rolling your eyes, but you had enough of self preservation to know when and when not to respond to precarious situations.

"Well then!" He finally leaned away, and you almost missed his warm breath hitting your face, "any other questions needing answering?"

Well, best to ask something mundane you supposed. "Why flowers?"

He was the one now staring at you, blankly in fact, his cheeks still pink of all things and definitely lost in thought. Then, with his bloody hand, he picked a flower in your hand, carefully making sure the blood wouldn't stain your outfit (which was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture) and placed it on your ear, the red a contrast against your face.

"You could say it's a trade."

You paused. "Trade?"

He grinned back, which he was doing awfully often. "Well, despite all the times I've already met you, I've found to it that, I actually still don't know your name."

You paused again, this time with more emphasis on the disbelief on your face. "So you want my name because you gave me flowers?"

He nodded, and you could only sigh.

"It's (Name)." And you prevent him from seeing the redness on your ears, you quickly went on your own separate ways, carefully carrying the red cecelias in your hands too. Briefly, you heard Lohen testing your name on his tongue, but you promptly ignored him. It was sunset after all, there was no need to bother him much longer than you should have.

Cupid's way of delivering letters were simple.

First, they'd receive the letters of course, folded in a neat envelope, and they'd also read it, which was typical. Then they'd converge into either two routes, either guiding the words of the letter across the wind, making sure they reached their predetermined destination, or perhaps cupid themselves would come to that person in disguise and give them the love letter themselves.

Cupid rarely ever threw away letters, and only did so when it was an unwanted stalker of such. However, you might make an exception for the letter in front of you.

The letter in your hand, stamped with the favonius wax and with imported paper, was slightly crumpled and worn, reminiscent of a certain Mondstadter that you'd meet quite often in your current days. It was unusual, Lohen was never one to sit still and actually write a letter due to his personality, he'd, in fact, much rather just have an assistant take care of his paperwork, maybe overload acting grandmaster jean again, but he would be out in the wild killing the poor animals and hilichurls.

To write a letter to cupid? That was the ultimately bizarre part.

Carefully, you made sure not to tear the paper, and opened it without the wax ruining the letters. Inside, was, of course, the most crooked and hasty handwriting you had ever seen. So, you could at least confirm it was Lohen, but you never knew that he admired someone. Huh. Guess you learn new things every day, even if they slightly make your heart ache for whatever reason, which was something that you yourself didn't know of sorts.

Of course, you had to actually read the letter. Sucking in a breath, you began:

"Dear cupid,

Grandmaster Varka had told me to write this for whatever reason, which was... Annoying. But nothing I couldn't handle. See, there was this certain person I met in Mondstadt, nothing out of the ordinary, people do wander about and frankly it's none of my business. Still, they were sort of odd. Sitting on a tree of all things, and pointing an arrow with the nicest form I had seen, towards an unsuspecting bird. They were good, I could confidently say. But, unfortunate as it was they aren't too keen on seeing eye to eye in any of our prospects of whatever. I try to get along, a person with such talent surely deserves for a clean fight, but it was strange seeing them so adverse to fighting, considering that they're that talented. I couldn't even catch their name until recently! Their name was (Name), it sounded nice in my mouth at the very least, and I only got it when I got them a gift, and even then they seemed more than pleased to run away. Quite frustrating in my place.

Anyway, all I ask of you (which the other knights and Grandmaster are telling me to ask of you), is to help me find out more about them and what they want with me or anything else. They're far too intriguing for me to let them go, so I'm not inclined to do that. Give a sign or whatever, and give it quick.

From,

Lohen."

It was quite a short letter, and yet you didn't know how to feel about it, considering that it was about you of all people. Lohen wasn't one to mull over the details it seemed. He ran over how the two of you met, how he felt that your combat prowess was a gem in talent of sorts, and most of all, how willing he had been to continue talking to you, heck, even to find out your name. He wasn't a romantic, or something, he didn't write about how he felt when you ignored him, or how much desperation claws at him whenever he saw you running off or whatever. Instead, it seemed as if he was just trying to relay his points and quick, considering the tardiness of his writing and how many words he had cut and rewritten over and over again.

You didn't know how to feel.

How could you even tell him that his thoughts (confusing as it was) was being relayed to the object of his interest or whatever? You were cupid, and you had an admirer yourself, and yet, you didn't know how you were supposed to take it. With pride? Joy? Perhaps even indulge his rapid curiosity? You didn't frankly know, and you're not exactly sure you want to know.

For now, you'd carefully fold the letter and place it into your pockets and ponder, as the sun set and the moon's visibility shone again, you decided that you were going to think for a long while.

"Oh come on Mx (Name)!"

"No Lohen."

Ever since that letter, for whatever reason that you didn't know of yourself, you've been more inclined to allow Lohen into your vicinity. Well, Vicinity as in, the two of you walking together without talking or perhaps having a meal together. You still block out the nonsense that somehow escapes his mouth into the human realm, but that was something that you did all the time so you don't think it counts.

Though, no matter how hard you tried in blocking out the noise, he always had a way to ask the same questions over and over again.

"I'm not going to fight you Lohen."

"You're acting like fighting is going to drain the life out of you or something."

Somewhere in the back of your throat, you were about to say yes before calming yourself.

"I'm just simply not interested."

Couldn't he get that in the slightest? Plenty of times you've told him no, how you did not want to cross weapons near the statue of the seven, nor did you want him to surprise attack you with his polearm. He was usually tolerable enough, and that was made this whole ordeal double the annoyance.

You've made sure that your bow was nowhere near your hands lest he mistake that for agreeing to fight, and you were obviously careful enough to make sure your arrows were out of sight too, there was no need for him to get all too excited. You could already imagine the pout plastered on Lohen's face, but unfortunately you weren't going to give him the time of day.

... Hopefully you weren't going to give him the time of day. Nowadays your mentality was horrifically easy to change its mind with just the slightest persuasion, and you decided that you didn't like that at all. Curse that darn Lohen.

"(Name)!"

"Screaming my name is going to get you nowhere Lohen believe me."

Unfortunately, he's also gotten far more obnoxious ever since he's learnt your name, and it seems to be his favorite word to shout into your ear now. (Name) This, (Name) that, your own name was starting to sound like it wasn't supposed to exist with his frequent usage.

You could hear him audibly sigh, in disappoinment or whatever, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes. Him and his overt need for everything to go his way. You yourself couldn't believe that you found that a bit charming.

But then, you heard the distinct sound of metal clanging together to create a rather annoying chime, and when you looked back, there was Lohen, his vision in his hand and he... Tossed it to the floor?!

"Lohen what are you-"

"You're always one to ramble on and on about how you don't want to fight, so I have just decided to make things a while lot easier for you. Come on, I'm practically defenseless without my vision now aren't I?"

He's... Taunting you. No, his tone of voice seemed less mocking and way too level, more like, coaxing you. All this for a fight? He even grabbed his polearm in the midst of your irritation with him!

"Didn't we have a whole conversation on how it would still be unfair even if you threw away your vision?"

"Aw, you think I didn't account for that? Relax! I'll go easy on you."

And would you look at that. "I'll go easy on you"? What a laughable quote, as if you were far lesser than him. Well, technically you did run around in circles trying to convince him that you were weak, but now that you were closer and now that you were actually subtly fond of him, the whole thing stroked your ego in the opposite direction of what you wanted.

Well, if a fight is what he wants then a fight is what he gets.

Quickly grabbing your bow from your back, you allow the friction beneath your feet to drag you away from Lohen so you could gain some kind of distance and shoot your arrows. Of course, the arrows themselves came with their own safety features, you weren't actually going to hurt him, but it's best to give someone the illusion of their desire when said desire is going to actively harm them in the process. Three arrows went, two for each of his eyes and one for his head, but he easily deflected and swatted the arrows away with his polearm.

"Hahah! Bring it on!" That maniacal grin on his face again, you couldn't help but smirk in return of his enthusiasm.

Lohen was fast, he managed to close the distance between the two of you pretty quickly, leading you to quickly go on the defensive. His polearm slashed up, right then left, and you carefully dodged each hit. Luckily, the length of the polearm caused the swings to allow you to gain more distance, so by the time he was done with the first set of his attacks, you had already moved a great distance away from him to use your bow and arrow to shoot him again.

This time you wanted to test his reaction speed, really check the waters with what you could do and how long you could do it before Lohen could get suspicious about your lack of loss of stamina. Three arrows again, the first one aimed for his left hand, which he quickly dodged. The second came for his eyes, where he used his weapon to snap your arrow in half before it could actually pierce him. And the third for his feet...

Which he failed to dodge in the fraction of a second, so while it didn't injure much it still mildly poked him. You'd finally find his blind spot.

"What? Already failing to keep up pretty boy?" You suppose it couldn't hurt to tease him a little.

"Well, if it's you how could I possibly imagine keeping up?"

What a smartass. Still, you found yourself smiling along with him too, somehow finding the act of fighting of all things "fun", but for now you just had to focus.

You'd have to find a way to offset the balance of his footwork in order to pin him down with your arrows, but that would have to come later when his movements with his polearm became more sluggish. For now, you were perfectly fine with distracting him until you gained an opening.

He was clearly limping the slightest, you wondered if you actually pierced a toe of his, but his smiled never swept out of place, in fact his grin was possibly wider than before, and a face far more flushed with the prettiest blush you'd seen. A thrust of his polearm, of which you had to carefully dodge to the side.

"You're good at this! Makes me wonder why you didn't agree to a fight all those times," his tone was the breathy, and yet all you noticed was how he was paying attention to talking instead of fighting for now. You narrowly avoided his polearm, though it cut the bridge of your nose, and another thrust was about to stab you through the heart, and though you knew that Lohen put no killing intent behind that and would likely stop and declare himself winner or whatever, you still made sure to use an arrow of yours to prevent the stab altogether, even if it broke in half.

From this close a distance you could observe his face, the smirk he sported, the blood on his shoes and the feather from your arrow, his messy, unkept hair and wide blood red eyes. It was endearing, seeing him so joyful. Unfortunately for him though, you were excellent at providing distractions during a losing stalemate. His footwork was rigid, one that you couldn't displace, but his spear was fair game in your terms.

Carefully uplifting your foot, a difficult endeavor with the proximity of your bodies, you lodged the polearm between the small gap between the heel and sole of your boot, watching the handle get stuck momentarily. Lohen's eyes widened, his gaze suddenly blank, and you used that distraction to kick him. Hard. Real hard. The metal handle of the weapon, combined with the pointy front of your boot, did well in causing him to cough up spit within how hard his guts were kicked. He was practically sent flying, his back to a tree and his head pushed back. You cringed at the sight, and hopefully you didn't break any of his bones. Well, even if he did break a bone you'd still drag him all the way to Mondstadt church, uncaring of the glances just to get him healed.

For now though, all you had to do was point an arrow to his neck and assume your victory. Well, that and making sure your strength didn't kill him.

Quickly walking over, borderline running, your figure towered over Lohen who was clutching his midsection with his arms, and you couldn't help but contort your brow in worry. It didn't seem like you broke a bone of his, but you wouldn't rely on your judgement entirely. Even still, as Lohen stared up at you, delirious and all from the adrenaline, you couldn't help the spike of pride in your ego as you'd got even the chronic fighter to be stupefied. Crouching down, you carefully pressed the tip of the arrow over his Adam's apple, watching as his breath hitched for a hot second.

For a moment, you recalled your master's teachings in regards to using the bow and arrow.

"Pointing a cupid's arrow at someone is a great hit or miss. Your arrow, when released, either tightens the blossoming relationship and disappears into the wind, or breaks in half due to no mutual feelings between the lover and recipient. If you are in fight, you have to be very careful so as the arrow doesn't fade away."

"Yes ma'am," you remember responding.

The arrow, lodged between the gaps of your fingers, began to fade away, and your eyes could only widen in shock.

Shit.

Lohen seemed to catch drift of the disappearing arrow, and yet instead of the incriminating and confused look that you expected, his mouth instead widened into a grin.

"Well isn't this quite a sight?"

Double shit.

though strategic in battle tactics and a master in the art of war, lohen is not one who particularly enjoys the knightly glory that comes along with it. quite the opposite, actually. for him, to harbor such skilled yet deathly attributes used to reap bloodshed from formidable foes is the reason why one carries a sword and should thus be tempered with pride. only then, can a man ever wish to become that which is greater than himself. this is how to honor a god’s wish. unfortunately for the vice captain, not many of his fellow knights would agree.

in fact, most question how someone as brazen as him had earned the title of knighthood, much less advocated to the royal family by the grandmaster himself. then again, varka has always taken a liking to having the most peculiar of people at his side. it’s a wonder the royal guard hasn’t collapsed onto itself, but perhaps it is for that reason precisely. whatever the case is, that is a mystery only the grandmaster himself can answer.

from the array of tall windows, sunlight filters through their draping curtains into the corridor, casting lohen’s shadow onto marble floors as he walks, footsteps softened by the plush carpet. although he’s walked this route many times before, his eyes still can’t help but wander at the emanate opulence surrounding him: pedestals where pristine ceramic vases sat upon holding cecilias and windwheel asters alike, modest paintings of pleasant fields or mountains of solitude, and the chandeliers that hung overhead, shimmering in the sunlight. even just gazing at everything felt like thievery, and yet the royals allow any and all to simply waltz through. how careless, lohen thought.

and his judgment would only be proven further when he caught sight of two children near the center of the corridor. the eldest—lohen presumed—a girl who had lifted half the skirt of her dress was in the process of tying what appeared to be a small drawstring bag onto her leg while the little boy beside her held another in his hands, his fidgeting clearly a sign of anxiousness.

“sis, hurry up! someone could catch us any second!” the boy pleaded, possibly for the umpteenth time since they arrived at the palace.

“i’m trying! stop being such a little–”

“stealing in broad daylight,” lohen’s voice cut through seamlessly, causing both children to freeze in their movements. dread-filled eyes hesitantly looked up towards the knight that all but towered over them, arms crossed and a piercing gaze that felt as though they were being met with the endpoint of a sword. “even the most skilled of thieves wouldn’t pull a stunt as daring as this.”

no response would come as the two children had been frightened into silence. a common sight for lohen, really, but substitute in a battered down enemy or monster instead. in all honesty, he was more disappointed than angry at the current situation, but not for the reasons one might assume. had another knight patrolling the area stumbled upon both children in the middle of stealing, they might’ve scolded them much like a parent would, going on a spiel about how stealing is wrong and isn’t the right thing to do. this was lohen though, and his disappointment came from the fact that the two “thieves” he caught were nothing more than mere children looking to make a coin or two. he would’ve had a much better time putting an actual criminal into their place. in fact, he nearly had half a mind to scold the two about the poor job they were doing trying to steal from the palace of all places. they had better chances of stealing from a fruit vendor for archon’s sake.

it was only when the boy spat out an emotional “we’re sorry” and held out the leather drawstring he had between trembling hands towards lohen did the knight’s expression soften, just the slightest. judging from their clothing that appeared more like various rags poorly sewn together and their small, thin bodies, the motive behind their stealing was obvious.

sighing in resignation, lohen took the bag from the boy with one hand while the other moved to his unkempt hair, giving a light pat. “there’s no need for you both to resort to stealing. the palace gates remain open for a reason,” he then points to the other end of the corridor from where he came from. “if you head that way, you’ll run into a servant who’s in the middle of cleaning up. all you need to do, is walk up to them and ask if they can take you to the kitchen. they’ll understand what you mean and handle everything from there.”

“you mean… they’ll give us food?” the girl asked, the initial fear in her eyes starting to shift into a more hopeful look.

“of course. and, if you’re really good, they may even prepare you a small basket to take back home to your family.”

“a whole basket?” the boy echoed this time, mirroring his sister’s surprise, head tilting up towards lohen from beneath his hand. “we’ve never had a basket of food before!”

“come on, let's go! mama and papa will be super happy if we come back home with so much food!” and with the drawstring now forgotten, the girl stood up from where she sat and reached out for her brother’s hand, excitedly dragging him down the corridor as both their laughters echoed throughout. lohen’s eyes followed them closely, watching the way they almost stumbled over their own two feet amidst their excitement. another day of mundanity in the palace it would seem.

just before the boy disappeared along with his sister, he paused at the door and looked back towards lohen, smiling brightly. “thank you mister knight!” he called out, his cheerful voice causing the subtlest of smiles to tug at the knight's lips until the door finally closed behind him.

silence returned to the corridor once more as lohen’s eyes lingered on the doors for a brief moment before shifting to the drawstring in his hand and the abandoned one on the floor. curious as to what the two children had managed to gather, he took a peek inside each one; golden buttons that may have fallen off a noble's uniform, silver coins, and various gemstones likely picked from ornate plates or decorative pieces. they may have been reckless in their actions, but they certainly had an eye for items that would fetch a good price on the market. lohen almost wants to say he was impressed, but given the fact that both children likely came from the lower-class background, it’s no surprise they found such treasured finds. after all, when you come from nothing, your mind instinctively yearns for luxuriance.

as he continued to dig through the bag, lohen would catch sight of something that appeared far more valuable than the assortment of gems and silver stuffed in. a golden ring, crafted with an exquisite cluster that looked akin to the vines of a tree circling towards a crimson, ruby gemstone as its centerpiece. it undoubtedly belonged to a noble of some kind, but something as high quality as this would not be sitting out and about ready for the taking, much less stolen by two children. perhaps some careless noble was currently searching for it.. in which case, lohen decidedly stores it away within the pocket of his uniform, not thinking much of it.

“ah, lohen! there ya are!” the gruff sound of the grandmaster’s voice reaches the young knight’s ears seconds after. “i’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

whenever the grandmaster says those words, it always means either one of two things: there is an urgent matter that needs to be taken care of, usually consisting of having to deal with clearing out an area filled with monsters ( a task the grandmaster is aware lohen enjoys most ardently and therefore, assigns often ) or he has a letter that needs to be delivered on his behalf. for mondstat’s sake, let us hope it is not the latter…

instead of the grandmaster’s office, lohen found himself being led out to the palace courtyard. a pleasant setting, really, something even the dignified nobles sauntering about would agree with, but certainly odd to hold an official discussion in. even varka, for all his amicableness, knew when to set aside his colloquial manners to hone in on important matters, especially when they were in regards to affairs of the royal guard. in that case, this could all only mean one thing—

“grandmaster, while i am humbled by the fact you trust me so much as to deliver.. letters on your behalf, i’m afraid i cannot–”

“letters? who said anything about delivering letters?” varka questioned, as the two came to stop at the foot of a tree that stood at the center of the courtyard, its vastness providing ample shade from the afternoon sun.

“is that not the reason why you were looking for me?”

a hearty laugh traveled throughout. “no, of course not! i already assigned that task to be taken care of by mika for today.” seems like no one in the guard was safe from being a messenger today after all. “no, the reason i was looking for you today is related to a more important matter—and, no, it’s not about taking care of a camp of hilichurls or potential enemies of the like either.”

lohen’s eyebrow raised. that was certainly a first. if he was not being sent out to handle the supposed “grueling assignments” delegated throughout the royal guard, what matter could possibly be more important than wiping out an enemy camp? could it be an even tougher enemy? or perhaps a threat so massive it was going to put the entire kingdom at risk unless someone put a stop to it? granted, such an event had already come to pass from their most recent campaign, but wishful thinking never stopped even the most talentless of bards from hoping their ballads to be remembered for years to come.

all these thoughts beginning to circulate in his head must have caused the familiar glint of eagerness for battle to flicker across lohen’s eyes, as the grandmaster cleared his throat shortly after. “the matter is related to the royal family”

a pause. “the royal family?”

“yes. as you know, since the passing of his majesty, the prince, who was also next in line to inherit the throne, has since withdrawn the ragnvindr family from inheriting any form of a royal title.” there’s a hint of melancholy within varka’s tone as he speaks, but lohen does not make mention of it knowing that the matter he speaks of is beyond him.

“out of respect for his wishes, the church and royal guard allowed him to step down. normally, there is a long process one must go through when renouncing the crown, mainly to ensure there is still a ruler at present, but to also allow the church ample time to find a suitable family to take the mantle next. however, with how hastily the decision was made, it meant leaving the throne vacant.”

when it comes to matters regarding the monarchy of mondstat, lohen is admittedly not so knowledgeable on the subject. although that is a shortcoming he does not deem to be unacceptable, at least from his perspective. because when he was not being called upon to deliver letters or train with the other guards, lohen was out and about looking for his next punching bag. it was rare to find him within the palace, or even within the kingdom’s walls for that matter; you would have better chances of finding him in the most dangerous corners of the world. therefore, his knowledge of mondstat’s royal history was meager at best, but he was at least aware of the more significant details. one of which, being the inheritance of the crown.

being a country that prides itself on living by its notions of freedom, mondstat’s monarchy is equally reflected as such. the matter of who becomes the next ruler is a joint decision discussed between the church, the royal guard, and the people. when a family has reigned for a considerable amount of time—usually a decade—a meeting is called upon to decide whether or not the family will continue its rule or be contested by any within the three parties involved in the decision making process.

there have been three prominent families to have inherited the throne thus far; the lawrence family, whom history paints to have caused mondstat's darkest era, the gunnhildr family, and the ragnvindr family, now the most recent. up until now, the throne has never once been left vacant—not for a long time at least. since the young lord ragnvindr stepped down, it has been approximately six months that mondstat has been without a ruler and naturally, the kingdom has started to grow apprehensive.

“has the church still not found someone to take the throne?” lohen nearly scoffs, but the amusement in his eyes speaks otherwise. “is it truly that arduous of a task? there are a handful of respectable families within mondstat who would volunteer themselves without a second thought.”

varka chuckles. lohen’s blunt manner of speaking, despite its callousness at times, was always a welcome change to the otherwise decorous royal guard. he never knew what to expect, even if it sometimes did lead him into more trouble than he would have liked.

“believe me, if i had things done my way, mondstat would already have its ruler by now,” varka agrees. “but the matter of choosing the next ruler is not something as simple as picking from a sea of volunteers. you need more than charity to lead a kingdom.”

“just like you need more than a fighting spirit to lead the royal guard?”

“ha ha! you’re a funny one! fortunately for us, we won’t have to worry about finding a ruler anymore,” he eyes lohen with a smile that holds far more than the eye could see. “that is what i have brought you here to discuss.”

before lohen could question any further, varka reaches for something within the pocket of his uniform, pulling out an envelope that had the familiar wax seal of the church. he holds it out for lohen, gesturing for him to take it and after a beat of hesitation, the knight does so, carefully opening the envelope and reading the contents within.

the church of favonius, along with the knights of favonius and people of mondstat, have reached an agreement to crown lady [name], presented by the ragnvindr family, as the kingdom’s next queen. after thorough investigation and private hearings regarding the family’s history, lady [name] has been deemed fit to lead our kingdom under the guidance and blessing of the anemo archon. additionally, as per agreement between the grandmaster of the knights and seneschal of the church, lady [name] shall be provided a personal guard to remain at her side for the duration of her reign. both parties have nominated the vice captain of the royal guard’s fifth regiment, lohen, to bear this responsibility. by doing so, this ensures . . .

lohen does not bother to finish reading the rest, shaking his head as he starts to fold the paper back up. “no. no–absolutely not.”

“hey, hold on now! i haven’t even finished explaining–”

“grandmaster, with all due respect, i believe you and the senaschal were unwise in choosing me to be a royal’s personal guard.” a rare showcase of formality, one that looked almost too unnatural for lohen, that varka blinks in surprise. “i cannot be the queen’s guard. i will not have time to attend to her as often with my responsibilities as vice captain, so i strongly suggest that you and the senaschal select another candidate.”

which was partly true. although the position of vice captain did not include heavy amounts of demanding work when compared to that of an acting grandmaster, for example, there still remained obligations — even if lohen did not enjoy carrying them out as much. alas, varka knew the true intentions that lie hidden behind his sudden mask of formality and humbleness.

“listen, i understand that this is all coming to you without forewarning, and i apologize for making such a decision without consulting you first,” a sigh came from him then, accompanied by a troubled look. “but this is something we cannot forgo.”

“the previous rulers of our kingdom haven’t had a personal guard assigned to them—not a single one, and even then, the royal guard has managed to ensure their safety just fine without it,” lohen mentions, unwilling to back down as he crosses his arms over his chest. “what makes this case so different?”

“lady [name] is the only remaining member of her family’s lineage.” varka’s words are a statement rather than fact, yet they leave lohen with more questions than answers.

“the only remaining member of her family?” he repeats in disbelief, “the throne has been vacant for months, why on earth would we jeopardize the security of it any further by electing a sole living family member as the future crown? how have the people of mondstat agreed to this?”

“because they do not know, and it must remain that way.” fearing his voice had grown too prominent, varka glances around at the nobles that continue to walk along the courtyard. thankfully, most of them seem too preoccupied with their own conversations to even bother batting an eye at the grandmaster, bringing a minor sense of relief. when varka speaks again, he makes sure to keep his voice low. “the only ones who are aware of this are the church and knights. there are further details explaining as to why we have taken such a risk, but for now, they are only privy to myself, the senaschal, and the ragnvindr family, so you will have to forgive me for omitting some information. but i trust that now, you at least understand why lady [name] must have a personal guard, yes?”

yet he doesn’t want to understand, even when everything is spelled out to him as clearly as ever. because lohen knows that the moment he is to become a personal guard of the next queen, the little bit of freedom that his position as vice captain had already granted would be stripped away. his days of venturing outside the kingdom, fighting monsters and mastering his combat would be replaced with standing beside a monarch, still as a statue collecting dust. and his spear, which had always known the coat of red, would now be relinquished of its duty to eliminate foes.

he was no hero—no chivalric knight that sought to protect others for the sake of honor and duty. he was a weapon; one that followed the beat of his own drum which was the beating heart of his enemies he’d swear to slaughter.

lohen looks at the folded paper in his hand once more—the one that had managed to resign his entire fate—and he opens it once more, finishing up where he left off.

. . . by doing so, this ensures not only the protection of lady [name], who remains as the sole living member of her family, but that of the throne as well. the vice captain must guarantee her safety at all times until a suitable match can be found for lady [name]. once a suitor is found and believed to be fit for lady [name]’s hand in marriage, the vice captain may be relieved of his duty as her personal guard.

“If you could.” Buzz. “I'd appreciate it.” Buzz.

You grit your teeth, “Great.” Buzz.

You glare at your phone, hoping the intensity of your stare will compel him to stop texting you.

Buzz.

You sigh, rubbing your temples as you click send. “Alright, I just sent them.”

“Thank you,” your boss says your name. “I'll be in touch.”

You nod, “Let me know if anything else is needed.” Your boss hangs up. The display on your phone changing back to your home screen. Buzz. You are going to kill this man.

Tim: at this point i feel like you're just ignoring me 😔

Tim: i KNOW you're home right now

Tim: gotta admit you're dedicated tho

You glare at your phone, quickly typing out a response.

hey sorry to disappoint but i can be at home AND still work, some of us are actually employed

He instantly responds.

Tim: tf you talking about?? I am literally the ceo of wayne enterprises bro 🥀

I thought that was Lucius??? and even if you are employed you sure act unemployed bro 🥀

Tim: are you calling me chronically online?

Tim: how do you think we met???

Tim: it's a two way street 😭

yeah but like

Tim: 🤨🤨

ok fair enough, but I was working 😭 what was so important that you had to spam me while I was talking to my BOSS

Tim: mb gang i didn't know :(((

Tim: I figured if you didn't respond the first time you'd respond by the 15th time

Tim: and it worked soooo….

get to the point

Tim: so consider

Tim: dinner

You feel your heart skip a beat, your thumbs freezing as any comments you had evaporate from your head.

Tim: at the manor

Oh… That makes more sense. Why would you assume he was asking you out? You scoff, feeling a low surge of disappointment run through your chest.

again??

Tim: yeah i don't wanna be alone 💔

won't there be like 10 people there??? how would you be alone?

Tim: can you just be there pls

no

Tim: please?

i'm busy

Tim: doing what

i shouldn't tell people online what i'm doing, that's creepy of you to ask there buddy 🤨

Tim: you've literally been in my ROOM before hello??

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as you type. Any prior work you were doing is entirely forgotten.

that's an issue, what if I stole something? clearly SOMEBODY forgot to tell you never to tell strangers online your address 😔

Tim: fyi i can handle myself PERFECTLY fine

yeah huh

Tim: and are you implying you stole something from me???

no but i could've, you wouldn't have even noticed

Tim: no I would've

then why'd you ask me if I did?

Tim: to see if you'd admit guilt

I didn't steal anything though??

Tim: that's what a LIAR would say

oh my goodness

you're on your own for dinner

Tim: WAIT PLEASE

Tim: IM SORRY PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM

Tim: WE CAN HANG OUT AFTER MAKE IT A WHOLE THING

Tim: ACTUALLY WE CAN JUST DITCH LIKE HALFWAY THROUGH AND HEAD UP TO MY ROOM

damn you're acting as if they burn you at the stake each time there is dinner 😭

Tim: please be there i beg of you 🙏

mmmm i dunno you don't sound desperate enough

Tim: now I KNOW you're lying cause there's no WAY you just said that

Tim: I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could

lmao what's stopping you?

Tim: my dignity

😔

Tim: u being fr rn?

the mental image is very funny

Tim: i'm sure it is, now can we get back on track? could you PLEASE show up to dinner Sunday I'm LITERALLY begging you

THIS SUNDAY???? I THOUGHT IT'D BE LIKE NEXT WEEK OR SOMETHING

Tim: PLEASE I KNOW IT'S SHORT NOTICE I WILL MAKE IT WORTH YOUR TIME 🙏

Tim: I'LL EVEN ASK ALFRED TO MAKE YOUR FAVORITE FOOD AND DESSERT

That makes you pause.

you will? 🤨

Tim: YES JUST PLEASE SHOW UP

mmm okay

gotta ask, why do you need me there that bad??? don't just say your lonely or smth stupid

Tim: if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal

You furrow your eyebrows, pondering what “abnormal” would look like for the Wayne family. They seemed kind of normal when you met them. Maybe it's some Wayne thing you just don't understand.

what does that even mean??

Tim: just trust me, you being there makes my life 1000x easier

oh so I'm bait 💀

Tim: nononono not like that

Tim: it's nothing actually bad I promise

relax Tim I'm joking lmao, I'll gladly be bait to make your family behave normally 🫡 (as long as you hold up with your deal with Alfred of course)

Tim: you're literally my favorite person in the world right now

Smiling, you chuckle at the message, leaning back into your chair. You are not going to read too much into that.

after this I better be, I'll see you later then

Tim: I can pick you up Sunday around five

perfect, see you then

Tim: see you

You place your phone down. Dinner, huh? It's not like you haven't been to the Wayne's for dinner. This shouldn't be any different. The only other time Tim invited you to dinner was when you were starting to get to know him in person. To be fair, he didn't exactly “invite” you. His family actually insisted that they had to meet Tim's new friend. Tim had quickly informed you that you could decline the “offer,” but you had went anyway. It's not like you could just decline an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself.

The difference between now and then is that Tim is not only inviting you, but practically begging you to show up. Sure, he had snuck you in a few times, but formal invitations were not something that either of you did, not anymore.

What changed?

It's not something you should read into. However, your mind keeps going back to that one line. You open your phone again, scrolling to look at the messages. Your thumb hovers over the message: “if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal.”

Now, it should not be something you should read into. However, the strange thing is, you know exactly what Tim is talking about. When you met the Wayne's everything was seemingly normal, but the issue was that it was too normal. It set off some alarm in your brain, but you couldn't figure out what they did that set it off.

Normal.

What defines normalcy?

Is it the standards that you are accustomed to? Is it expectations one expects a well-adjusted person to have? Either way, it set off some alarms because while you didn't know how to describe their usual behavior, Tim does.

They act normal when you're there. This implies that there is a time where they don't act normal.

Your finger lightly traces the edge of your phone as you stare at the messages. Now, you're definitely reading into this, but the fact of the matter is something is up.

You're going to figure it out.

Meeting Tim had been, potentially, the most unexpected event in your entire life. Now, since both of you live in Gotham, one might presume that perhaps you met somewhere in the city. Perhaps you went to the same university or bumped into each other on the street. Perhaps you had met him at one of the dozens of events hosted by the Waynes every year. The possibilities were endless.

Instead, you met him on a thread online.

You didn't even know it was him.

It had been an online forum. You don't even remember what the exact topic was. It was something photography related. One of the users— TimTam— had been discussing something about how to balance one's subject with the environment around them. They had gone on and on about the rule of thirds, and how the the environment was meant to enhance the subject. Curiously, you had checked out their profile. After all, you'd expect somebody who talked the talk to be able to walk the walk. You'd found a link to a blog he had.

Apparently, you should've never doubted TimTam because the photos he took were absolutely breathtaking. You've lived in Gotham for decades, and yet the photos that TimTam took exhibited an unconventional beauty of the otherwise deplorable city. For a moment, you wondered if this was his job. Some of the photos looked too perfect to just be a mere hobby. He had shots next to the gargoyles on Wayne Tower with angles that looked unfeasible for any sane person to achieve.

Who was this guy?

Curiosity got the better of you. You had attempted to look him up for any other social media accounts, but your efforts were fruitless. A conclusion that only made you more curious.

You wanted to find more about this mysterious individual, so you sent him a quick message. Polite and inquisitive.

Hello! I stumbled onto your page, and I adore your photography! I was wondering if you had any other social media accounts. I would love to follow some of your other socials.

Checking the original forum, you noticed that the timestamp was from over a week ago. Hopefully he'd respond. You didn't really keep up with online photography forums much. Stumbling onto this had been an accident, but a happy accident nevertheless. You were about to get up from your chair, when you saw a little bubble signifying a notification.

Your mouth parted in surprise. That was quick.

TimTam: Hello. I don't have any other socials at the moment for photography. I only really post it occasionally on my main.

You nod, understandable. It's a shame, but you weren't about to ask a random stranger for what may be their potentially personal account. You were about to type your response, when TimTam sends another message.

TimTam: You think I should make a photography accoutn?

TimTam: account*

You slowly blink at the message followed by the typo correction. Somehow this person seems a lot less intimidating than they did five seconds ago.

Absolutely! It's rare that I can find somebody capture Gotham in the perspective you do. I would definitely follow you if you make any other socials.

There's a pause for a moment. The bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again. You tap the space bar of your laptop idly, curious what TimTam has to say.

TimTam: Like right now?

You can't help the surprised snort that escapes you.

I mean if you want? I meant more generally, but now works.

TimTam: Right, right, of course

You like their message, unsure how to respond to that. You think that's the end of your adventures with TimTam, but about ten minutes later you get another message. You open the chat back up. It's an Instagram link.

TimTam: Thanks for the advice. I made the social.

You nod as if they can see your physical response. Tapping onto the link.

For sure! Honored to be the first official follower :)

You actually are their first follower. The account's user is Tim_Tam with a profile picture sitting on the ledge of a building overlooking the sunset. Zero posts, one follower, zero following. It was brand new. Not even a bio present.

Satisfied with how the interaction went, you had presumed that your conversations with TimTam had ended. You didn't exactly give them a reason to keep contacting you.

A few days went by, and slowly TimTam began to post on social media. His first posts garnered thousands of likes, which you found impressive for such a fresh account. You did tell him that he'd do well on other platforms. It didn't take long for him to build up a following. Nothing insane, but definitely a good start.

You had been keeping up with TimTam. You weren't sure what drew you to him, but you found yourself liking each post of his. You found a smile appear on your face each time he posted.

Perhaps you were a tad bit proud that your suggestion led to such fruition.

Judging by the way he had immediately asked you if he should make a photography account, you assumed that he had previously considered the idea. Either that or he was a very spontaneous person.

Either way, you took some satisfaction out of it.

Days had gone by and you watched as his followers trickled up. You found yourself living vicariously through TimTam, silently celebrating ten thousand followers with him.

Then you saw it.

You had been about to go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and it was freezing. The comforters weighed heavily onto you, shrouding you in warmth. On top of that, you had pulled the Batman throw blanket up to your neck, nearly suffocating yourself with the soft material. The blanket had the different symbols of all the Bats plastered onto it against a light gray backdrop. You'd gotten it years ago, and to this day it was still one of your favorite blankets.

You squinted your eyes as the bright light of your phone shone through the otherwise dark room. Your eyes started to feel the strain as you continued to fight the urge to sleep.

Then you saw the notification.

The first thing you registered wasn't the message, but the sender of the message.

TimTam (or is it Tim_Tam now?) had sent you a message.

Sitting up, you read the notification, not wanting him to know you're reading his message.

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

Tim_Tam

Which one do you think looks better?

Sent now

You paused, thumb hovering over the Instagram notifications. You couldn't see the photos if you didn't click the message. However, if you clicked the messages, he'd know you're awake.

Would it be weird to respond? It's nearly midnight. What if he judges your poor sleeping schedule?

Then again… He texted you first. If anything he should be worried about how he comes across. Also, why should you care? It's just a stranger on the internet.

Before you could reconsider your actions, you clicked on the messages.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

The two photos looked practically identical. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a few discrepancies, but they were so insignificant that they were practically the same photo.

It was taken on a rooftop. Nightwing and Robin were shown to be conversing with one another. It was, quite possibly, the clearest photos of the vigilantes you had ever seen.

Of course, you've seen the blurry images and videos of the vigilantes captured by the news or even by Gothamites themselves, but none of them were this sharp. It was evident that the photo was taken from a distance (likely due to TimTam not wanting to be spotted), but that didn't change the fact that this was potentially the best photo you'd seen of the vigilantes before.

Sure, you've seen a whispered shadow pass over your head, or even heard the roar of the Batmobile echo across the city, but you had never gotten a clear look at their faces. It's blurry enough where specific identifiable facial features may not be evident, but it's clear enough that you can actually deduce their facial expressions.

Nightwing appears to be smiling, a wide grin plastered onto his face. Robin doesn't share the same expression. It's more difficult to tell what he's thinking, but it's evident that he does not share Nightwing's apparent amusement.

You swipe between the two photos TimTam sent. You were only able to make out five differences total. In the first photo, Robin's shoulders were more tense, Nightwing's mouth was slightly open (though still grinning) as if caught mid-speech, and the lights of the city shined down a low red lighting onto their costumes, bathing them in the ominous color.

The second photo had Nightwing simply offering an amused grin, smiling with his teeth on display. He wasn't saying anything. Robin's shoulders were more relaxed, but the unamused expression was a constant in both photos. The low red lighting from the first photo turned into a slightly more vibrant scarlet that enveloped the subjects. If you looked closely, you'd notice that Nightwing had a couple strands of hair out of place. The change making him look slightly more unkempt. The only other noticeable change was the direction Robin faced. In the second photo, he is angled just ever so slightly more towards Nightwing.

The second one for sure. It makes them both look cooler with the lighting and it feels slightly more personal.

Tim_Tam: Okay, thanks.

You stare at the photos for a moment longer, waiting for something else. No other response came. You furrow your brows, typing another message. Before TimTam was interesting. But now?

Wait that's it?

Now he's borderline unreal.

Tim_Tam: Yeah, I couldn't really decide

Tim_Tam: It's not like I could ask Nightwing and Robin their opinions. I doubt they even know the photo was taken.

Who even is this guy?

You're telling me that you snuck up on NIGHTWING and ROBIN

and you can't choose which photo looks better???

Tim_Tam: In all fairness, their vibes are VERY different. I couldn't tell which one to go for.

He's right. Despite capturing the same moment, the minute differences change the interpretation of the photos immensely.

That's fair.

Should I even ask how you got these photos?

Tim_Tam: It sounds like you are asking

Tim_Tam: Let's just say I have my ways

You frown. That was entirely expected, but still disappointing.

Are you planning on selling them?

There's a pause for a moment. The bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.

Tim_Tam: What?

Like the photos. You could probably sell them to the Gotham Gazette and get a quick buck or something.

I don't think I've ever seen any news agency with photos THIS clear. I'm sure they'd eat it up.

Tim_Tam: Maybe? I hadn't really considered that

Wait wait you're telling me you stalked after vigilantes for love of the game??

Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much

At this point, you're wide awake. All sleepiness that clouded your brain fanned away long ago.

Are those the only ones you have?

There's a long pause.

Tim_Tam: At the moment.

I'm not saying you should follow the Bats again but like…

These photos are actually phenomenal, you could get famous for this.

There's another long pause.

Tim_Tam: You think?

100%. I've NEVER seen such prisitine photos of Nightwing and Robin. It's genuinely impressive.

Tim_Tam: Hm

Tim_Tam: I'll see what I can do.

That was the start of your friendship with TimTam. Vigilante photos. Two nights after the Nightwing and Robin photo situation, you received another text.

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

You nearly dropped your phone upon opening the message.

If you thought the Nightwing and Robin photo was clear? This was night and day. It was single handled the best photo of Red Robin you've ever seen. The image pictured Red Robin kicking some criminal. The dynamic pose combined with the sheer clarity of the photo made for an actual masterpiece. You could see the way that his suit fit his form. The way he clenched his jaw as he struck the criminal. It was so close. It almost looks like TimTam had taken security camera footage, zoomed in, and somehow enhanced it.

???

Tim_Tam: Is that a good or bad ???

GOOD DEFINITELY GOOD

HOW IS IT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN THE NIGHTWING AND ROBIN ONE

Tim_Tam: I'm good at photography I guess

Tim_Tam: you're a Red Robin fan?

Were you imagining the smug tone behind that? Was Red Robin even your favorite? You liked Red Robin, but your favorite?

I suppose

Tim_Tam: You suppose?? Damnnnn okay

My bad 😭 didn't realize you were a big Red Robin fan

Tim_Tam: No no it's fine

Tim_Tam: Perhaps I'll have to get more to convince you

At that point just interview him. You're already stalking the poor guy.

Tim_Tam: He's finr

Tim_Tam: fine*

He paused.

Tim_Tam: For the record though, I probably could

You chuckled. Whoever this was seemed very confident they could get an interview with Red Robin. Have you even seen vigilante interviews? Maybe a statement or two here and there, but never full on interviews.

Maybe stick to your day job

Tim_Tam: I feel like you're challenging me 🤨

Nonono

Just like

I'd hate to read in the paper that Red Robin beat you up

There was a long moment of silence, Tim_Tam wasn't even typing.

Tim_Tam: Nah I can handle him

You were full on laughing at your phone by this point.

Tim_Tam: He didn't even notice me taking the photos or anything

And that translates to his fighting ability??

Tim_Tam: I mean all you got to do is get one really good hit in and he's out

Tim_Tam: he's only human

you sure of that? 🤨🤨

Tim_Tam: Positive, I think I have a shot

Well then, I await the day I see the headline

“photographer takes out Red Robin with a single hit”

Tim_Tam: Oh yeah that'll for sure be the headline

Tim_Tam: I'll personally get the photo for that story. Send a photo of it just to you to prove myself

Do you always look for validation from strangers on the internet??

Tim_Tam: Do you always judge the photos of photographers on the internet??

do NOT pin this on me, you asked me to pick between the two :(

Tim_Tam: mhm

I wasn't even being critical of them, all I said was that I liked the second one better

Tim_Tam: I believe your exact words were that they looked “cooler” and “felt more personal”

I didn't say the other ones were bad though!! I'm pretty sure I said they were the BEST photos of Nightwing and Robin I've seen so far

also

Tim_Tam: ?

You hesitated. Was this being too casual with TimTam? The two of you seem to be getting along fine, but you hadn't asked him any truly heavy questions.

I was just curious— feel free to not answer— but are you planning on posting the Nightwing and Robin photos?

Somehow, you felt as if the tension rose at your question. TimTam diidn't immediately respond. There was no indication that he's even read your message. Then you saw the bubble. Typing. Not typing. Typing.

Tim_Tam: No

Tim_Tam: I can't

Absentmindedly you tapped the side of your phone, eyebrows furrowing.

Ah okay

The response was lame, and both of you knew it. You silently berated yourself for ruining the atmosphere. TimTam didn't respond after that. He didn't react to the message, but you still saw that he was online. Resigned, you slowly put your phone back on the nightstand. Shutting your eyes, you twist your body in the opposite direction of the device. Out of sight, out of mind—

Bzzt!

Your phone's vibration caused you to freeze. No, no. You needed to sleep. It might not even be TimTam. It could've been a random email that you'll never look at. Even if it was TimTam, it was completely understandable if you didn't respond, given how late it is.

However, curiosity did kill the cat.

You turned over, slowly grabbing you phone. You had zero expectations (at least that's what you told yourself). TimTam was probably asleep too. It's not like you two were close enough to be chatting casually this late.

Tim_Tam: It's not that I don't want to don't get me wrong

Tim_Tam: It's just that something happened, and I can't do it

Without thinking, you opened the message. Damn it, he's going to think you're a loser, immediately coming online the moment he messages you.

No need to justify yourself, I get it

I'm glad that you decided to share the photos you've taken with me though

TimTam paused, but his next reply had you reeling.

Tim_Tam: Robin paid me a visit

You felt your heart start to pound as if it was you who Robin visited. You could only imagine how TimTam handled the situation. How did he neglect to mention that?!

Are you serious??? Thought you said that he and Nightwing weren't aware you were photographing them?

Tim_Tam: So

Tim_Tam: How do I say this

The responses were rapid, you could feel TimTam's unease through the screen.

Shoudl I be concerned??

should*

Tim_Tam: Would you believe me if I hypothetically said I sought out Robin

like you took more photos of him??

Tim_Tam: No like I talked with him

He did what?

Tim_Tam: And hypothetically he said that the photos must never be seen by the public

hypothetically did you agree??

Tim_Tam: kinda??

oh my gosh are you going to be on a vigilante hit list?

Tim_Tam: I don't think that's a thing 💀

you THINK? the same guy who THOUGHT Nightwing and Robin weren't aware of you??

Tim_Tam: TECHNICALLY they weren't, I just wanted to show them the photos get their thoughts

…my guy this is on you why would you TELL them??

praying for you 🙏

Tim_Tam: Are you still implying that Robin is going to off me??

I'm JUST saying, now they know who you are

if they see any photos like the ones you took they'll know it was you

probably dox you or something idk

Tim_Tam: You make an excellent point

Tim_Tam: eh It'll be fine though

Did you get Nightwing or Red Robin's opinion too?

It felt stupid to ask. You imagine he would've said something if he met another vigilante. TimTam took a minute to respond.

Tim_Tam: Nightwing no, Red Robin yes

Or not… What kind of guy just casually forgets to mention he met not one but two vigilantes?

What'd he say?

Tim_Tam: He thought it was cool

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate.

He thought it was cool??

Tim_Tam: Yep

and that's it..?

Tim_Tam: Uhh I can't really remember

did he knock you out or something??? you conversed with RED ROBIN and can't even bother to remember what he said??

Tim_Tam: to be fair he didn't say much

You're telling me he SERIOUSLY just said “cool” and then left??

Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much

You let out a puff of amusement. What a weird world you live in. This random internet photographer you found has somehow met two of Gotham's vigilante's, been threatened by one of them, and is still acting like this isn't a big deal.

Tim_Tam: Oh and he said he didn't mind the photos

Finally, something.

Are you going to try and catch him again?

I feel obligated to preface this by saying this is NOT me encouraging you to go track down vigilantes

Tim_Tam: uhhhh

???

Tim_Tam: [Image Attached]

Tim_Tam: You're a bit too late, already caught him again

You stare blankly at the new image. It's another image of Red Robin. This time it's not an action shot. Instead, it capture the vigilante sitting casually on the edge of the building. His knee is propped up in front of him, his arm casually resting on it. The angle of this photo is different. It isn't taken from above, nor from the streets below. Instead, it's taken from the very rooftop Red Robin is sitting on. If you had to hazard a guess, TimTam took this photo from the ground of the rooftop with his camera at a low angle.

Dude did you CRAWL to get this photo???

Tim_Tam: …why would you ask that??

Cause how else did you get a get that specific angle of Red Robin?? Did you share a rooftop with him??

You pause, scrutinizing the photograph. There's a figure in the back, and upon further examination, you realize who it is.

IS THAT NIGHTWING IN THE DISTANCE???? YOU CAUGHT HIM AGAIN???

Tim_Tam: What???

There is a pause for a moment.

Tim_Tam: Huh didn't even see him lol

“Didn't even see him lol.” You weren't even sure if you're surprised anymore. All you can do is stare at the photograph with Red Robin (and Nightwing pictured in the back) in awe. For a moment, you considered whether TimTam truly asked Red Robin to pose for it. It certainly looked like it.

you ACCIDENTALLY got a picture of Red Robin posing with Nightwing in the distance???

Tim_Tam: Red Robin isn't posing what??

dude he is LITERALLY posing for the photo

There was a momentary pause.

Tim_Tam: idk it looks pretty natural to me

sure we'll go with that

You sighed, rubbing you temples. This guys has to be playing you.

Tim_Tam: damn okay fine doubt me

Tim_Tam: I'll try again

You almost felt your blood pressure spike seeing the message. What kind of person gets threatened by Robin and decides to pursue the guy? Determined, you pick up your phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.

You are not going to be a bystander in this guy's inevitable demise.

Was it an unconventional way to befriend somebody? Perhaps, but it was Gotham. TimTam seemed relatively nice, a trait found few and far between in a city like this. It helped that he enjoyed your company as well. There were many nights where neither of you could fall asleep, and the only thing keeping you up was the quiet vibration of your phone going off, signaling that he was still there.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months dragged on for a year.

After a year, you’d think that you’d know a bit more about who TimTam really was. Perhaps a small slip up that leads to a meet up? Did you even want to meet up with TimTam? What if he’s been playing the long game, waiting to get your trust before inevitably killing you in a back alley, your name never to be mentioned again outside of a True Crime Story podcast in a few years. You shuddered at the thought.

Dramatic? Yes. Paranoid? Absolutely.

Still doesn’t stop the growing desire to know who he is.

Have you walked past him on the street? Maybe you went to school together? Perhaps you both frequent a place with no idea the other is there. The possibilities were endless. They were killing you, and yet neither of you brought up the topic.

The closest you got to hints was talking about the latest news.

did you see hear about those buildings that Firefly lit up?

Tim_Tam: “see” would be an understatement, closer to felt

Your eyebrows raised into your hairline.

oh shit, are you okay??

Tim_Tam: i’m fineeee

Tim_Tam: tis but a scratch

Tim_Tam: or burn

You back straightened as you sat up from the curb. Police sirens still rang out, the blaring noise causing your eardrums to vibrate in an unpleasant manner. You frantically looked over the crowd of people: officers, paramedics, examiners, victims, detectives.

Is he one of them?

You weren’t sure what he looked like. He’d been (frustratingly) vague about who he is, but, to be fair, you weren’t any more explicit.

you’re here?

The message is sent and read almost immediately. You watch as the bubble of him typing appears. On. Off. On. Off. You stare at the screen, squinting, attempting to block out the noise of your environment. For a moment, you wonder if something happened. Does he not want to answer that question?

Tim_Tam: wait you're here??

Tim_Tam: shit what are you doing here?

Against your will, your heart started pumping. The accelerating rhythm causing your hands to shake as you typed out your next message, even if— at the time— you insisted it was just the cold, damp, air of Gotham.

Tim_Tam: are you okay?

Tim_Tam: did anything happen to you?

Tim_Tam: are you still here?

You didn't get a chance to respond. Tim manages to send three messages in the time it takes your freezing hands to type half of one. You ran your finger slowly against the screen of your phone, your hands leaving imprints on the device.

not for much longer, I’m planning on leaving soon

“I’m free to go, right?” You confirmed with the paramedic on your right, looking over a young boy. The kid was unharmed, but apparently did not appreciate the examination. The paramedic turned to you, looking you up and down.

“You were already checked for other injuries? Concussions? Anything?” They slowly turned away from you back to the kid. You nodded, “Yeah, I feel fine.” You weren’t lying either. If anything, you were more shaken up then injured.

The paramedic sighed, “Alright, just make sure to rest. It’s been a long night. Take it easy for the next few days. If you notice anything, I’d go to any of the Wayne sponsored health facilities.” They pasued for a moment. “If anything, I’d recommend the clinic near Crime Alley if you want to avoid wait times.” They shined a light into the boy’s eye, “Sketchy area, but the General Hospital tends to get overcrowded fast.”

You blinked, surprised by the helpful advice. “Thanks,” you nodded slowly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” You waited there for an extra beat to see if they’d respond, but it seemed as if that was all they had to say. Slowly, you made your way around the scene, ducking under the caution tape as you attempted to find a way out of the area. Reporters and police officers appeared to be stationed at every corner of the scene, and you didn't particularly want to look at the burned down section of the Upper West Side mere blocks away from the university.

Braving the crowds of cameras it is.

Slowly, you made your way over to the least crowded corner of the scene, nodding at the officer. He returned the nod and watched you raise the caution tape and walk past the dozens of journalists and reporters.

Then you felt it.

You’re no stranger to the sensation of having eyes on you. In fact, it’s a universal experience for every Gothamite. You’d heard stories from friends who committed crimes, albeit petty ones, that even if they got away with a crime or two, they always felt like he was watching. Despite avoiding crime as much as possible (a challenge on its own), you somehow understood them.

The sensation of somebody always there.

Somebody always in the shadows.

Somebody watching.

Usually, you’d describe that sensation as heavy, looming. It was akin to a shadow being cast over you, blocking out any source of light, essentially leaving you in the darkness with nothing but your own doubts and fears. It's part of how Batman was able to have some semblance of control of crime.

However, contrary to that fear, it also provided a sense of safety. You knew you weren’t a target, you’d never be a target. That fear that’s instilled by Batman wasn’t meant for you, it was meant to help people like you.

This, though, is different.

There is no doubt in your mind somebody is watching you. Your skin prickles at the thought, yet the longer you wait for that sharp spike of fear…

It doesn’t come.

Now, you’ve lived in Gotham for a long time. Perhaps your instincts aren’t perfect, but you’d say they’re pretty damn good.

So the fact that somebody is singling you out and watching you? Your brain screamed at you that there was everything wrong with that, which made sense. It’s an assertion most people would agree with.

However.

With an almost dramatic turn, you slowly lifted your gaze up to the buildings across the street. Far enough to be safe from the fire, but close enough to have the perfect view.

You huffed, a small smile on your face.

In the distance, you saw two figures on the rooftop. While it’s hard to deduce the exact builds of the tem, what you could see were the colors.

You could also tell that one of them is looking directly at you. After seeing who knows how many Red Robin photos in the past year (courtesy of Tim), you concluded that Red Robin was most definitely watching you from across the street.

Yep, this is normal. Perhaps Red Robin knows that Tim sends you the photos he takes of him.

You slowly raised a hand up, hesitantly waving at him.

For a moment, nothing happened, and you felt a tad bit stupid for waving at a vigilante and expecting him to wave back. Awkwardly, you lowered your arm, grabbing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. Shutting your phone back off, you shifted your eyes up, expecting the vigilantes to have vanished (something you’ve heard they’re notorious for).

Instead, your mouth parted in surprise as Red Robin slowly waved back at you.

You blinked slowly at the vigilante in the distance in sheer disbelief, not physically reacting otherwise. Almost as if he’s embarrassed, Red Robin slowly lowered his arm back down. The two of you stared at each other for a moment longer before, inevitably, something else caught his attention. His head tilted away from you, and you watched as he turned to face Spoiler and Black Bat (when did Black Bat get there?).

You used the opportunity to slowly raise your phone up, zooming your camera in on the small group of vigilantes before snapping a photo.

Tim won’t believe this.

Tim did, in fact, believe you.

Truthfully, he was… not as impressed with you as you were with yourself.

Tim_Tam: lowkey?? why is the quality pixilated 💀

I’m sorry I don’t walk around with a professional camera around my neck???

Also what happened to “man that was really scary” and “I hope you’re okay”

Tim_Tam: man that was really scary

Tim_Tam: I hope you’re okay

Tim_Tam: quality could be better tho (genuinely glad you're okay though)

damn I’m sorry not all of us have vigilantes on call to do photo shoots with

I tried my best and I was lucky I even got that shot

you know he WAVED at me

thought he’d ignore me

Tim_Tam: Why would he ignore you??

idk maybe he’s like “eugh look at the civilian waving at me like a loser”

Tim paused for a moment.

Tim_Tam: why does he sound so mean in your head??

oh right mb, forgot you're the #1 RR apologist

Tim_Tam: okay now THATS an exaggeration

is it though??

Tim_Tam: very much so yes

if you say so

You snorted, putting your phone on the nightstand and turning the lights off before you nestled yourself into bed. Gotham's freezing weath showed no mercy tonight, and the warm blankets made you brain leap with joy, sending tingles throughout your body. Your phone was charging, the night was young, you’d actually sleep well tonight, and—

The light of your phone flashed, blinding you temporarily. The accompanying vibration didn’t help because now you knew it was Tim. Huffing, you turn your body away from the device that attempts to lure you in.

You needed to go to sleep early, you had an eight AM the next day. You couldn't afford to lose sleep talking to—

The light from your phone manages to light up the whole room, even if you’re not facing the source.

Okay, you will check the phone once to turn the brightness down. You would not read the messages. Tim would understand. You have to sleep, being a responsible adult and all that. With a slow, deep sigh, you reached over to grab your phone, squinting when you realize just how bright it was. That’s when you saw the messages:

Tim_Tam

Would you want to meet in person?

Sent 3m ago

Tim_Tam

Sorry that was really abrupt

Sent 1m ago

Tim_Tam

Just ignore that lol

Sent now

You had never sat up so fast from your bed, and that’s including the times he sent you those photos of the Bats the first few times.

Tim wants to what?

You haven’t even called the guy before.

Wait you can’t just drop that on me and leave

Tim_Tam: sorry?

Where would you want to meet?

Tim_Tam: Wait you’re saying yes?

Tim_Tam: What if I’m like a creepy serial killer who befriends people on the internet and then takes them to their house to kill them?

You paused.

Are you?

Tim_Tam: No but like

Tim_Tam: how would you know I’m NOT?

I can’t tell if you’re trying to defend yourself

I’m like 99% sure you’re not a killer though?

Tim_Tam: Okay but like

Tim_Tam: 99% isn’t 100%

Tim_Tam: chances are not 0

Tim

Tim_Tam: yeah?

If you want to meet, where would it be?

Tim_Tam: uhh

Tim_Tam: Robinson Park work?

Yeah I can probably head there after my classes

I’ll be done around 11

Tim_Tam: Alright cool

Was it you, or did this feel a little anticlimactic? Perhaps it just hadn't hit you yet? You waited for another message, yet the bubbles of forming messages continued to taunt you.

Tim_Tam: Sorry I gtg, we can work out more details later?

Yeah sure, have fun photographing your fav

Tim_Tam: haha you’re SO funny

I know :)

The next day came all too soon yet not quick enough. The second you opened your eyes, a singular thought implanted itself in your head:

Today was the day you were going to meet Tim.

Despite the quiz you had during your early morning discussion, and the midterm prep went over during your following lecture. Neither of the them made you as anxious as meeting Tim. As the final minutes of your lecture passed, you felt a nervous excitement run through your body.

Okay done with my classes, omw

You sent the quick text, giving him a heads up. It’d probably take you a bit to walk there, but it gave you enough time to plan this out.

Like… Do you need to worry about first impressions?

Is this a first impression?

You're technically meeting him for the first time, but it’s not like he’s a stranger.

It's... First-impression-adjacent. Yeah, something like that. You still weren't sure, but you didn't get a chance to dwell on it because you felt your phone vibrate. You didn't stop walking as you check the screen.

Tim_Tam: Hey there is something I should tell you before we meet

Tim_Tam: It’s a little important

uh oh, you’re not actually a killer right?

Tim_Tam: no, no, no

Tim_Tam: Nothing like that

Tim_Tam: but uh

Tim_Tam: My name

Tim_Tam: it’s Tim Drake

You halted. Staring at the words laid plainly on your phone. Tim Drake?

That Tim Drake? The one Bruce Wayne took in? You weren't well versed in the intricate details of the Wayne family lore, but you know about as much as any other Gotham citizen. Bruce Wayne’s parents were murdered in front of him when he was a kid, and now he’s a billionaire playboy with a known habit of adopting kids. Tim Drake is one of them. You didn't actually know much about him, but you’ve seen him on TV or on the news every now and then talking about Wayne Enterprises or something.

woah that’s crazy

I didn’t wan tot tell you but I’m actually Bruce Wayne

want to*

Tim_Tam: I’m not joking I swear

nor am I

Tim_Tam: You don’t believe me

I believe you when you say you aren’t a killer

idk about the Tim Drake thing though

Tim_Tam: should I be concerned that you somehow find me being myself is less probable than me being a killer?

Probably

Is this like a new catfishing tactic

There was a long pause.

Tim_Tam: I’m sorry what??

You could almost hear the bewilderment, and you chuckle at the thought.

oh you know

Tim_Tam: I don’t actually? Is this a common occurrence for you??

no

hence why I ask what’s with the Tim Drake catfishing tactic

Tim_Tam: I really hope it’s NOT a thing? How would it even work??

idk probably something like “Hey baby my name is Tim Drake, I have lots of money do you want to meet at the park to get to know each other better?”

Tim_Tam: I have never ONCE in my LIFE said that

Tim_Tam: I swear I am Tim Drake, we’re literally meeting in like five minutes

Tim_Tam: I promise I’m here, just meet me around the gardens

Now, was it stupid to potentially walk into such an obviously fake trap?

Absolutely.

Did you do it anyway?

Absolutely.

It wasn’t long before you had found a bench not too far from the gardens. You sent Tim-Maybe-Drake a quick update on your location. In spite of how ill-prepared you may seem to the naked eye, you did ask one of your friends to check your location and check in to make sure you don’t die.

Oh and pepper spray. Better safe than sorry.

Tim-Maybe-Drake reacted to your message with a quick thumbs up, and you fidgeted on the bench. You loosely kicked a rock with your foot, taking note of old footprints on the dirt path. As the minutes passed by, the anxiety began to creep back in. What if this was just a joke? What if you were dead-on with the catfishing Tim Drake idea? It was a strange idea, but it got you to come meet in person, didn’t it?

Somebody cleared their throat from the left side of the path, and you turn to look up.

Holy shit.

You blinked rapidly as if Tim Drake will vanish from your eyesight. He looks both the same and different from what you’ve seen in photos. Physically, he mostly looks the same, perhaps a bit leaner than you expected. He must workout, you idly note. His hair looks the same as it does in the photos, perhaps a bit more messy? It also seems too perfect in every photo you see of him.

However, the way he carries himself?

When you searching up information about a billionaire and his children, you saw what you expected online. Articles written on the Wayne children weren’t nearly as ever present as ones about Bruce himself, but every now and then there would be something.

In the few minutes before Tim arrived (you may have looked him up mere seconds before his arrival), you noticed that he looked confident, composed. He had that air about him that only comes from growing up in such a high-end environment.

On one hand, you see the Tim Drake that the media portrays. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne. A man who has clearly grown up in an environment so unlike your own it’s a miracle you even crossed paths with him.

However, you also see the hint of uncertainty that bleeds through his fleeting glances to you. The way his eyes rest on you anxiously, as if waiting for your judgment. For a moment, you consider that he was just as anxious about meeting you than you were meeting him. The prospect seems absurd, but looking at him now, you believe it.

“Oh…” You commented eloquently.

He furrowed his eyebrows, “That’s— That’s it? Just ‘oh?’”

You nodded slowly, “I mean— I… You know I had like zero faith in you.” That’s a lie, you had at least a sprinkle of faith that he was telling the truth. Not that you’ll tell him that.

“That’s reassuring. Thank you for that.” Tim replied dryly.

“You know the whole photographing vigilante’s thing makes so much sense now.” You stood up, hesitantly approaching him.

He tilted his head, “How so?”

“Only rich people would have such an insane hobby. The adrenaline rush or something I assume.” You shrugged casually, and Tim had the gall to to look offended.

“Okay, but my main thing isn’t even photographing vigilantes. I don’t even post those, and you know that.” He raised a finger indignantly. “And they aren’t even intentional anyway! I’m just lucky.”

“Luckiest guy I’ve ever met then.” You smirked, “Save some for the rest of us.”

He chuckled, “Of course, it’s my fault whenever somebody has bad luck.”

“At least you acknowledge it.” You huffed, a grin plastered on your face.

He laughs, and it hits you that this is Tim, as in the Tim you’ve been talking to day and night. That Tim also happens to be the billionaire Tim Drake, and you are having a normal conversation with him in a park in Gotham. You watch as his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel yourself mirroring his expression involuntarily.

You stifled your laughter, clearing your throat, “You know, I was actually worried you were catfishing me.”

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to catfish you, I’d have gone about this way different.” He pauses, "For the record, I do not want to catfish you."

“That’s reassuring.” You threw his own words back at him, and he sighed.

“It should be.” He paused for a moment, and the two of you continue to walk down a path. “Did you really not suspect anything?”

You blink, “About you being…” you gestured to him, and he nodded. You shook your head, “Not until you said anything, no. You don’t give ‘Tim Drake vibes’ when we text.” You did air quotes.

He let out a surprised laugh, “What— What are ‘Tim Drake vibes?’” He looked amused at the prospect.

You shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s just, when I text you, I don’t think ‘wow this guy seems like Tim Drake.’”

He nodded as if that made sense, “I’m going to take that as a good thing?”

You shrugged, “I mean it’s certainly a thing. Your call about whether it’s good or bad.”

He sighed, and you laughed at his exasperated expression. “Y’know now that I actually know you’re you, I’m surprised you actually showed up.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, “Why would I not? I asked you?”

“You had no idea who I was up to like five minutes ago, what if I had planned this and planned on using you for ransom?” You teased, and the two of you exit the park. You weren't sure where Tim is taking you, but you’re heading back in the direction of Gotham University.

“Been there.” By his tone alone, you believed him. “And trust me I can handle myself perfectly fine if you tried kidnapping me.”

You raised an eyebrow, “If you can handle yourself so well, how come people were able to kidnap you for ransom in the past?”

He opened his mouth, glaring at you, ready to defend himself, but no words came out.

“I… Those were extenuating circumstances.” He scoffed.

“Mhm, real extenuating.” Your voice contained the utmost sympathy for him.

“And I feel like you’re mocking me.” He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t have been able to escape the thugs too.” You winced, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

“That’s not—” At your laughter he stops talking, and instead stares dumbly at you, slowly blinking, as you continue to laugh at him. He released a half-amused exhale while you snickered at him for the next few minutes.

The rest of the meeting went well, very well. The two of you had instantly fell back into your familiar banter, except it was a thousand times more exciting in person. After that meeting, Tim had started asking if you wanted to hang out regularly. It was a safe distance for both of you. Neither of you got too close.

Then he invited you to one of Bruce Wayne’s charity events. It was a casual invite, it meant nothing, and you knew that. He wasn’t inviting you as a partner, but as a friend. It was a completely normal invite that had no other implications. Why would you stress over that?

It certainly didn’t help your stress levels when you realized that if you accepted you’d have to meet Bruce Wayne himself.

You had— not subtly— asked Tim if this meant that you would be subjected to the judgment of his family. He had told you that you “Don’t need to worry about that” and that “They should be the last people judging.” Both of his “reassurances” did little to truly ease your worries.

Eventually, you had accepted, attempting to dress your best. The actual event itself was as you expected. Long and filled with lots of meaningless chatter. The main joy found was snickering with Tim off to the side. You had teased him for the sheer switch in personality he would make every time one of Gotham’s elites approached you both. It was kind of jarring, the phoniness of everything here. It made you feel better every time would side eye you with a look reading “Get a load of this guy.”

It reminded you that somehow you had worked into one of the highest circle’s in Gotham without even knowing. Seeing him turn to you, relieved to have somebody who knows him?

It may sound silly, but it made you feel good, like your friendship actually means something.

Your gratification at the prospect was short lived. Quickly replaced with the familiar stress of meeting Bruce Wayne. Tim reassured you that it would not be as bad as you were imagining, and that he’ll like you. You didn’t share his confidence, but you appreciated his optimism. You ignored the idea in your head that this could be interpreted as you both dating.

Cause that’d be stupid.

It turns out that Tim was right though. Bruce was actually not as bad as you expected. He was a bit brash and you definitely forced some laughs in the conversation, but he seemed to approve of you the second that Tim introduced you. You didn’t miss the look that he gave Tim when first introducing you. Tim never mentioned it afterwards, and while you were curious about it, you didn’t feel the need to bring it up.

By the end of the night, he had introduced you to most of his family, and— like Bruce— they all seemed to like you. The consensus seemed to be positive, which was what you were hoping for. After leaving your final introduction with Duke, Tim had placed his hand on your shoulder with a grin as if saying “See? You lived!”

After that event, you had assumed that meetings with his family would be few and far between. Perhaps for a social event every now and then, but you didn’t expect to start seeing them regularly.

It felt strange at first, like visiting someone’s house for the first time and always having to go through the unavoidable phase where you practically tip-toe everywhere, not wanting their family to hate you.

It was that but tenfold.

Tim had welcomed you in, soon followed by Steph and Duke. You felt more at ease the longer the four of you spent time together. By the time it was time for you to return home, you had practically forgotten your earlier worries.

It quickly became routine. At least once a week, you’d come over to hang out at the Manor. Sometimes Steph would be there, sometimes some of his brothers would be, and sometimes it’d be just you and Tim. As time went on, you started to hang out with his family without him, and you quickly found yourself recounting stories about Tim over girl’s night with Steph, Cass, and occasionally Barbara. You had told them how the two of you met, and somebody must have talked because you had received texts from Tim the next day saying that everybody was making fun of him. You felt a tad bit bad for him, but both of you seemed more amused than genuinely angry.

You were happy.

It seemed like everything was going right for once. You were doing well in university, your job was paying the bills, and you had a group of friends you truly liked being around. Your life felt normal, and that felt good.

Obviously, that normalcy didn't last for long.

You got out of the taxi, walking up the stone steps as you put your phone away. Unfortunately, registration this semester was not kind to you, and you ended up with a lecture at seven in the evening on a Friday.

Not ideal.

You had debated skipping this class, but you told yourself that you’re going to do the responsible thing and show up to class. After all, with finals coming up, you didn’t want to make any risks that could lead to failure.

The lecture itself was the same as always. You had definitely spaced out a few times, and the dim lighting of the room combined with the slow tone of the professor was not helping one bit. By the end of the lecture, it seemed like everybody was eager to go home, and the professor had even let the lecture end ten minutes earlier.

Instantly packing up all your notes, you had promptly left the building. The chilling breeze of Gotham immediately hit you, and you sighed realizing it had begun raining. Typical Gotham weather strikes again.

You had attempted to stay under any roofs you could, but eventually you were forced to venture out into the pouring rain. Before reaching the main streets, you had taken a shortcut. A shortcut you had taken hundreds of times in the past. It was a lot less crowded, and did a better job of shielding you from the rain.

Weaving around puddles on the ground, you attempted to get out of the path as fast as possible. All you could think of is that warm taxi that would be awaiting you at the end of this alley. The end was in sight, but that vision crumbled before your eyes when the resounding blow of gunfire echoed in your enclose space. It caused you to flinch, and you immediately spun around, attempting to determine the source of the sound. You didn’t see anybody behind you, so you came to the dreadful conclusion that it came from your intended destination.

You slow to a stop, is it worth just pushing forward and attempting to run for the first taxi you see? You already made it this far, and you’d have to retrace your steps just to take the alternative path. Sighing, you move to turn around when four men in balaclavas entered the alley, running like their life depended on it. Fuck.

“You think we lost em?” One of them, still looking back, asks. He turns to face you, and you stare at each other awkwardly.

“Scream and we put a bullet through you.” Another one hisses, raising his gun to point at you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you silently raise your hands, nodding.

They don’t separate as they each point their gun at you, slowly moving around you. They keep their eyes trained on you, and you aren't entirely sure which one to look at. They eventually made their way around you, and you were stuck in this awkward stalemate. They don't move to lower their guns.

“We can’t just let her go! She’s gonna run out and yell for someone!” One of them whispers to his friend.

“So what're we gonna do?” He whispers back.

“We can kill her?” Another one suggests. Please no. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid.

“No, no, bad idea. The Bat will be on our ass if we leave a body behind.” A different one responds.

“So what? We just knock her out?” One of them gestures to you with his gun.

“Probably the best idea. We’re taking too long to debate this, somebody knock her out.” The one next to him points to you. You let out a sigh of relief, at least they won’t kill you. Maybe you can get away with just pretending to get knocked out and waiting for them to leave?

“Alright, I can do it.” One of them approaches you and raises the butt of his gun. He’s about to strike down, when he is flung against the wall, startling all of you.

“Who the hell?!” A thug cries out, raising his gun, finger twitching on the trigger. You instinctively cover your head and hunch over as he swings his gun to point to you. Once you realize he’s not aiming for you, you turn your gaze from the ground up to your savior.

Red Robin? Huh, what are the chances?

You watch as he effortlessly disarms the goons before sweeping two of them off their feet. Red Robin rushes to pin them back down, but one of them uses the opportunity to strike the vigilante just above the eye with the butt of his gun. You wince, hissing in sympathy. Red Robin barely reacts, instead giving them a quick strike to the head, silencing their yells.

You feel yourself relax as you watch Red Robin turn his head to the remaining thug. He’s attempting to run away, and Red Robin pulls out a grappling hook before launching it and yanking the guy back. “Please man! Let me go!”

“Not a chance.” Red Robin replies dryly before knocking him out, similar to the guys before. With all the threats neutralized, he turns to face you for the first time. Instinctively, you stand up straighter.

“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting on his feet under your gaze.

Huh, you didn’t expect him to sound like that. You weren’t sure what you expected, the voice modulation wasn't a surprise, but his tone is somewhat discernable. You had expected something similar to the grittiness of Batman or even the charismatic confidence of Nightwing.

If anything, you’d say Red Robin sounds just as awkward as you feel right now.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You nod, “Thanks.” You smile at him.

He returns the nod, “Yeah, of course.” He nods at you, and you smile at him. For a beat, neither of you say anything.

Well, this is going great.

“He didn't hit you too hard, right?” You break the silence, and Red Robin gives you a questioning frown. You gesture up to your own forehead, around the area you saw him get hit.

“Oh, that,” he mirrors your action, offering a small smile. “Nothing I can't handle, barely even noticed it.” He waves off your concern.

You nod, accepting that answer. “Were you the one who was chasing those guys?” You ask, and you want to smack yourself for the stupid question. Obviously he was the one chasing them.

“Hm? Oh,” he blinks down at the unconscious thugs, “yeah that was me.” He confirms. “They mention me?”

“Not by name. They just said they were being chased.” You watch as he grabs a bag off one of the thugs.

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, “yeah that was me.” He’s not really facing you, but you can tell he’s smiling.

You purse your lips, unsure how to proceed with the conversation. Do you just leave? As you look over the scene, you notice something glint out of the corner of your eyes. You turn to Red Robin, but he isn’t looking at you. Hesitantly you approach the object, and you crouch down to look at it. It’s one of those Bat-shaped objects that the Bats carry on them.

Carefully, as if it's fragile, you pick it up. You’re surprised at first. It’s heavier than you expected, but you suppose that makes sense. To be able to do damage, it’d have to have some weight for something so small.

“You want to keep it?”

You jump as Red Robin’s voice suddenly appears right next to you. He raises his hands up, and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No worries.” You offer him a small smile before returning your gaze to the object. “Don’t you guys need these things?” You wave it up.

He shrugs, and the action is so normal that you want to laugh. “Batarangs?” Huh, that’s what they’re called. He waves a casual hand at you, “We have plenty. Plus, we lose them all the time. You can keep it.”

Your mouth parts, and you’re about to open your mouth when he adds on. “Consider it a souvenir.” He grins looking down for a second before reaching to rub his back, meeting your eyes again as he massages himself. You watch as his eyes flicker over your form, looking up and down.

You freeze.

Not because of the Batarang, but because of the actions.

He chuckles at your appalled expression. “I mean you don’t—” he abruptly stops speaking before letting out a deep sigh.

His sigh only causes your jaw to drop even more, yet he doesn’t notice. He mouths a quiet “Sorry” before turning away from you, speaking to whoever is calling him.

You aren’t sure what he is talking about or even who he is talking to, but you’re hit with what may be the most insane conclusion you’ve ever reached (even more insane than Tim attempting to catfish you).

You steel yourself before turning your full attention to Red Robin. He’s restless, shifting on his feet in a way that tells you that he’d rather be pacing at the moment.

There’s no way your hypothesis is correct.

Red Robin sighs again, and you see him place his hands over his mask. You narrow your eyes at the action.

It’d make sense though.

You’re willing to chalk up a few shared mannerisms to just basic human traits. A couple makes sense, that’s normal. Now if you add the fact that Tim has been the best photographer for the vigilantes you’ve ever seen?

That’s a little more suspicious.

Then if you add on the fact that he has confirmed that he’s conversed with Robin in the past?

Your eyes are locked onto Red Robin, and he must feel your piercing gaze because he turns towards you. He seems to be taken aback by your blatant staring, but you can’t even help yourself because how else do you process this? He tilts his head, and you offer a strained smile in apology before averting your gaze.

The reason he couldn’t post the photos was because the vigilantes asked him not to.

The reason he could take the photos wasn’t because he had insane luck.

You watch as Red Robin shifts on his feet once again, before tilting his head up to the sky in an exasperated motion. The action uncannily familiar.

Holy shit.

You don’t a chance to process the revelation because the reason Red Robin was looking up quickly becomes evident. You jump back as Nightwing lands casually behind Red Robin and in front of you.

He turns to face you and for a moment he looks startled by your presence before he smirks. “Ahhh, I get it now.” Nightwing grins as Red Robin slowly turns to face him. “Real important stuff to handle, huh?”

“Can you not—” You watch as Red Robin furtively glances between you and Nightwing. “I did handle stuff.” He gestures down to the unconscious bodies below, "As you can see.”

Nightwing nods, “Yuh-huh,” he places his hands on his hips as he turns around to look at the entire scene. “I’m sorry, Miss. Is this guy bothering you?” Nightwing gives you a shit-eating grin, and yup.

If you didn’t know that Red Robin is Tim before, you certainly know now. Dick looks nearly the exact same, and for a moment you ponder how people have never connected him with Nightwing, especially with the devious grin he is giving you now.

“I am not bothering her! I just sav—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Nightwing raises his finger and shushes him softly, and you have to look away in order to avoid laughing. “Let her speak for herself.” Nightwing gestures to you in a slight bow.

Yeah, Tim. You snort as Red Robin takes a deep breath in order to calm himself. You offer a small grin to Red Robin, and he keeps his gaze trained on you, “He wasn’t a bother. He saved me from these guys. In fact—” you raise the Batarang up, “—he gave me a souvenir.” You grin at Dick.

He lets out a surprised bark of laughter before turning to Tim, who refuses to look at either of you. You think you can hear Tim mutter “Oh my God.”

“Aw, givin' out gifts to civilians now?” Dick teases Tim.

Tim groans, and you think you can see him turning red. You feel a little bad for embarrassing him in front of his brothers, but this reaction makes it all worth it. “I’m leaving.” He declares before launching his grappling hook up to the railing at the roof above you. He gives you one last look, a minuscule nod, before leaving.

You and Dick watch as he leaves before he turns back to you. “You are actually okay though, right?” He reaches out to put his hands on your shoulders before stopping and awkwardly putting them down.

You smile at Dick, nodding. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

He nods, “Well, get home safely. I’ll handle these guys.” He gestures his thumb down to the thugs on the ground. As if on cue, one of them begins to groan as they wake up. “You might wanna stay down, bud.” He gives you one last glance before winking and turning back to the thugs on the ground.

You watch him for a moment before walking out of the alley and waving down a taxi. You tell him your apartment complex, and look out the window. You rest your head on the window as you watch Gotham pass by you. You feel yourself truly relax for the first time in an hour before immediately stiffening.

How the hell are you going to tell Tim?

The day of the dinner arrives sooner than you’d like.

You are no closer to figuring out how to tell Tim that you know. You debated just texting him, but quickly threw that suggestion in the trash. Bad idea, terrible idea.

You pace your living room back and forth, trying to calm yourself. It’s not even dinner you’re worried about. What if you act oddly? Tim will definitely figure it out if you are fidgeting every five seconds. You must act normally, that can’t be too difficult? Just don’t think about it. It’s not like Red Robin or even Nightwing will come up in conversation with his family, right? That’s not really a dinner table topic.

Yeah.

You’ll be fine.

Just act normal—

Tim: I’m here

You swallow as you grab your items, giving your apartment one last look over, before exiting. You find Tim waiting in the parking lot, and you make eye contact through the windshield. He raises a hand, giving you a small smile, his other hand is lazily tapping the steering wheel.

“Thank you again for doing this.” Tim smiles gratefully at you as you step into the passenger seat. You attempt to smile back at him. You observe the interior of his car.

Hm. Red. Interesting. Almost like Red Robin—

You chuckle, more out of nerves than any actual amusement, “Yeah, no problem."

He pauses, giving you a long look before laughing softly. “Don’t be nervous. It’s relatively painless, and Alfred is making your favorite.”

You smile at the thought, “How’d you convince him to do that?”

Tim smacks his lips, “Let’s just say that my dignity isn’t in tact anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t have much of that?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to give you a decidedly unimpressed expression. You return it with a smile, “I mean you practically had to beg me to show up with you—”

“Woah, okay.” His eyebrows shoot up, “First off, that wasn’t begging—”

You pull out your phone, “— ‘I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could’” You recite his words to him, reading the text directly. When you look up, his face is a light red. You try and catch his eyes, but he is stubbornly refusing to meet your own, instead focusing on the road. “Sound familiar to you?”

He remains silent for a bit. “I— Uh— Well, no. I never heard that before.”

“Mhm, sure.” You lean your elbow against the side of the car, propping your face up. His eyes flicker over to you, and he somehow gets more red. He looks you up and down for a brief moment, and while Tim usually does that, you did notice that Red Robin also—

Nope. Do not think about your best friend’s alternate vigilante identity while in the car with him. Stay focused.

The remainder of the ride is filled with light banter, your teasing provides a reprieve from your thoughts. It’s not long before you both pull up. “Master Tim.” Alfred greets Tim before turning to you and greeting you in similar fashion. “A little birdie told me to put your favorite on the menu for tonight.” Alfred offers a small smile, and both you and Tim stiffen.

Oh. Bird puns.

Yeah, Alfred definitely knows.

“Aw, thank you, Alfred. I think the little birdie knew I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” You nudge Tim teasingly. For a moment, he doesn’t react and you wonder if he’s even breathing. “Right, birdie?” You lightly nudge Tim again.

“Yeah, uh— mhm?” You frown at the reaction. Tim shifts on his feet, and waves you off casually. “Sorry, just uh— dinner, you know? Got me stressed?”

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “Right,” you turn back to Alfred, “Thanks again, Alfred.” You grin at him.

“My pleasure, Miss.” He inclines his head to you, “Now, if you’re ready to greet the others.” He turns around, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you and Tim are following.

“Look who finally showed his face— Oh,” Steph abruptly cuts herself off.

“Hello to you too.” You respond dryly, taking a seat at the table.

Steph grins at you, “Hello!” She greet you before glaring at Tim. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Yep.” Tim replies dryly. He takes the seat across you, he offers you a small smirk.

“And you know we can’t do anything about it.” She huffs, shaking her head disapprovingly.

You nod solemnly, “I was informed that I was bait.”

Dick chokes on his water, “You told her that?”

“I did not tell her that.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you, raising his hands in surrender. “She reached that conclusion on her own.”

“Is that all you told her?” Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks between you both.

“Yes.” Tim nearly hisses, eyes wide as if saying “Not one more word.” He clears his throat, sparing you a quick glance, and releases a long sigh, “Is Bruce here, yet?”

“You’re attempts to change the topic at hand are futile.” Damian looks between you and Tim, evidently bored.

Dick frowns at Tim before sighing, “No… He had some last minute business to take care of. He’ll be a little late.”

“Perfect.” Tim abruptly stands up, and your mouth parts, taken aback. “It’s getting kind of hot in here. I think I need a minute. I— Uh— Do you wanna head up for a bit until Bruce shows up?” Tim turns to you.

You furrow your eyebrows, if he needs a minute, why is he asking you to come with him?

“Sure?” Tim is already walking around the long dining table, he raises his hand to gently guide you away from everybody before you get a chance to say anything else. “Isn’t this rude?” You whisper to him, his hand is still guiding your back.

“Not with them. That kind of rude doesn’t count.” Tim huffs, and you two begin the familiar trek to his room.

You release an amused huff, “For you. What if they think I’m rude or something?”

Tim spares a glance at you, as if the idea you presented is absurd. “They’ll just blame it on me.” He shrugs. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later.” He rubs your shoulder casually, offering you a smile that tells you he’s used to this.

You furrow your eyebrows in concern, “If you say so…” You trail off, hesitant. He gestures for you to enter his room. The space is familiar. You’ve been here many times in the past. However, never had you known that Tim is Red Robin during those times. Your eyes survey the room in front of you. Nothing is different about it (why did you expect there to be anything different?). You slowly make your way over to his desk, a few pieces of scrap paper lay on it. Nothing incriminating. You frown looking over the contents of the paper.

Tim appears at your side, “You okay?” He asks, following your gaze to the paper.

You nod, turning to him, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” You pace the room for a beat before planting yourself onto his bed, something you’ve done a million times before.

He looks you up and down, and you resist stiffening under his scrutiny. He must’ve found something because he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then slowly walks over to you. “I… Sorry, was asking you to come for dinner too much?” He sits down next to you, and his gaze falls down to your hand on his comforter.

You blink, looking off to the side before returning your attention to him. “No, no, it’s fine.” You shake your head, “It’s not something I haven’t done before.” You shrug, attempting to offer him a reassuring smile.

Tim’s frown doesn’t change. “You don’t actually have to do this if you don’t want to… I know I was kinda joking about needing you here, but if there’s something—”

“Tim, there’s nothing wrong. What gave you that impression?” You feel your heart race. Does he know that you know?

He meets your eyes, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and his eyes trail down to your shoulders. “I… You just seem—” his eyes look off at something off to the side, “—distracted, is all.” Your lips part, and his gaze returns to you. “You don’t have to say anything. This isn’t me trying to pressure you into telling me if something is up.” He rambles, shaking his head.

You heave a sigh, “It’s— I don’t think you want to know, Tim.”

Perhaps that’s the wrong thing to say to a detective because Tim— despite his attempts to be sympathetic— also has that spark of curiosity in his eyes. He trains his eyes on you, as if expecting to you to continue. When you don’t, he hesitantly responds: “If— and again, this is not me pressuring you— If it helps you get something off your chest, then I will always be here to listen.”

You swallow, looking toward Tim, “That’s… Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate that.” He nods, offering you a smile, and slowly inching his hand closer to yours. You pretend not to notice. “Are you sure you want to hear what I want to say?” You whisper softly to him, smiling nervously.

He blinks, “If that’s what you wish,” he changes his focus from your hand to your face, “then yes.” He gives you a disarming smile.

Your smile grows, “This is your last chance, Tim.”

His eyes lighten up, “Well,” he chuckles, “I’m not planning on changing my mind.”

You smile, leaning closer, and Tim mirrors the action whether he knows it or not. His chest rises and falls, slow, and you look into his eyes. The blue diminishing by the second as its replaced by the growing size of his pupil.

“Do you remember the other night?” You keep the same quiet tone, the words are meant for him— and him alone.

Tim’s eyebrows raise, evidently not expecting that, “What?” His words are breathless, but still ring of confusion.

“I just… I appreciate you helping me out.” You smile at him, watching as he processes the information.

“Yeah…” He slowly nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, that… It’s no issue it all. I…” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes are turned away from you. His eyes gloss over the ground. He must remember that you’re watching because he suddenly turns to look at you tight-lipped smile. “Yeah...” he trails off, “Could you remind me exactly what I helped you with?”

You chuckle at his attempts to play it off— and failing. “Oh, come on, Tim.” You tilt your head at him, “You remember. You gave me the souvenir.”

You can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.

He doesn’t instantly react. Instead he stares at you (or, more accurately, through you) unblinking. At his lack of a functioning reaction, you worry that maybe this wasn’t the best idea to go about this. After all you still have to sit through dinner after this. You aren’t even sure if he’s breathing when his smile strains in a way that almost looks painful.

“What?” His voice is quiet, as if incapable of mustering up any more volume.

Your purse your lips, taking a deep breath. You don’t get a chance to respond because he continues. “I… I haven’t given you anything— I think I’d remember if I gave you a souvenir.” He laughs, slightly hysterical. “You might be thinking of somebody else?”

You sigh, slowly reaching your hand up to his chin. Tim immediately stiffens at the contact, as if afraid him moving would deter you. A small smirk grows on your face when you realize how red Tim is at your touch. Gently, you move a few strands of hair out of his face, and he doesn’t stop you. They were covering up a specific spot, and while it appears Tim did try to cover up the bruise he received from the other night, he did not do a clean enough job.

“That’s,” he swallows, “That’s uh— I fell off my skateboard.” He doesn’t attempt to move your hands away from his face.

“Mhm,” you hum disbelievingly, “in the same spot Red Robin got hit, right? You two skateboard together?” You tease lightly.

“Well, I—” he clears his throat, leaning away from you, and you don’t try to stop him. “I… think?” He presses his hands onto his face, shielding his face from your view.

You frown, amusement evident in your tone. “You don’t know?”

He shifts his hands slightly, peaking through his fingers to look at you on his side. “I… You know, maybe you were right that I didn’t want to know.”

You let out an startled puff of air, “Oh,” you begin slowly, “now you heed my warnings?”

He avoids your eyes, smacking his lips. “Okay, fine, but how did you figure it out?” He asks, resting elbow on his knee. He props his head up, rubbing his forehead as if to remove tension.

“You share mannerisms with Red Robin.” He squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his alter ego.

His jaw drops. “There’s no way you figured me out just because I acted kinda similar. I had a voice modulator!” He whisper-yells.

You nod, “Well, yeah, initially it was just suspicion. Then Dick showed up.” You watch as Tim mouths the words “Oh my God.” You smile sympathetically at Tim, “Yeah, I don’t know how anybody who looks at Nightwing for longer than a minute doesn’t put two and two together.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s Dick’s fault.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you. His hands aren’t covering his face anymore.

You frown, “You sent me photos of yourself.” Tim instantly gives you a look of horror, and you watch as he begins to turn red again. “Uh— I mean you were posing for the camera as Red Robin.” You elaborate, and Tim looks no less embarrassed.

“Okay,” he holds a finger up, adjusting his position on the bed next to you. “I did not pose for the camera. I just took a photo of whatever I was doing at the moment.” He grumbles.

You nod, “Modeling, apparently.” You quietly respond, at his glare you smile back at him. “I kept the Batarang by the way. It’s sitting in my room.” His glare softens at that, and he looks at you for a beat before flopping onto his back. The action causes the bed to jostle a little bit. You follow suit, turning to face him. “I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He turns to face you, and the two of you are inches apart, “That wasn’t my worry. It never was.” He whispers back.

You use your arm as a pillow as he continues to stare at you, “Then what is?”

He doesn’t immediately respond, but when he does his words are soft. “I didn’t want you involved in this.” He begins. “I… I don’t want you getting hurt because you know me.”

You let out a long exhale, “Tim,” you start, reaching for his hand, “if I didn’t want to be involved, I would’ve stopped the moment you started ‘chasing after vigilantes’ for photos.” You chuckle as he sheepishly looks away at the mention of his escapades. “I like being around you, Tim. That doesn’t change just because you go out as Red Robin every night.”

He swallows, squeezing your hand, “I… I like you—” He hastily cuts himself off, “—I like being around you too.” He smiles at you, and you feel better seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. “I… You’re not mad or anything right?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “That you like me?”

Instantly, that spark is replaced by pure unadulterated horror. He sits, startling you, “No! I meant the—” at your laughter, the tension leaves his body, and he releases a soft puff of air before slowly settling next to you again. “You know what I meant.” He scoffs, but it appears more endearing than anything.

You chuckle, smiling at him, “I’m not upset, Tim. If anything it makes sense. I was wondering how you always had such clear photos of the vigilantes. Oh— Terrible way to hide your identity by the way, going around and taking selfies of yourself.” You watch as he lightly glares at you before settling down closer than he was before. “And your terrible sleeping schedule makes sense now.”

He smacks his lips, “Okay, but I have an excuse. You—” he lightly points an accusing finger at you, “— do not.”

You grin, grabbing his hand, pressing it against the soft mattress of his bed. You adjust your position, ready to defend yourself, “Oh, really—”

“Father is here. He requests your presence—” Both you and Tim jolt as if caught doing something illegal before turning to look at Damian. To nobody’s surprise, he looks wildly unimpressed (and perhaps a little disgusted) by you both.

“Damian, can’t you knock?” Tim groans, brushing off imaginary dust off himself.

Damian’s eyes linger on your hand laid casually over Tim’s. Slowly, you remove it, and Tim frowns down at his lone hand. “I did knock. I took your lack of response as permission for entry.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works… like at all.” Tim stands up, and you follow suit.

Damian eyes you both accusingly then huffs. He whips around before shutting the door behind him, leaving you and Tim there standing awkwardly.

“We… We better get down there. He’s going to tell everybody.” Tim looks over to you, eyebrows creased in worry imagining what might be conversed at the dinner table. You nod solemnly, that would not be ideal.

“Lead the way, Birdie.” You walk up to his side, and Tim freezes at the nickname. You release a loud laugh at the reaction.

“You’re lucky I don’t have time to address that.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smirk on his face.

“Aw, I knew you like me.” You grin, nudging your hand against his own.

He lets out a long sigh, and his smile turns soft. “Yeah,” he swallows, “I do.” He clasps your arm, and you give him a blinding grin.

A/N: Maybe I should just start up a collection of “civilian reader scaring the shit out of her boyfriend after figuring out he’s a vigilante but being unsure how to tell him so she goes about it in the most stressful way possible for him.” We’re going 2 for 2 and I absolutely LOVE this trope. Anyway, sorry this took a while! I have one more final then I’m FREE! I absolutely LOVED this idea, and I really hope I did it justice. Online friend!Tim Drake has so much potential and it’s definitely an idea I wouldn’t mind revisiting in the future. As always, feel free to let me know about any major errors :)! Funny thing, I actually had to write some small headcannons for myself of some random traits I think Tim would have so that Reader could inevitably realize Tim = Red Robin. If you guys wanna see that let me know, they aren’t very long, but you might notice a few things if you go back and reread it :)!

“If you could.” Buzz. “I'd appreciate it.” Buzz.

You grit your teeth, “Great.” Buzz.

You glare at your phone, hoping the intensity of your stare will compel him to stop texting you.

Buzz.

You sigh, rubbing your temples as you click send. “Alright, I just sent them.”

“Thank you,” your boss says your name. “I'll be in touch.”

You nod, “Let me know if anything else is needed.” Your boss hangs up. The display on your phone changing back to your home screen. Buzz. You are going to kill this man.

Tim: at this point i feel like you're just ignoring me 😔

Tim: i KNOW you're home right now

Tim: gotta admit you're dedicated tho

You glare at your phone, quickly typing out a response.

hey sorry to disappoint but i can be at home AND still work, some of us are actually employed

He instantly responds.

Tim: tf you talking about?? I am literally the ceo of wayne enterprises bro 🥀

I thought that was Lucius??? and even if you are employed you sure act unemployed bro 🥀

Tim: are you calling me chronically online?

Tim: how do you think we met???

Tim: it's a two way street 😭

yeah but like

Tim: 🤨🤨

ok fair enough, but I was working 😭 what was so important that you had to spam me while I was talking to my BOSS

Tim: mb gang i didn't know :(((

Tim: I figured if you didn't respond the first time you'd respond by the 15th time

Tim: and it worked soooo….

get to the point

Tim: so consider

Tim: dinner

You feel your heart skip a beat, your thumbs freezing as any comments you had evaporate from your head.

Tim: at the manor

Oh… That makes more sense. Why would you assume he was asking you out? You scoff, feeling a low surge of disappointment run through your chest.

again??

Tim: yeah i don't wanna be alone 💔

won't there be like 10 people there??? how would you be alone?

Tim: can you just be there pls

no

Tim: please?

i'm busy

Tim: doing what

i shouldn't tell people online what i'm doing, that's creepy of you to ask there buddy 🤨

Tim: you've literally been in my ROOM before hello??

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as you type. Any prior work you were doing is entirely forgotten.

that's an issue, what if I stole something? clearly SOMEBODY forgot to tell you never to tell strangers online your address 😔

Tim: fyi i can handle myself PERFECTLY fine

yeah huh

Tim: and are you implying you stole something from me???

no but i could've, you wouldn't have even noticed

Tim: no I would've

then why'd you ask me if I did?

Tim: to see if you'd admit guilt

I didn't steal anything though??

Tim: that's what a LIAR would say

oh my goodness

you're on your own for dinner

Tim: WAIT PLEASE

Tim: IM SORRY PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM

Tim: WE CAN HANG OUT AFTER MAKE IT A WHOLE THING

Tim: ACTUALLY WE CAN JUST DITCH LIKE HALFWAY THROUGH AND HEAD UP TO MY ROOM

damn you're acting as if they burn you at the stake each time there is dinner 😭

Tim: please be there i beg of you 🙏

mmmm i dunno you don't sound desperate enough

Tim: now I KNOW you're lying cause there's no WAY you just said that

Tim: I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could

lmao what's stopping you?

Tim: my dignity

😔

Tim: u being fr rn?

the mental image is very funny

Tim: i'm sure it is, now can we get back on track? could you PLEASE show up to dinner Sunday I'm LITERALLY begging you

THIS SUNDAY???? I THOUGHT IT'D BE LIKE NEXT WEEK OR SOMETHING

Tim: PLEASE I KNOW IT'S SHORT NOTICE I WILL MAKE IT WORTH YOUR TIME 🙏

Tim: I'LL EVEN ASK ALFRED TO MAKE YOUR FAVORITE FOOD AND DESSERT

That makes you pause.

you will? 🤨

Tim: YES JUST PLEASE SHOW UP

mmm okay

gotta ask, why do you need me there that bad??? don't just say your lonely or smth stupid

Tim: if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal

You furrow your eyebrows, pondering what “abnormal” would look like for the Wayne family. They seemed kind of normal when you met them. Maybe it's some Wayne thing you just don't understand.

what does that even mean??

Tim: just trust me, you being there makes my life 1000x easier

oh so I'm bait 💀

Tim: nononono not like that

Tim: it's nothing actually bad I promise

relax Tim I'm joking lmao, I'll gladly be bait to make your family behave normally 🫡 (as long as you hold up with your deal with Alfred of course)

Tim: you're literally my favorite person in the world right now

Smiling, you chuckle at the message, leaning back into your chair. You are not going to read too much into that.

after this I better be, I'll see you later then

Tim: I can pick you up Sunday around five

perfect, see you then

Tim: see you

You place your phone down. Dinner, huh? It's not like you haven't been to the Wayne's for dinner. This shouldn't be any different. The only other time Tim invited you to dinner was when you were starting to get to know him in person. To be fair, he didn't exactly “invite” you. His family actually insisted that they had to meet Tim's new friend. Tim had quickly informed you that you could decline the “offer,” but you had went anyway. It's not like you could just decline an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself.

The difference between now and then is that Tim is not only inviting you, but practically begging you to show up. Sure, he had snuck you in a few times, but formal invitations were not something that either of you did, not anymore.

What changed?

It's not something you should read into. However, your mind keeps going back to that one line. You open your phone again, scrolling to look at the messages. Your thumb hovers over the message: “if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal.”

Now, it should not be something you should read into. However, the strange thing is, you know exactly what Tim is talking about. When you met the Wayne's everything was seemingly normal, but the issue was that it was too normal. It set off some alarm in your brain, but you couldn't figure out what they did that set it off.

Normal.

What defines normalcy?

Is it the standards that you are accustomed to? Is it expectations one expects a well-adjusted person to have? Either way, it set off some alarms because while you didn't know how to describe their usual behavior, Tim does.

They act normal when you're there. This implies that there is a time where they don't act normal.

Your finger lightly traces the edge of your phone as you stare at the messages. Now, you're definitely reading into this, but the fact of the matter is something is up.

You're going to figure it out.

Meeting Tim had been, potentially, the most unexpected event in your entire life. Now, since both of you live in Gotham, one might presume that perhaps you met somewhere in the city. Perhaps you went to the same university or bumped into each other on the street. Perhaps you had met him at one of the dozens of events hosted by the Waynes every year. The possibilities were endless.

Instead, you met him on a thread online.

You didn't even know it was him.

It had been an online forum. You don't even remember what the exact topic was. It was something photography related. One of the users— TimTam— had been discussing something about how to balance one's subject with the environment around them. They had gone on and on about the rule of thirds, and how the the environment was meant to enhance the subject. Curiously, you had checked out their profile. After all, you'd expect somebody who talked the talk to be able to walk the walk. You'd found a link to a blog he had.

Apparently, you should've never doubted TimTam because the photos he took were absolutely breathtaking. You've lived in Gotham for decades, and yet the photos that TimTam took exhibited an unconventional beauty of the otherwise deplorable city. For a moment, you wondered if this was his job. Some of the photos looked too perfect to just be a mere hobby. He had shots next to the gargoyles on Wayne Tower with angles that looked unfeasible for any sane person to achieve.

Who was this guy?

Curiosity got the better of you. You had attempted to look him up for any other social media accounts, but your efforts were fruitless. A conclusion that only made you more curious.

You wanted to find more about this mysterious individual, so you sent him a quick message. Polite and inquisitive.

Hello! I stumbled onto your page, and I adore your photography! I was wondering if you had any other social media accounts. I would love to follow some of your other socials.

Checking the original forum, you noticed that the timestamp was from over a week ago. Hopefully he'd respond. You didn't really keep up with online photography forums much. Stumbling onto this had been an accident, but a happy accident nevertheless. You were about to get up from your chair, when you saw a little bubble signifying a notification.

Your mouth parted in surprise. That was quick.

TimTam: Hello. I don't have any other socials at the moment for photography. I only really post it occasionally on my main.

You nod, understandable. It's a shame, but you weren't about to ask a random stranger for what may be their potentially personal account. You were about to type your response, when TimTam sends another message.

TimTam: You think I should make a photography accoutn?

TimTam: account*

You slowly blink at the message followed by the typo correction. Somehow this person seems a lot less intimidating than they did five seconds ago.

Absolutely! It's rare that I can find somebody capture Gotham in the perspective you do. I would definitely follow you if you make any other socials.

There's a pause for a moment. The bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again. You tap the space bar of your laptop idly, curious what TimTam has to say.

TimTam: Like right now?

You can't help the surprised snort that escapes you.

I mean if you want? I meant more generally, but now works.

TimTam: Right, right, of course

You like their message, unsure how to respond to that. You think that's the end of your adventures with TimTam, but about ten minutes later you get another message. You open the chat back up. It's an Instagram link.

TimTam: Thanks for the advice. I made the social.

You nod as if they can see your physical response. Tapping onto the link.

For sure! Honored to be the first official follower :)

You actually are their first follower. The account's user is Tim_Tam with a profile picture sitting on the ledge of a building overlooking the sunset. Zero posts, one follower, zero following. It was brand new. Not even a bio present.

Satisfied with how the interaction went, you had presumed that your conversations with TimTam had ended. You didn't exactly give them a reason to keep contacting you.

A few days went by, and slowly TimTam began to post on social media. His first posts garnered thousands of likes, which you found impressive for such a fresh account. You did tell him that he'd do well on other platforms. It didn't take long for him to build up a following. Nothing insane, but definitely a good start.

You had been keeping up with TimTam. You weren't sure what drew you to him, but you found yourself liking each post of his. You found a smile appear on your face each time he posted.

Perhaps you were a tad bit proud that your suggestion led to such fruition.

Judging by the way he had immediately asked you if he should make a photography account, you assumed that he had previously considered the idea. Either that or he was a very spontaneous person.

Either way, you took some satisfaction out of it.

Days had gone by and you watched as his followers trickled up. You found yourself living vicariously through TimTam, silently celebrating ten thousand followers with him.

Then you saw it.

You had been about to go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and it was freezing. The comforters weighed heavily onto you, shrouding you in warmth. On top of that, you had pulled the Batman throw blanket up to your neck, nearly suffocating yourself with the soft material. The blanket had the different symbols of all the Bats plastered onto it against a light gray backdrop. You'd gotten it years ago, and to this day it was still one of your favorite blankets.

You squinted your eyes as the bright light of your phone shone through the otherwise dark room. Your eyes started to feel the strain as you continued to fight the urge to sleep.

Then you saw the notification.

The first thing you registered wasn't the message, but the sender of the message.

TimTam (or is it Tim_Tam now?) had sent you a message.

Sitting up, you read the notification, not wanting him to know you're reading his message.

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

Tim_Tam

Which one do you think looks better?

Sent now

You paused, thumb hovering over the Instagram notifications. You couldn't see the photos if you didn't click the message. However, if you clicked the messages, he'd know you're awake.

Would it be weird to respond? It's nearly midnight. What if he judges your poor sleeping schedule?

Then again… He texted you first. If anything he should be worried about how he comes across. Also, why should you care? It's just a stranger on the internet.

Before you could reconsider your actions, you clicked on the messages.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

The two photos looked practically identical. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a few discrepancies, but they were so insignificant that they were practically the same photo.

It was taken on a rooftop. Nightwing and Robin were shown to be conversing with one another. It was, quite possibly, the clearest photos of the vigilantes you had ever seen.

Of course, you've seen the blurry images and videos of the vigilantes captured by the news or even by Gothamites themselves, but none of them were this sharp. It was evident that the photo was taken from a distance (likely due to TimTam not wanting to be spotted), but that didn't change the fact that this was potentially the best photo you'd seen of the vigilantes before.

Sure, you've seen a whispered shadow pass over your head, or even heard the roar of the Batmobile echo across the city, but you had never gotten a clear look at their faces. It's blurry enough where specific identifiable facial features may not be evident, but it's clear enough that you can actually deduce their facial expressions.

Nightwing appears to be smiling, a wide grin plastered onto his face. Robin doesn't share the same expression. It's more difficult to tell what he's thinking, but it's evident that he does not share Nightwing's apparent amusement.

You swipe between the two photos TimTam sent. You were only able to make out five differences total. In the first photo, Robin's shoulders were more tense, Nightwing's mouth was slightly open (though still grinning) as if caught mid-speech, and the lights of the city shined down a low red lighting onto their costumes, bathing them in the ominous color.

The second photo had Nightwing simply offering an amused grin, smiling with his teeth on display. He wasn't saying anything. Robin's shoulders were more relaxed, but the unamused expression was a constant in both photos. The low red lighting from the first photo turned into a slightly more vibrant scarlet that enveloped the subjects. If you looked closely, you'd notice that Nightwing had a couple strands of hair out of place. The change making him look slightly more unkempt. The only other noticeable change was the direction Robin faced. In the second photo, he is angled just ever so slightly more towards Nightwing.

The second one for sure. It makes them both look cooler with the lighting and it feels slightly more personal.

Tim_Tam: Okay, thanks.

You stare at the photos for a moment longer, waiting for something else. No other response came. You furrow your brows, typing another message. Before TimTam was interesting. But now?

Wait that's it?

Now he's borderline unreal.

Tim_Tam: Yeah, I couldn't really decide

Tim_Tam: It's not like I could ask Nightwing and Robin their opinions. I doubt they even know the photo was taken.

Who even is this guy?

You're telling me that you snuck up on NIGHTWING and ROBIN

and you can't choose which photo looks better???

Tim_Tam: In all fairness, their vibes are VERY different. I couldn't tell which one to go for.

He's right. Despite capturing the same moment, the minute differences change the interpretation of the photos immensely.

That's fair.

Should I even ask how you got these photos?

Tim_Tam: It sounds like you are asking

Tim_Tam: Let's just say I have my ways

You frown. That was entirely expected, but still disappointing.

Are you planning on selling them?

There's a pause for a moment. The bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.

Tim_Tam: What?

Like the photos. You could probably sell them to the Gotham Gazette and get a quick buck or something.

I don't think I've ever seen any news agency with photos THIS clear. I'm sure they'd eat it up.

Tim_Tam: Maybe? I hadn't really considered that

Wait wait you're telling me you stalked after vigilantes for love of the game??

Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much

At this point, you're wide awake. All sleepiness that clouded your brain fanned away long ago.

Are those the only ones you have?

There's a long pause.

Tim_Tam: At the moment.

I'm not saying you should follow the Bats again but like…

These photos are actually phenomenal, you could get famous for this.

There's another long pause.

Tim_Tam: You think?

100%. I've NEVER seen such prisitine photos of Nightwing and Robin. It's genuinely impressive.

Tim_Tam: Hm

Tim_Tam: I'll see what I can do.

That was the start of your friendship with TimTam. Vigilante photos. Two nights after the Nightwing and Robin photo situation, you received another text.

Tim_Tam

[Image attached]

Sent now

You nearly dropped your phone upon opening the message.

If you thought the Nightwing and Robin photo was clear? This was night and day. It was single handled the best photo of Red Robin you've ever seen. The image pictured Red Robin kicking some criminal. The dynamic pose combined with the sheer clarity of the photo made for an actual masterpiece. You could see the way that his suit fit his form. The way he clenched his jaw as he struck the criminal. It was so close. It almost looks like TimTam had taken security camera footage, zoomed in, and somehow enhanced it.

???

Tim_Tam: Is that a good or bad ???

GOOD DEFINITELY GOOD

HOW IS IT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN THE NIGHTWING AND ROBIN ONE

Tim_Tam: I'm good at photography I guess

Tim_Tam: you're a Red Robin fan?

Were you imagining the smug tone behind that? Was Red Robin even your favorite? You liked Red Robin, but your favorite?

I suppose

Tim_Tam: You suppose?? Damnnnn okay

My bad 😭 didn't realize you were a big Red Robin fan

Tim_Tam: No no it's fine

Tim_Tam: Perhaps I'll have to get more to convince you

At that point just interview him. You're already stalking the poor guy.

Tim_Tam: He's finr

Tim_Tam: fine*

He paused.

Tim_Tam: For the record though, I probably could

You chuckled. Whoever this was seemed very confident they could get an interview with Red Robin. Have you even seen vigilante interviews? Maybe a statement or two here and there, but never full on interviews.

Maybe stick to your day job

Tim_Tam: I feel like you're challenging me 🤨

Nonono

Just like

I'd hate to read in the paper that Red Robin beat you up

There was a long moment of silence, Tim_Tam wasn't even typing.

Tim_Tam: Nah I can handle him

You were full on laughing at your phone by this point.

Tim_Tam: He didn't even notice me taking the photos or anything

And that translates to his fighting ability??

Tim_Tam: I mean all you got to do is get one really good hit in and he's out

Tim_Tam: he's only human

you sure of that? 🤨🤨

Tim_Tam: Positive, I think I have a shot

Well then, I await the day I see the headline

“photographer takes out Red Robin with a single hit”

Tim_Tam: Oh yeah that'll for sure be the headline

Tim_Tam: I'll personally get the photo for that story. Send a photo of it just to you to prove myself

Do you always look for validation from strangers on the internet??

Tim_Tam: Do you always judge the photos of photographers on the internet??

do NOT pin this on me, you asked me to pick between the two :(

Tim_Tam: mhm

I wasn't even being critical of them, all I said was that I liked the second one better

Tim_Tam: I believe your exact words were that they looked “cooler” and “felt more personal”

I didn't say the other ones were bad though!! I'm pretty sure I said they were the BEST photos of Nightwing and Robin I've seen so far

also

Tim_Tam: ?

You hesitated. Was this being too casual with TimTam? The two of you seem to be getting along fine, but you hadn't asked him any truly heavy questions.

I was just curious— feel free to not answer— but are you planning on posting the Nightwing and Robin photos?

Somehow, you felt as if the tension rose at your question. TimTam diidn't immediately respond. There was no indication that he's even read your message. Then you saw the bubble. Typing. Not typing. Typing.

Tim_Tam: No

Tim_Tam: I can't

Absentmindedly you tapped the side of your phone, eyebrows furrowing.

Ah okay

The response was lame, and both of you knew it. You silently berated yourself for ruining the atmosphere. TimTam didn't respond after that. He didn't react to the message, but you still saw that he was online. Resigned, you slowly put your phone back on the nightstand. Shutting your eyes, you twist your body in the opposite direction of the device. Out of sight, out of mind—

Bzzt!

Your phone's vibration caused you to freeze. No, no. You needed to sleep. It might not even be TimTam. It could've been a random email that you'll never look at. Even if it was TimTam, it was completely understandable if you didn't respond, given how late it is.

However, curiosity did kill the cat.

You turned over, slowly grabbing you phone. You had zero expectations (at least that's what you told yourself). TimTam was probably asleep too. It's not like you two were close enough to be chatting casually this late.

Tim_Tam: It's not that I don't want to don't get me wrong

Tim_Tam: It's just that something happened, and I can't do it

Without thinking, you opened the message. Damn it, he's going to think you're a loser, immediately coming online the moment he messages you.

No need to justify yourself, I get it

I'm glad that you decided to share the photos you've taken with me though

TimTam paused, but his next reply had you reeling.

Tim_Tam: Robin paid me a visit

You felt your heart start to pound as if it was you who Robin visited. You could only imagine how TimTam handled the situation. How did he neglect to mention that?!

Are you serious??? Thought you said that he and Nightwing weren't aware you were photographing them?

Tim_Tam: So

Tim_Tam: How do I say this

The responses were rapid, you could feel TimTam's unease through the screen.

Shoudl I be concerned??

should*

Tim_Tam: Would you believe me if I hypothetically said I sought out Robin

like you took more photos of him??

Tim_Tam: No like I talked with him

He did what?

Tim_Tam: And hypothetically he said that the photos must never be seen by the public

hypothetically did you agree??

Tim_Tam: kinda??

oh my gosh are you going to be on a vigilante hit list?

Tim_Tam: I don't think that's a thing 💀

you THINK? the same guy who THOUGHT Nightwing and Robin weren't aware of you??

Tim_Tam: TECHNICALLY they weren't, I just wanted to show them the photos get their thoughts

…my guy this is on you why would you TELL them??

praying for you 🙏

Tim_Tam: Are you still implying that Robin is going to off me??

I'm JUST saying, now they know who you are

if they see any photos like the ones you took they'll know it was you

probably dox you or something idk

Tim_Tam: You make an excellent point

Tim_Tam: eh It'll be fine though

Did you get Nightwing or Red Robin's opinion too?

It felt stupid to ask. You imagine he would've said something if he met another vigilante. TimTam took a minute to respond.

Tim_Tam: Nightwing no, Red Robin yes

Or not… What kind of guy just casually forgets to mention he met not one but two vigilantes?

What'd he say?

Tim_Tam: He thought it was cool

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate.

He thought it was cool??

Tim_Tam: Yep

and that's it..?

Tim_Tam: Uhh I can't really remember

did he knock you out or something??? you conversed with RED ROBIN and can't even bother to remember what he said??

Tim_Tam: to be fair he didn't say much

You're telling me he SERIOUSLY just said “cool” and then left??

Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much

You let out a puff of amusement. What a weird world you live in. This random internet photographer you found has somehow met two of Gotham's vigilante's, been threatened by one of them, and is still acting like this isn't a big deal.

Tim_Tam: Oh and he said he didn't mind the photos

Finally, something.

Are you going to try and catch him again?

I feel obligated to preface this by saying this is NOT me encouraging you to go track down vigilantes

Tim_Tam: uhhhh

???

Tim_Tam: [Image Attached]

Tim_Tam: You're a bit too late, already caught him again

You stare blankly at the new image. It's another image of Red Robin. This time it's not an action shot. Instead, it capture the vigilante sitting casually on the edge of the building. His knee is propped up in front of him, his arm casually resting on it. The angle of this photo is different. It isn't taken from above, nor from the streets below. Instead, it's taken from the very rooftop Red Robin is sitting on. If you had to hazard a guess, TimTam took this photo from the ground of the rooftop with his camera at a low angle.

Dude did you CRAWL to get this photo???

Tim_Tam: …why would you ask that??

Cause how else did you get a get that specific angle of Red Robin?? Did you share a rooftop with him??

You pause, scrutinizing the photograph. There's a figure in the back, and upon further examination, you realize who it is.

IS THAT NIGHTWING IN THE DISTANCE???? YOU CAUGHT HIM AGAIN???

Tim_Tam: What???

There is a pause for a moment.

Tim_Tam: Huh didn't even see him lol

“Didn't even see him lol.” You weren't even sure if you're surprised anymore. All you can do is stare at the photograph with Red Robin (and Nightwing pictured in the back) in awe. For a moment, you considered whether TimTam truly asked Red Robin to pose for it. It certainly looked like it.

you ACCIDENTALLY got a picture of Red Robin posing with Nightwing in the distance???

Tim_Tam: Red Robin isn't posing what??

dude he is LITERALLY posing for the photo

There was a momentary pause.

Tim_Tam: idk it looks pretty natural to me

sure we'll go with that

You sighed, rubbing you temples. This guys has to be playing you.

Tim_Tam: damn okay fine doubt me

Tim_Tam: I'll try again

You almost felt your blood pressure spike seeing the message. What kind of person gets threatened by Robin and decides to pursue the guy? Determined, you pick up your phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.

You are not going to be a bystander in this guy's inevitable demise.

Was it an unconventional way to befriend somebody? Perhaps, but it was Gotham. TimTam seemed relatively nice, a trait found few and far between in a city like this. It helped that he enjoyed your company as well. There were many nights where neither of you could fall asleep, and the only thing keeping you up was the quiet vibration of your phone going off, signaling that he was still there.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months dragged on for a year.

After a year, you’d think that you’d know a bit more about who TimTam really was. Perhaps a small slip up that leads to a meet up? Did you even want to meet up with TimTam? What if he’s been playing the long game, waiting to get your trust before inevitably killing you in a back alley, your name never to be mentioned again outside of a True Crime Story podcast in a few years. You shuddered at the thought.

Dramatic? Yes. Paranoid? Absolutely.

Still doesn’t stop the growing desire to know who he is.

Have you walked past him on the street? Maybe you went to school together? Perhaps you both frequent a place with no idea the other is there. The possibilities were endless. They were killing you, and yet neither of you brought up the topic.

The closest you got to hints was talking about the latest news.

did you see hear about those buildings that Firefly lit up?

Tim_Tam: “see” would be an understatement, closer to felt

Your eyebrows raised into your hairline.

oh shit, are you okay??

Tim_Tam: i’m fineeee

Tim_Tam: tis but a scratch

Tim_Tam: or burn

You back straightened as you sat up from the curb. Police sirens still rang out, the blaring noise causing your eardrums to vibrate in an unpleasant manner. You frantically looked over the crowd of people: officers, paramedics, examiners, victims, detectives.

Is he one of them?

You weren’t sure what he looked like. He’d been (frustratingly) vague about who he is, but, to be fair, you weren’t any more explicit.

you’re here?

The message is sent and read almost immediately. You watch as the bubble of him typing appears. On. Off. On. Off. You stare at the screen, squinting, attempting to block out the noise of your environment. For a moment, you wonder if something happened. Does he not want to answer that question?

Tim_Tam: wait you're here??

Tim_Tam: shit what are you doing here?

Against your will, your heart started pumping. The accelerating rhythm causing your hands to shake as you typed out your next message, even if— at the time— you insisted it was just the cold, damp, air of Gotham.

Tim_Tam: are you okay?

Tim_Tam: did anything happen to you?

Tim_Tam: are you still here?

You didn't get a chance to respond. Tim manages to send three messages in the time it takes your freezing hands to type half of one. You ran your finger slowly against the screen of your phone, your hands leaving imprints on the device.

not for much longer, I’m planning on leaving soon

“I’m free to go, right?” You confirmed with the paramedic on your right, looking over a young boy. The kid was unharmed, but apparently did not appreciate the examination. The paramedic turned to you, looking you up and down.

“You were already checked for other injuries? Concussions? Anything?” They slowly turned away from you back to the kid. You nodded, “Yeah, I feel fine.” You weren’t lying either. If anything, you were more shaken up then injured.

The paramedic sighed, “Alright, just make sure to rest. It’s been a long night. Take it easy for the next few days. If you notice anything, I’d go to any of the Wayne sponsored health facilities.” They pasued for a moment. “If anything, I’d recommend the clinic near Crime Alley if you want to avoid wait times.” They shined a light into the boy’s eye, “Sketchy area, but the General Hospital tends to get overcrowded fast.”

You blinked, surprised by the helpful advice. “Thanks,” you nodded slowly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” You waited there for an extra beat to see if they’d respond, but it seemed as if that was all they had to say. Slowly, you made your way around the scene, ducking under the caution tape as you attempted to find a way out of the area. Reporters and police officers appeared to be stationed at every corner of the scene, and you didn't particularly want to look at the burned down section of the Upper West Side mere blocks away from the university.

Braving the crowds of cameras it is.

Slowly, you made your way over to the least crowded corner of the scene, nodding at the officer. He returned the nod and watched you raise the caution tape and walk past the dozens of journalists and reporters.

Then you felt it.

You’re no stranger to the sensation of having eyes on you. In fact, it’s a universal experience for every Gothamite. You’d heard stories from friends who committed crimes, albeit petty ones, that even if they got away with a crime or two, they always felt like he was watching. Despite avoiding crime as much as possible (a challenge on its own), you somehow understood them.

The sensation of somebody always there.

Somebody always in the shadows.

Somebody watching.

Usually, you’d describe that sensation as heavy, looming. It was akin to a shadow being cast over you, blocking out any source of light, essentially leaving you in the darkness with nothing but your own doubts and fears. It's part of how Batman was able to have some semblance of control of crime.

However, contrary to that fear, it also provided a sense of safety. You knew you weren’t a target, you’d never be a target. That fear that’s instilled by Batman wasn’t meant for you, it was meant to help people like you.

This, though, is different.

There is no doubt in your mind somebody is watching you. Your skin prickles at the thought, yet the longer you wait for that sharp spike of fear…

It doesn’t come.

Now, you’ve lived in Gotham for a long time. Perhaps your instincts aren’t perfect, but you’d say they’re pretty damn good.

So the fact that somebody is singling you out and watching you? Your brain screamed at you that there was everything wrong with that, which made sense. It’s an assertion most people would agree with.

However.

With an almost dramatic turn, you slowly lifted your gaze up to the buildings across the street. Far enough to be safe from the fire, but close enough to have the perfect view.

You huffed, a small smile on your face.

In the distance, you saw two figures on the rooftop. While it’s hard to deduce the exact builds of the tem, what you could see were the colors.

You could also tell that one of them is looking directly at you. After seeing who knows how many Red Robin photos in the past year (courtesy of Tim), you concluded that Red Robin was most definitely watching you from across the street.

Yep, this is normal. Perhaps Red Robin knows that Tim sends you the photos he takes of him.

You slowly raised a hand up, hesitantly waving at him.

For a moment, nothing happened, and you felt a tad bit stupid for waving at a vigilante and expecting him to wave back. Awkwardly, you lowered your arm, grabbing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. Shutting your phone back off, you shifted your eyes up, expecting the vigilantes to have vanished (something you’ve heard they’re notorious for).

Instead, your mouth parted in surprise as Red Robin slowly waved back at you.

You blinked slowly at the vigilante in the distance in sheer disbelief, not physically reacting otherwise. Almost as if he’s embarrassed, Red Robin slowly lowered his arm back down. The two of you stared at each other for a moment longer before, inevitably, something else caught his attention. His head tilted away from you, and you watched as he turned to face Spoiler and Black Bat (when did Black Bat get there?).

You used the opportunity to slowly raise your phone up, zooming your camera in on the small group of vigilantes before snapping a photo.

Tim won’t believe this.

Tim did, in fact, believe you.

Truthfully, he was… not as impressed with you as you were with yourself.

Tim_Tam: lowkey?? why is the quality pixilated 💀

I’m sorry I don’t walk around with a professional camera around my neck???

Also what happened to “man that was really scary” and “I hope you’re okay”

Tim_Tam: man that was really scary

Tim_Tam: I hope you’re okay

Tim_Tam: quality could be better tho (genuinely glad you're okay though)

damn I’m sorry not all of us have vigilantes on call to do photo shoots with

I tried my best and I was lucky I even got that shot

you know he WAVED at me

thought he’d ignore me

Tim_Tam: Why would he ignore you??

idk maybe he’s like “eugh look at the civilian waving at me like a loser”

Tim paused for a moment.

Tim_Tam: why does he sound so mean in your head??

oh right mb, forgot you're the #1 RR apologist

Tim_Tam: okay now THATS an exaggeration

is it though??

Tim_Tam: very much so yes

if you say so

You snorted, putting your phone on the nightstand and turning the lights off before you nestled yourself into bed. Gotham's freezing weath showed no mercy tonight, and the warm blankets made you brain leap with joy, sending tingles throughout your body. Your phone was charging, the night was young, you’d actually sleep well tonight, and—

The light of your phone flashed, blinding you temporarily. The accompanying vibration didn’t help because now you knew it was Tim. Huffing, you turn your body away from the device that attempts to lure you in.

You needed to go to sleep early, you had an eight AM the next day. You couldn't afford to lose sleep talking to—

The light from your phone manages to light up the whole room, even if you’re not facing the source.

Okay, you will check the phone once to turn the brightness down. You would not read the messages. Tim would understand. You have to sleep, being a responsible adult and all that. With a slow, deep sigh, you reached over to grab your phone, squinting when you realize just how bright it was. That’s when you saw the messages:

Tim_Tam

Would you want to meet in person?

Sent 3m ago

Tim_Tam

Sorry that was really abrupt

Sent 1m ago

Tim_Tam

Just ignore that lol

Sent now

You had never sat up so fast from your bed, and that’s including the times he sent you those photos of the Bats the first few times.

Tim wants to what?

You haven’t even called the guy before.

Wait you can’t just drop that on me and leave

Tim_Tam: sorry?

Where would you want to meet?

Tim_Tam: Wait you’re saying yes?

Tim_Tam: What if I’m like a creepy serial killer who befriends people on the internet and then takes them to their house to kill them?

You paused.

Are you?

Tim_Tam: No but like

Tim_Tam: how would you know I’m NOT?

I can’t tell if you’re trying to defend yourself

I’m like 99% sure you’re not a killer though?

Tim_Tam: Okay but like

Tim_Tam: 99% isn’t 100%

Tim_Tam: chances are not 0

Tim

Tim_Tam: yeah?

If you want to meet, where would it be?

Tim_Tam: uhh

Tim_Tam: Robinson Park work?

Yeah I can probably head there after my classes

I’ll be done around 11

Tim_Tam: Alright cool

Was it you, or did this feel a little anticlimactic? Perhaps it just hadn't hit you yet? You waited for another message, yet the bubbles of forming messages continued to taunt you.

Tim_Tam: Sorry I gtg, we can work out more details later?

Yeah sure, have fun photographing your fav

Tim_Tam: haha you’re SO funny

I know :)

The next day came all too soon yet not quick enough. The second you opened your eyes, a singular thought implanted itself in your head:

Today was the day you were going to meet Tim.

Despite the quiz you had during your early morning discussion, and the midterm prep went over during your following lecture. Neither of the them made you as anxious as meeting Tim. As the final minutes of your lecture passed, you felt a nervous excitement run through your body.

Okay done with my classes, omw

You sent the quick text, giving him a heads up. It’d probably take you a bit to walk there, but it gave you enough time to plan this out.

Like… Do you need to worry about first impressions?

Is this a first impression?

You're technically meeting him for the first time, but it’s not like he’s a stranger.

It's... First-impression-adjacent. Yeah, something like that. You still weren't sure, but you didn't get a chance to dwell on it because you felt your phone vibrate. You didn't stop walking as you check the screen.

Tim_Tam: Hey there is something I should tell you before we meet

Tim_Tam: It’s a little important

uh oh, you’re not actually a killer right?

Tim_Tam: no, no, no

Tim_Tam: Nothing like that

Tim_Tam: but uh

Tim_Tam: My name

Tim_Tam: it’s Tim Drake

You halted. Staring at the words laid plainly on your phone. Tim Drake?

That Tim Drake? The one Bruce Wayne took in? You weren't well versed in the intricate details of the Wayne family lore, but you know about as much as any other Gotham citizen. Bruce Wayne’s parents were murdered in front of him when he was a kid, and now he’s a billionaire playboy with a known habit of adopting kids. Tim Drake is one of them. You didn't actually know much about him, but you’ve seen him on TV or on the news every now and then talking about Wayne Enterprises or something.

woah that’s crazy

I didn’t wan tot tell you but I’m actually Bruce Wayne

want to*

Tim_Tam: I’m not joking I swear

nor am I

Tim_Tam: You don’t believe me

I believe you when you say you aren’t a killer

idk about the Tim Drake thing though

Tim_Tam: should I be concerned that you somehow find me being myself is less probable than me being a killer?

Probably

Is this like a new catfishing tactic

There was a long pause.

Tim_Tam: I’m sorry what??

You could almost hear the bewilderment, and you chuckle at the thought.

oh you know

Tim_Tam: I don’t actually? Is this a common occurrence for you??

no

hence why I ask what’s with the Tim Drake catfishing tactic

Tim_Tam: I really hope it’s NOT a thing? How would it even work??

idk probably something like “Hey baby my name is Tim Drake, I have lots of money do you want to meet at the park to get to know each other better?”

Tim_Tam: I have never ONCE in my LIFE said that

Tim_Tam: I swear I am Tim Drake, we’re literally meeting in like five minutes

Tim_Tam: I promise I’m here, just meet me around the gardens

Now, was it stupid to potentially walk into such an obviously fake trap?

Absolutely.

Did you do it anyway?

Absolutely.

It wasn’t long before you had found a bench not too far from the gardens. You sent Tim-Maybe-Drake a quick update on your location. In spite of how ill-prepared you may seem to the naked eye, you did ask one of your friends to check your location and check in to make sure you don’t die.

Oh and pepper spray. Better safe than sorry.

Tim-Maybe-Drake reacted to your message with a quick thumbs up, and you fidgeted on the bench. You loosely kicked a rock with your foot, taking note of old footprints on the dirt path. As the minutes passed by, the anxiety began to creep back in. What if this was just a joke? What if you were dead-on with the catfishing Tim Drake idea? It was a strange idea, but it got you to come meet in person, didn’t it?

Somebody cleared their throat from the left side of the path, and you turn to look up.

Holy shit.

You blinked rapidly as if Tim Drake will vanish from your eyesight. He looks both the same and different from what you’ve seen in photos. Physically, he mostly looks the same, perhaps a bit leaner than you expected. He must workout, you idly note. His hair looks the same as it does in the photos, perhaps a bit more messy? It also seems too perfect in every photo you see of him.

However, the way he carries himself?

When you searching up information about a billionaire and his children, you saw what you expected online. Articles written on the Wayne children weren’t nearly as ever present as ones about Bruce himself, but every now and then there would be something.

In the few minutes before Tim arrived (you may have looked him up mere seconds before his arrival), you noticed that he looked confident, composed. He had that air about him that only comes from growing up in such a high-end environment.

On one hand, you see the Tim Drake that the media portrays. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne. A man who has clearly grown up in an environment so unlike your own it’s a miracle you even crossed paths with him.

However, you also see the hint of uncertainty that bleeds through his fleeting glances to you. The way his eyes rest on you anxiously, as if waiting for your judgment. For a moment, you consider that he was just as anxious about meeting you than you were meeting him. The prospect seems absurd, but looking at him now, you believe it.

“Oh…” You commented eloquently.

He furrowed his eyebrows, “That’s— That’s it? Just ‘oh?’”

You nodded slowly, “I mean— I… You know I had like zero faith in you.” That’s a lie, you had at least a sprinkle of faith that he was telling the truth. Not that you’ll tell him that.

“That’s reassuring. Thank you for that.” Tim replied dryly.

“You know the whole photographing vigilante’s thing makes so much sense now.” You stood up, hesitantly approaching him.

He tilted his head, “How so?”

“Only rich people would have such an insane hobby. The adrenaline rush or something I assume.” You shrugged casually, and Tim had the gall to to look offended.

“Okay, but my main thing isn’t even photographing vigilantes. I don’t even post those, and you know that.” He raised a finger indignantly. “And they aren’t even intentional anyway! I’m just lucky.”

“Luckiest guy I’ve ever met then.” You smirked, “Save some for the rest of us.”

He chuckled, “Of course, it’s my fault whenever somebody has bad luck.”

“At least you acknowledge it.” You huffed, a grin plastered on your face.

He laughs, and it hits you that this is Tim, as in the Tim you’ve been talking to day and night. That Tim also happens to be the billionaire Tim Drake, and you are having a normal conversation with him in a park in Gotham. You watch as his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel yourself mirroring his expression involuntarily.

You stifled your laughter, clearing your throat, “You know, I was actually worried you were catfishing me.”

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to catfish you, I’d have gone about this way different.” He pauses, "For the record, I do not want to catfish you."

“That’s reassuring.” You threw his own words back at him, and he sighed.

“It should be.” He paused for a moment, and the two of you continue to walk down a path. “Did you really not suspect anything?”

You blink, “About you being…” you gestured to him, and he nodded. You shook your head, “Not until you said anything, no. You don’t give ‘Tim Drake vibes’ when we text.” You did air quotes.

He let out a surprised laugh, “What— What are ‘Tim Drake vibes?’” He looked amused at the prospect.

You shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s just, when I text you, I don’t think ‘wow this guy seems like Tim Drake.’”

He nodded as if that made sense, “I’m going to take that as a good thing?”

You shrugged, “I mean it’s certainly a thing. Your call about whether it’s good or bad.”

He sighed, and you laughed at his exasperated expression. “Y’know now that I actually know you’re you, I’m surprised you actually showed up.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, “Why would I not? I asked you?”

“You had no idea who I was up to like five minutes ago, what if I had planned this and planned on using you for ransom?” You teased, and the two of you exit the park. You weren't sure where Tim is taking you, but you’re heading back in the direction of Gotham University.

“Been there.” By his tone alone, you believed him. “And trust me I can handle myself perfectly fine if you tried kidnapping me.”

You raised an eyebrow, “If you can handle yourself so well, how come people were able to kidnap you for ransom in the past?”

He opened his mouth, glaring at you, ready to defend himself, but no words came out.

“I… Those were extenuating circumstances.” He scoffed.

“Mhm, real extenuating.” Your voice contained the utmost sympathy for him.

“And I feel like you’re mocking me.” He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t have been able to escape the thugs too.” You winced, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

“That’s not—” At your laughter he stops talking, and instead stares dumbly at you, slowly blinking, as you continue to laugh at him. He released a half-amused exhale while you snickered at him for the next few minutes.

The rest of the meeting went well, very well. The two of you had instantly fell back into your familiar banter, except it was a thousand times more exciting in person. After that meeting, Tim had started asking if you wanted to hang out regularly. It was a safe distance for both of you. Neither of you got too close.

Then he invited you to one of Bruce Wayne’s charity events. It was a casual invite, it meant nothing, and you knew that. He wasn’t inviting you as a partner, but as a friend. It was a completely normal invite that had no other implications. Why would you stress over that?

It certainly didn’t help your stress levels when you realized that if you accepted you’d have to meet Bruce Wayne himself.

You had— not subtly— asked Tim if this meant that you would be subjected to the judgment of his family. He had told you that you “Don’t need to worry about that” and that “They should be the last people judging.” Both of his “reassurances” did little to truly ease your worries.

Eventually, you had accepted, attempting to dress your best. The actual event itself was as you expected. Long and filled with lots of meaningless chatter. The main joy found was snickering with Tim off to the side. You had teased him for the sheer switch in personality he would make every time one of Gotham’s elites approached you both. It was kind of jarring, the phoniness of everything here. It made you feel better every time would side eye you with a look reading “Get a load of this guy.”

It reminded you that somehow you had worked into one of the highest circle’s in Gotham without even knowing. Seeing him turn to you, relieved to have somebody who knows him?

It may sound silly, but it made you feel good, like your friendship actually means something.

Your gratification at the prospect was short lived. Quickly replaced with the familiar stress of meeting Bruce Wayne. Tim reassured you that it would not be as bad as you were imagining, and that he’ll like you. You didn’t share his confidence, but you appreciated his optimism. You ignored the idea in your head that this could be interpreted as you both dating.

Cause that’d be stupid.

It turns out that Tim was right though. Bruce was actually not as bad as you expected. He was a bit brash and you definitely forced some laughs in the conversation, but he seemed to approve of you the second that Tim introduced you. You didn’t miss the look that he gave Tim when first introducing you. Tim never mentioned it afterwards, and while you were curious about it, you didn’t feel the need to bring it up.

By the end of the night, he had introduced you to most of his family, and— like Bruce— they all seemed to like you. The consensus seemed to be positive, which was what you were hoping for. After leaving your final introduction with Duke, Tim had placed his hand on your shoulder with a grin as if saying “See? You lived!”

After that event, you had assumed that meetings with his family would be few and far between. Perhaps for a social event every now and then, but you didn’t expect to start seeing them regularly.

It felt strange at first, like visiting someone’s house for the first time and always having to go through the unavoidable phase where you practically tip-toe everywhere, not wanting their family to hate you.

It was that but tenfold.

Tim had welcomed you in, soon followed by Steph and Duke. You felt more at ease the longer the four of you spent time together. By the time it was time for you to return home, you had practically forgotten your earlier worries.

It quickly became routine. At least once a week, you’d come over to hang out at the Manor. Sometimes Steph would be there, sometimes some of his brothers would be, and sometimes it’d be just you and Tim. As time went on, you started to hang out with his family without him, and you quickly found yourself recounting stories about Tim over girl’s night with Steph, Cass, and occasionally Barbara. You had told them how the two of you met, and somebody must have talked because you had received texts from Tim the next day saying that everybody was making fun of him. You felt a tad bit bad for him, but both of you seemed more amused than genuinely angry.

You were happy.

It seemed like everything was going right for once. You were doing well in university, your job was paying the bills, and you had a group of friends you truly liked being around. Your life felt normal, and that felt good.

Obviously, that normalcy didn't last for long.

You got out of the taxi, walking up the stone steps as you put your phone away. Unfortunately, registration this semester was not kind to you, and you ended up with a lecture at seven in the evening on a Friday.

Not ideal.

You had debated skipping this class, but you told yourself that you’re going to do the responsible thing and show up to class. After all, with finals coming up, you didn’t want to make any risks that could lead to failure.

The lecture itself was the same as always. You had definitely spaced out a few times, and the dim lighting of the room combined with the slow tone of the professor was not helping one bit. By the end of the lecture, it seemed like everybody was eager to go home, and the professor had even let the lecture end ten minutes earlier.

Instantly packing up all your notes, you had promptly left the building. The chilling breeze of Gotham immediately hit you, and you sighed realizing it had begun raining. Typical Gotham weather strikes again.

You had attempted to stay under any roofs you could, but eventually you were forced to venture out into the pouring rain. Before reaching the main streets, you had taken a shortcut. A shortcut you had taken hundreds of times in the past. It was a lot less crowded, and did a better job of shielding you from the rain.

Weaving around puddles on the ground, you attempted to get out of the path as fast as possible. All you could think of is that warm taxi that would be awaiting you at the end of this alley. The end was in sight, but that vision crumbled before your eyes when the resounding blow of gunfire echoed in your enclose space. It caused you to flinch, and you immediately spun around, attempting to determine the source of the sound. You didn’t see anybody behind you, so you came to the dreadful conclusion that it came from your intended destination.

You slow to a stop, is it worth just pushing forward and attempting to run for the first taxi you see? You already made it this far, and you’d have to retrace your steps just to take the alternative path. Sighing, you move to turn around when four men in balaclavas entered the alley, running like their life depended on it. Fuck.

“You think we lost em?” One of them, still looking back, asks. He turns to face you, and you stare at each other awkwardly.

“Scream and we put a bullet through you.” Another one hisses, raising his gun to point at you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you silently raise your hands, nodding.

They don’t separate as they each point their gun at you, slowly moving around you. They keep their eyes trained on you, and you aren't entirely sure which one to look at. They eventually made their way around you, and you were stuck in this awkward stalemate. They don't move to lower their guns.

“We can’t just let her go! She’s gonna run out and yell for someone!” One of them whispers to his friend.

“So what're we gonna do?” He whispers back.

“We can kill her?” Another one suggests. Please no. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid.

“No, no, bad idea. The Bat will be on our ass if we leave a body behind.” A different one responds.

“So what? We just knock her out?” One of them gestures to you with his gun.

“Probably the best idea. We’re taking too long to debate this, somebody knock her out.” The one next to him points to you. You let out a sigh of relief, at least they won’t kill you. Maybe you can get away with just pretending to get knocked out and waiting for them to leave?

“Alright, I can do it.” One of them approaches you and raises the butt of his gun. He’s about to strike down, when he is flung against the wall, startling all of you.

“Who the hell?!” A thug cries out, raising his gun, finger twitching on the trigger. You instinctively cover your head and hunch over as he swings his gun to point to you. Once you realize he’s not aiming for you, you turn your gaze from the ground up to your savior.

Red Robin? Huh, what are the chances?

You watch as he effortlessly disarms the goons before sweeping two of them off their feet. Red Robin rushes to pin them back down, but one of them uses the opportunity to strike the vigilante just above the eye with the butt of his gun. You wince, hissing in sympathy. Red Robin barely reacts, instead giving them a quick strike to the head, silencing their yells.

You feel yourself relax as you watch Red Robin turn his head to the remaining thug. He’s attempting to run away, and Red Robin pulls out a grappling hook before launching it and yanking the guy back. “Please man! Let me go!”

“Not a chance.” Red Robin replies dryly before knocking him out, similar to the guys before. With all the threats neutralized, he turns to face you for the first time. Instinctively, you stand up straighter.

“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting on his feet under your gaze.

Huh, you didn’t expect him to sound like that. You weren’t sure what you expected, the voice modulation wasn't a surprise, but his tone is somewhat discernable. You had expected something similar to the grittiness of Batman or even the charismatic confidence of Nightwing.

If anything, you’d say Red Robin sounds just as awkward as you feel right now.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You nod, “Thanks.” You smile at him.

He returns the nod, “Yeah, of course.” He nods at you, and you smile at him. For a beat, neither of you say anything.

Well, this is going great.

“He didn't hit you too hard, right?” You break the silence, and Red Robin gives you a questioning frown. You gesture up to your own forehead, around the area you saw him get hit.

“Oh, that,” he mirrors your action, offering a small smile. “Nothing I can't handle, barely even noticed it.” He waves off your concern.

You nod, accepting that answer. “Were you the one who was chasing those guys?” You ask, and you want to smack yourself for the stupid question. Obviously he was the one chasing them.

“Hm? Oh,” he blinks down at the unconscious thugs, “yeah that was me.” He confirms. “They mention me?”

“Not by name. They just said they were being chased.” You watch as he grabs a bag off one of the thugs.

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, “yeah that was me.” He’s not really facing you, but you can tell he’s smiling.

You purse your lips, unsure how to proceed with the conversation. Do you just leave? As you look over the scene, you notice something glint out of the corner of your eyes. You turn to Red Robin, but he isn’t looking at you. Hesitantly you approach the object, and you crouch down to look at it. It’s one of those Bat-shaped objects that the Bats carry on them.

Carefully, as if it's fragile, you pick it up. You’re surprised at first. It’s heavier than you expected, but you suppose that makes sense. To be able to do damage, it’d have to have some weight for something so small.

“You want to keep it?”

You jump as Red Robin’s voice suddenly appears right next to you. He raises his hands up, and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No worries.” You offer him a small smile before returning your gaze to the object. “Don’t you guys need these things?” You wave it up.

He shrugs, and the action is so normal that you want to laugh. “Batarangs?” Huh, that’s what they’re called. He waves a casual hand at you, “We have plenty. Plus, we lose them all the time. You can keep it.”

Your mouth parts, and you’re about to open your mouth when he adds on. “Consider it a souvenir.” He grins looking down for a second before reaching to rub his back, meeting your eyes again as he massages himself. You watch as his eyes flicker over your form, looking up and down.

You freeze.

Not because of the Batarang, but because of the actions.

He chuckles at your appalled expression. “I mean you don’t—” he abruptly stops speaking before letting out a deep sigh.

His sigh only causes your jaw to drop even more, yet he doesn’t notice. He mouths a quiet “Sorry” before turning away from you, speaking to whoever is calling him.

You aren’t sure what he is talking about or even who he is talking to, but you’re hit with what may be the most insane conclusion you’ve ever reached (even more insane than Tim attempting to catfish you).

You steel yourself before turning your full attention to Red Robin. He’s restless, shifting on his feet in a way that tells you that he’d rather be pacing at the moment.

There’s no way your hypothesis is correct.

Red Robin sighs again, and you see him place his hands over his mask. You narrow your eyes at the action.

It’d make sense though.

You’re willing to chalk up a few shared mannerisms to just basic human traits. A couple makes sense, that’s normal. Now if you add the fact that Tim has been the best photographer for the vigilantes you’ve ever seen?

That’s a little more suspicious.

Then if you add on the fact that he has confirmed that he’s conversed with Robin in the past?

Your eyes are locked onto Red Robin, and he must feel your piercing gaze because he turns towards you. He seems to be taken aback by your blatant staring, but you can’t even help yourself because how else do you process this? He tilts his head, and you offer a strained smile in apology before averting your gaze.

The reason he couldn’t post the photos was because the vigilantes asked him not to.

The reason he could take the photos wasn’t because he had insane luck.

You watch as Red Robin shifts on his feet once again, before tilting his head up to the sky in an exasperated motion. The action uncannily familiar.

Holy shit.

You don’t a chance to process the revelation because the reason Red Robin was looking up quickly becomes evident. You jump back as Nightwing lands casually behind Red Robin and in front of you.

He turns to face you and for a moment he looks startled by your presence before he smirks. “Ahhh, I get it now.” Nightwing grins as Red Robin slowly turns to face him. “Real important stuff to handle, huh?”

“Can you not—” You watch as Red Robin furtively glances between you and Nightwing. “I did handle stuff.” He gestures down to the unconscious bodies below, "As you can see.”

Nightwing nods, “Yuh-huh,” he places his hands on his hips as he turns around to look at the entire scene. “I’m sorry, Miss. Is this guy bothering you?” Nightwing gives you a shit-eating grin, and yup.

If you didn’t know that Red Robin is Tim before, you certainly know now. Dick looks nearly the exact same, and for a moment you ponder how people have never connected him with Nightwing, especially with the devious grin he is giving you now.

“I am not bothering her! I just sav—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Nightwing raises his finger and shushes him softly, and you have to look away in order to avoid laughing. “Let her speak for herself.” Nightwing gestures to you in a slight bow.

Yeah, Tim. You snort as Red Robin takes a deep breath in order to calm himself. You offer a small grin to Red Robin, and he keeps his gaze trained on you, “He wasn’t a bother. He saved me from these guys. In fact—” you raise the Batarang up, “—he gave me a souvenir.” You grin at Dick.

He lets out a surprised bark of laughter before turning to Tim, who refuses to look at either of you. You think you can hear Tim mutter “Oh my God.”

“Aw, givin' out gifts to civilians now?” Dick teases Tim.

Tim groans, and you think you can see him turning red. You feel a little bad for embarrassing him in front of his brothers, but this reaction makes it all worth it. “I’m leaving.” He declares before launching his grappling hook up to the railing at the roof above you. He gives you one last look, a minuscule nod, before leaving.

You and Dick watch as he leaves before he turns back to you. “You are actually okay though, right?” He reaches out to put his hands on your shoulders before stopping and awkwardly putting them down.

You smile at Dick, nodding. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

He nods, “Well, get home safely. I’ll handle these guys.” He gestures his thumb down to the thugs on the ground. As if on cue, one of them begins to groan as they wake up. “You might wanna stay down, bud.” He gives you one last glance before winking and turning back to the thugs on the ground.

You watch him for a moment before walking out of the alley and waving down a taxi. You tell him your apartment complex, and look out the window. You rest your head on the window as you watch Gotham pass by you. You feel yourself truly relax for the first time in an hour before immediately stiffening.

How the hell are you going to tell Tim?

The day of the dinner arrives sooner than you’d like.

You are no closer to figuring out how to tell Tim that you know. You debated just texting him, but quickly threw that suggestion in the trash. Bad idea, terrible idea.

You pace your living room back and forth, trying to calm yourself. It’s not even dinner you’re worried about. What if you act oddly? Tim will definitely figure it out if you are fidgeting every five seconds. You must act normally, that can’t be too difficult? Just don’t think about it. It’s not like Red Robin or even Nightwing will come up in conversation with his family, right? That’s not really a dinner table topic.

Yeah.

You’ll be fine.

Just act normal—

Tim: I’m here

You swallow as you grab your items, giving your apartment one last look over, before exiting. You find Tim waiting in the parking lot, and you make eye contact through the windshield. He raises a hand, giving you a small smile, his other hand is lazily tapping the steering wheel.

“Thank you again for doing this.” Tim smiles gratefully at you as you step into the passenger seat. You attempt to smile back at him. You observe the interior of his car.

Hm. Red. Interesting. Almost like Red Robin—

You chuckle, more out of nerves than any actual amusement, “Yeah, no problem."

He pauses, giving you a long look before laughing softly. “Don’t be nervous. It’s relatively painless, and Alfred is making your favorite.”

You smile at the thought, “How’d you convince him to do that?”

Tim smacks his lips, “Let’s just say that my dignity isn’t in tact anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t have much of that?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to give you a decidedly unimpressed expression. You return it with a smile, “I mean you practically had to beg me to show up with you—”

“Woah, okay.” His eyebrows shoot up, “First off, that wasn’t begging—”

You pull out your phone, “— ‘I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could’” You recite his words to him, reading the text directly. When you look up, his face is a light red. You try and catch his eyes, but he is stubbornly refusing to meet your own, instead focusing on the road. “Sound familiar to you?”

He remains silent for a bit. “I— Uh— Well, no. I never heard that before.”

“Mhm, sure.” You lean your elbow against the side of the car, propping your face up. His eyes flicker over to you, and he somehow gets more red. He looks you up and down for a brief moment, and while Tim usually does that, you did notice that Red Robin also—

Nope. Do not think about your best friend’s alternate vigilante identity while in the car with him. Stay focused.

The remainder of the ride is filled with light banter, your teasing provides a reprieve from your thoughts. It’s not long before you both pull up. “Master Tim.” Alfred greets Tim before turning to you and greeting you in similar fashion. “A little birdie told me to put your favorite on the menu for tonight.” Alfred offers a small smile, and both you and Tim stiffen.

Oh. Bird puns.

Yeah, Alfred definitely knows.

“Aw, thank you, Alfred. I think the little birdie knew I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” You nudge Tim teasingly. For a moment, he doesn’t react and you wonder if he’s even breathing. “Right, birdie?” You lightly nudge Tim again.

“Yeah, uh— mhm?” You frown at the reaction. Tim shifts on his feet, and waves you off casually. “Sorry, just uh— dinner, you know? Got me stressed?”

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “Right,” you turn back to Alfred, “Thanks again, Alfred.” You grin at him.

“My pleasure, Miss.” He inclines his head to you, “Now, if you’re ready to greet the others.” He turns around, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you and Tim are following.

“Look who finally showed his face— Oh,” Steph abruptly cuts herself off.

“Hello to you too.” You respond dryly, taking a seat at the table.

Steph grins at you, “Hello!” She greet you before glaring at Tim. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Yep.” Tim replies dryly. He takes the seat across you, he offers you a small smirk.

“And you know we can’t do anything about it.” She huffs, shaking her head disapprovingly.

You nod solemnly, “I was informed that I was bait.”

Dick chokes on his water, “You told her that?”

“I did not tell her that.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you, raising his hands in surrender. “She reached that conclusion on her own.”

“Is that all you told her?” Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks between you both.

“Yes.” Tim nearly hisses, eyes wide as if saying “Not one more word.” He clears his throat, sparing you a quick glance, and releases a long sigh, “Is Bruce here, yet?”

“You’re attempts to change the topic at hand are futile.” Damian looks between you and Tim, evidently bored.

Dick frowns at Tim before sighing, “No… He had some last minute business to take care of. He’ll be a little late.”

“Perfect.” Tim abruptly stands up, and your mouth parts, taken aback. “It’s getting kind of hot in here. I think I need a minute. I— Uh— Do you wanna head up for a bit until Bruce shows up?” Tim turns to you.

You furrow your eyebrows, if he needs a minute, why is he asking you to come with him?

“Sure?” Tim is already walking around the long dining table, he raises his hand to gently guide you away from everybody before you get a chance to say anything else. “Isn’t this rude?” You whisper to him, his hand is still guiding your back.

“Not with them. That kind of rude doesn’t count.” Tim huffs, and you two begin the familiar trek to his room.

You release an amused huff, “For you. What if they think I’m rude or something?”

Tim spares a glance at you, as if the idea you presented is absurd. “They’ll just blame it on me.” He shrugs. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later.” He rubs your shoulder casually, offering you a smile that tells you he’s used to this.

You furrow your eyebrows in concern, “If you say so…” You trail off, hesitant. He gestures for you to enter his room. The space is familiar. You’ve been here many times in the past. However, never had you known that Tim is Red Robin during those times. Your eyes survey the room in front of you. Nothing is different about it (why did you expect there to be anything different?). You slowly make your way over to his desk, a few pieces of scrap paper lay on it. Nothing incriminating. You frown looking over the contents of the paper.

Tim appears at your side, “You okay?” He asks, following your gaze to the paper.

You nod, turning to him, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” You pace the room for a beat before planting yourself onto his bed, something you’ve done a million times before.

He looks you up and down, and you resist stiffening under his scrutiny. He must’ve found something because he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then slowly walks over to you. “I… Sorry, was asking you to come for dinner too much?” He sits down next to you, and his gaze falls down to your hand on his comforter.

You blink, looking off to the side before returning your attention to him. “No, no, it’s fine.” You shake your head, “It’s not something I haven’t done before.” You shrug, attempting to offer him a reassuring smile.

Tim’s frown doesn’t change. “You don’t actually have to do this if you don’t want to… I know I was kinda joking about needing you here, but if there’s something—”

“Tim, there’s nothing wrong. What gave you that impression?” You feel your heart race. Does he know that you know?

He meets your eyes, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and his eyes trail down to your shoulders. “I… You just seem—” his eyes look off at something off to the side, “—distracted, is all.” Your lips part, and his gaze returns to you. “You don’t have to say anything. This isn’t me trying to pressure you into telling me if something is up.” He rambles, shaking his head.

You heave a sigh, “It’s— I don’t think you want to know, Tim.”

Perhaps that’s the wrong thing to say to a detective because Tim— despite his attempts to be sympathetic— also has that spark of curiosity in his eyes. He trains his eyes on you, as if expecting to you to continue. When you don’t, he hesitantly responds: “If— and again, this is not me pressuring you— If it helps you get something off your chest, then I will always be here to listen.”

You swallow, looking toward Tim, “That’s… Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate that.” He nods, offering you a smile, and slowly inching his hand closer to yours. You pretend not to notice. “Are you sure you want to hear what I want to say?” You whisper softly to him, smiling nervously.

He blinks, “If that’s what you wish,” he changes his focus from your hand to your face, “then yes.” He gives you a disarming smile.

Your smile grows, “This is your last chance, Tim.”

His eyes lighten up, “Well,” he chuckles, “I’m not planning on changing my mind.”

You smile, leaning closer, and Tim mirrors the action whether he knows it or not. His chest rises and falls, slow, and you look into his eyes. The blue diminishing by the second as its replaced by the growing size of his pupil.

“Do you remember the other night?” You keep the same quiet tone, the words are meant for him— and him alone.

Tim’s eyebrows raise, evidently not expecting that, “What?” His words are breathless, but still ring of confusion.

“I just… I appreciate you helping me out.” You smile at him, watching as he processes the information.

“Yeah…” He slowly nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, that… It’s no issue it all. I…” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes are turned away from you. His eyes gloss over the ground. He must remember that you’re watching because he suddenly turns to look at you tight-lipped smile. “Yeah...” he trails off, “Could you remind me exactly what I helped you with?”

You chuckle at his attempts to play it off— and failing. “Oh, come on, Tim.” You tilt your head at him, “You remember. You gave me the souvenir.”

You can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.

He doesn’t instantly react. Instead he stares at you (or, more accurately, through you) unblinking. At his lack of a functioning reaction, you worry that maybe this wasn’t the best idea to go about this. After all you still have to sit through dinner after this. You aren’t even sure if he’s breathing when his smile strains in a way that almost looks painful.

“What?” His voice is quiet, as if incapable of mustering up any more volume.

Your purse your lips, taking a deep breath. You don’t get a chance to respond because he continues. “I… I haven’t given you anything— I think I’d remember if I gave you a souvenir.” He laughs, slightly hysterical. “You might be thinking of somebody else?”

You sigh, slowly reaching your hand up to his chin. Tim immediately stiffens at the contact, as if afraid him moving would deter you. A small smirk grows on your face when you realize how red Tim is at your touch. Gently, you move a few strands of hair out of his face, and he doesn’t stop you. They were covering up a specific spot, and while it appears Tim did try to cover up the bruise he received from the other night, he did not do a clean enough job.

“That’s,” he swallows, “That’s uh— I fell off my skateboard.” He doesn’t attempt to move your hands away from his face.

“Mhm,” you hum disbelievingly, “in the same spot Red Robin got hit, right? You two skateboard together?” You tease lightly.

“Well, I—” he clears his throat, leaning away from you, and you don’t try to stop him. “I… think?” He presses his hands onto his face, shielding his face from your view.

You frown, amusement evident in your tone. “You don’t know?”

He shifts his hands slightly, peaking through his fingers to look at you on his side. “I… You know, maybe you were right that I didn’t want to know.”

You let out an startled puff of air, “Oh,” you begin slowly, “now you heed my warnings?”

He avoids your eyes, smacking his lips. “Okay, fine, but how did you figure it out?” He asks, resting elbow on his knee. He props his head up, rubbing his forehead as if to remove tension.

“You share mannerisms with Red Robin.” He squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his alter ego.

His jaw drops. “There’s no way you figured me out just because I acted kinda similar. I had a voice modulator!” He whisper-yells.

You nod, “Well, yeah, initially it was just suspicion. Then Dick showed up.” You watch as Tim mouths the words “Oh my God.” You smile sympathetically at Tim, “Yeah, I don’t know how anybody who looks at Nightwing for longer than a minute doesn’t put two and two together.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s Dick’s fault.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you. His hands aren’t covering his face anymore.

You frown, “You sent me photos of yourself.” Tim instantly gives you a look of horror, and you watch as he begins to turn red again. “Uh— I mean you were posing for the camera as Red Robin.” You elaborate, and Tim looks no less embarrassed.

“Okay,” he holds a finger up, adjusting his position on the bed next to you. “I did not pose for the camera. I just took a photo of whatever I was doing at the moment.” He grumbles.

You nod, “Modeling, apparently.” You quietly respond, at his glare you smile back at him. “I kept the Batarang by the way. It’s sitting in my room.” His glare softens at that, and he looks at you for a beat before flopping onto his back. The action causes the bed to jostle a little bit. You follow suit, turning to face him. “I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He turns to face you, and the two of you are inches apart, “That wasn’t my worry. It never was.” He whispers back.

You use your arm as a pillow as he continues to stare at you, “Then what is?”

He doesn’t immediately respond, but when he does his words are soft. “I didn’t want you involved in this.” He begins. “I… I don’t want you getting hurt because you know me.”

You let out a long exhale, “Tim,” you start, reaching for his hand, “if I didn’t want to be involved, I would’ve stopped the moment you started ‘chasing after vigilantes’ for photos.” You chuckle as he sheepishly looks away at the mention of his escapades. “I like being around you, Tim. That doesn’t change just because you go out as Red Robin every night.”

He swallows, squeezing your hand, “I… I like you—” He hastily cuts himself off, “—I like being around you too.” He smiles at you, and you feel better seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. “I… You’re not mad or anything right?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “That you like me?”

Instantly, that spark is replaced by pure unadulterated horror. He sits, startling you, “No! I meant the—” at your laughter, the tension leaves his body, and he releases a soft puff of air before slowly settling next to you again. “You know what I meant.” He scoffs, but it appears more endearing than anything.

You chuckle, smiling at him, “I’m not upset, Tim. If anything it makes sense. I was wondering how you always had such clear photos of the vigilantes. Oh— Terrible way to hide your identity by the way, going around and taking selfies of yourself.” You watch as he lightly glares at you before settling down closer than he was before. “And your terrible sleeping schedule makes sense now.”

He smacks his lips, “Okay, but I have an excuse. You—” he lightly points an accusing finger at you, “— do not.”

You grin, grabbing his hand, pressing it against the soft mattress of his bed. You adjust your position, ready to defend yourself, “Oh, really—”

“Father is here. He requests your presence—” Both you and Tim jolt as if caught doing something illegal before turning to look at Damian. To nobody’s surprise, he looks wildly unimpressed (and perhaps a little disgusted) by you both.

“Damian, can’t you knock?” Tim groans, brushing off imaginary dust off himself.

Damian’s eyes linger on your hand laid casually over Tim’s. Slowly, you remove it, and Tim frowns down at his lone hand. “I did knock. I took your lack of response as permission for entry.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works… like at all.” Tim stands up, and you follow suit.

Damian eyes you both accusingly then huffs. He whips around before shutting the door behind him, leaving you and Tim there standing awkwardly.

“We… We better get down there. He’s going to tell everybody.” Tim looks over to you, eyebrows creased in worry imagining what might be conversed at the dinner table. You nod solemnly, that would not be ideal.

“Lead the way, Birdie.” You walk up to his side, and Tim freezes at the nickname. You release a loud laugh at the reaction.

“You’re lucky I don’t have time to address that.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smirk on his face.

“Aw, I knew you like me.” You grin, nudging your hand against his own.

He lets out a long sigh, and his smile turns soft. “Yeah,” he swallows, “I do.” He clasps your arm, and you give him a blinding grin.

A/N: Maybe I should just start up a collection of “civilian reader scaring the shit out of her boyfriend after figuring out he’s a vigilante but being unsure how to tell him so she goes about it in the most stressful way possible for him.” We’re going 2 for 2 and I absolutely LOVE this trope. Anyway, sorry this took a while! I have one more final then I’m FREE! I absolutely LOVED this idea, and I really hope I did it justice. Online friend!Tim Drake has so much potential and it’s definitely an idea I wouldn’t mind revisiting in the future. As always, feel free to let me know about any major errors :)! Funny thing, I actually had to write some small headcannons for myself of some random traits I think Tim would have so that Reader could inevitably realize Tim = Red Robin. If you guys wanna see that let me know, they aren’t very long, but you might notice a few things if you go back and reread it :)!

Something is wrong.

Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.

Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.

Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.

Bruce didn’t come.

That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.

Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.

That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.

Bruce didn’t need all of them.

Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.

He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.

That should’ve been his first real warning.

Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers. 

You didn't answer.

Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.

You always know what he means.

The phone stays quiet in his pocket.

No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.

Still.

When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.

Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.

But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—

That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.

And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.

“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.

The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.

“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.

He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.

Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.

Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”

Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.

That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.

Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”

“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”

The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm. 

Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.

“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.

He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.

Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you. 

The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.

“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”

Dick finally looks up.

It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.

The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.

Jason turns fully to Damian.

“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”

Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.

“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.

“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”

“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.

The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.

“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”

The batarang whistles through the air.

Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.

Crack.

The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.

Jason stares down at it.

At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.

Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.

It settles on Dick.

“Call Bruce.”

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger. 

Guilty.

“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”

“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.

This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.

She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.

“…He’s busy,” Cass says.

Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.

Busy.

Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.

His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless. 

Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.

“B,” Jason says.

Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.

Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.

Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.

Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.

His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.

Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.

He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.

He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.

No one stops him.

Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.

The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.

“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”

Jason almost laughs.

Instead, his mouth twists.

“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to tell me the truth.”

“Jason—”

“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”

“Red Hood, just give me—”

“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”

He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why 

Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance. 

Tim knew Jason would find out. 

Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.

“Red Hood—”

“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”

“JASON—”

Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”

The line goes dead.

Not static. Not interference.

Bruce cut it himself.

Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.

The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.

Slowly—too slowly—he turns.

He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.

They look at him like he’s glass.

Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.

Jason doesn’t give them the chance.

“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.

Then he runs.

Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.

His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.

Toward the manor. Toward answers.

Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.

He takes the shorter way.

Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.

And then—

Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.

Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.

Blood.

The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.

Because you’re untouchable.

That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.

It can’t have you.

Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.

He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.

Jason doesn’t bother.

He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.

Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.

It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.

Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.

Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.

The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.

Tonight it only sharpens the edges.

Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.

Jason shoves him.

Hard.

Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.

He doesn’t.

Jason knows he won’t.

“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”

Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.

“…Jason.”

The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.

This is terror.

“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”

Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”

Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.

And the world fractures.

The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.

Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.

You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.

You’re not safe.

You’re not distant.

You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.

You’re real.

You’re fragile.

You’re reachable.

Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.

And now—

Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.

The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.

Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.

Jason focused.

Emotional.

Unanchored.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”

Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.

“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”

“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”

The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.

Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.

It isn’t.

“Where is she,” Jason says.

His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.

He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.

“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”

Jason turns his head.

The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.

“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”

The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.

“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”

“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.

Then—he stills.

Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.

“How long,” Jason says.

The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.

Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.

“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”

The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.

He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.

“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”

Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”

Crime Alley.

The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.

Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.

Two hours.

Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.

The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.

Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.

Time has never belonged to him.

Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.

And the last one standing is never the strongest.

It’s the smallest. 

Those kids won't be dying before you do.

Jason’s breath stutters, just once.

“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”

For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.

Not peaceful—focused.

Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.

“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.

He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.

Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.

“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”

He swallows.

Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.

Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.

Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.

“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”

The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.

Again.

Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.

“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”

He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.

“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”

The words leave him hollowed out.

Then he’s gone.

The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.

It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.

It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.

Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.

You don’t remember the last five hours.

They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.

You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.

Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.

He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.

And you were right. You always are.

Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.

It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.

It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.

He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient. 

Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.

“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”

You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.

Jason would know what to do.

Jason would make this stop.

The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.

It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.

It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.

The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.

Through it all, you think of Jason.

Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.

Of how he warned you.

Of how he would be here already if he knew.

The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.

You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.

Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.

Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.

A void of sleep.

Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.

A void of sleep.

Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.

A void of sleep.

Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.

A void of sleep.

White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.

A void of sleep.

Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.

A void of sleep.

You wake choking on pain.

Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.

He’s in front of you.

Smiling.

Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.

Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.

“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”

Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.

Jason is coming.

And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.

You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.

Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.

You gag immediately.

Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.

You choke.

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.

Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.

His hand withdraws at last.

Then—

Smack.

Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—

Smack.

The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.

“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.

Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.

“Now.”

He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.

“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.

“Okay?”

Nothing comes out.

The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.

His smile thins.

He stands.

The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.

“Answer.”

You try.

Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.

All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.

And then—

You hear it.

A sound that doesn’t belong to him.

Crying.

Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.

A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.

Something in your chest caves in.

You don’t even see the crowbar move.

The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.

Your body jerks against the restraints.

Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.

You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.

You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.

Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.

“Okay,” you choke out.

The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.

Immediately, the pressure is gone.

The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.

He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.

Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.

“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.

His hands come up next.

Dry. Cracked. Too warm.

He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.

“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”

Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.

He releases your face.

Pats your head once.

The gesture is almost worse than the violence.

“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”

Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.

You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.

“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”

His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.

“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”

“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”

He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.

Then—

A scream.

Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.

It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.

Something in you fractures.

Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”

Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear. 

His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.

He ripped her earrings out of her ears. 

Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.

The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.

He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”

He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”

Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.

“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”

His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.

“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”

“Oh, I don’t need money.”

The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.

“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”

You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Jason— Jason will—”

He doesn’t even flinch at the name.

Maybe that’s mercy.

His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.

“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”

Then his hands leave you entirely.

He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.

“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Your mind blanks.

Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.

Then—

“Very pretty!”

The voice is behind you.

Too young.

A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”

You feel something inside you tear open.

She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.

Joker’s head snaps toward her.

His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”

There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.

Joker bends down.

The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.

Then he’s gone from your line of sight.

The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.

It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.

There’s a wet, sickening crack.

A sound like meat hitting concrete.

“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”

The crowbar hits again.

You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.

Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.

The camera’s red light blinks again.

Once.

Twice.

It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.

Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.

And then the Joker comes back.

You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.

He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.

“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”

Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.

His smile twitches.

“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.

That seems to irritate him.

He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.

“Oh—”

His eyes light up.

“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”

He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”

Then he turns.

Walks away.

His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.

You’re alone.

One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.

You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.

Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.

“How—”

“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”

Your mouth snaps shut.

And the red light keeps blinking.

The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.

He’s laughing before you even see him.

Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.

A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.

The air grows hotter.

Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.

Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.

It doesn’t clang.

It hisses.

The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.

Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.

He’s behind you in the next second.

Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.

“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.

His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.

He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.

A ‘𝙹’.

Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.

“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.

In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.

“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”

His hand peels away from your mouth.

Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”

“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”

The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.

“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”

Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.

You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.

“Tell me who you hate.”

The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.

He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.

The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.

You look at the camera.

That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.

You think of Jason.

Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.

You could say his name now.

You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.

Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.

Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.

None of them feel survivable.

Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.

You spit in his face.

It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.

For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.

You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.

“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”

His breath stutters.

“You must not have left quite an impression.”

It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.

You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.

You’ve given him a reason.

A reason to prove himself.

A reason to keep you alive.

A reason to make you hurt longer.

His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.

Then the brand descends.

The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.

You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.

Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.

We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.

He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

Leather is good.

Leather is not acid.

Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.

“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.

Instead, the crying breaks harder.

It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong. 

An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—

Jason.

The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.

“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”

“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”

Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.

“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”

“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”

Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”

Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”

Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.

Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.

“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”

That breaks him.

His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”

“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”

“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.

“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”

That does it.

Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.

You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.

Oh.

Was this—

“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.

Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.

A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.

“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”

“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.

“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”

“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.

Jason chokes on the sound his name makes in Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.

“She’s not going to die, Tim.”

“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.

Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.

“Got it.”

Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.

“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”

“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”

But you’re already slipping.

Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.

After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.

“Drink.”

Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.

He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.

“Hey, I don’t need any—”

Jason looks at him.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.

Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.

The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.

The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.

Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.

Jason doesn’t listen.

He keeps his focus on you.

On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.

You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.

He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.

And that’s the cruel part of it.

Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.

Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.

The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.

“Dude—what the fuck—”

“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.

All at once, everyone moves.

Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.

Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.

The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.

“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.

She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...

Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.

“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”

“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”

There’s a beat of silence.

The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.

“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”

The Batmobile keeps moving.

Jason breathes.

You breathe.

And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.

You wake up in bed.

Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.

Then you feel him.

Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.

He’s breathing.

That fact alone nearly undoes you.

God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.

Then you see Bruce.

He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.

When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.

Bruce moves instantly.

“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”

“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”

You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.

“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”

Bruce blinks.

Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.

It doesn’t work.

Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.

Bruce freezes.

You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”

Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.

Oh.

You missed Christmas.

What a shame.

After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.

“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”

“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”

It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.

Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.

He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.

“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”

“You let him?” you ask.

Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.

Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”

“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”

Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.

“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”

That’s when Bruce goes still.

Not rigid. Not defensive.

Still.

Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.

Your cheek.

The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred. 

Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.

“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”

You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” you say.

And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.

Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.

“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.

“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”

jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,

let me know what you think!

© shisuni all rights reserved

He'd been stationed in Coventry, attempting to get scraps of information. After days of dead ends, the city took pity on him and threw him a bone. Apparently, a truck shipment was supposed to be heading through the Upper East Side around midnight. The dealer he questioned told him that it'd be leaving from a warehouse a couple blocks down. He set off without hesitation. They didn't expect him. This could be the best shot for him to catch them off guard.

It wasn't long before he found it. He slipped in unnoticed (nobody ever thinks to look up), kneeling on top of the truck with no issues.

"Don't stop for nothin'." Goon One gestured towards his buddy in a "I'm watching you" motion.

"Hm, what about the Bats?" The other guy, Goon Two, crossed his arms, nose scrunching at the first guy's words. He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out onto his face.

Goon One swat the smoke away, "We should have somebody distracting them up by Newtown or Crime Alley, somewhere in that area. I can't remember. Truthfully, we're just trying to get Red Hood off our ass for a night." Goon One climbed into the truck's driver's seat.

"I'm telling you! It wasn't worth dealing to them kids to get his attention on us." Goon Two threw his hands up, tossing the cigarette onto the ground and stomping out the ashes. He ran his fingers through his hair, visibly distressed. Jason absently noted that both of them were easily identifiable. They had no masks, and one of them had visible tattoos of a dragon curled on the side of his neck. Amateur mistake, but Jason wasn't complaining. It made his job a whole lot easier.

He felt the truck shake as it started up. He carefully crouched towards the front of it, looking down the windshield to see the goons still in there. Their voices are muffled, but they are so loud that Jason can still hear them. Somebody doesn't know how to use their inside voice.

"Relax, man." They started to pull out of the warehouse, and Jason made sure to keep his balance on the truck. "It'll be a clean job tonight."

Goon Two scoffed, "Yeah! I'm sure you'll be saying that when Hood comes crashing down onto our windshield." Jason smirks under his helmet, these guys have no fucking idea.

"Christ, dude, you act like he's out for your hide specifically!" They started pulling onto the main road. Jason latched his hands onto the corners of the vehicle, securing himself to it.

"I'm telling you! He's gonna know it was me who was dealing to those kids by Brentwood!"

"Can he blame us though? Those kids pay up." They turn onto a different street. Jason scanned the area, not as much traffic as the main road. If he's gonna bust them, now is the golden opportunity. He adjusts his jacket, preparing for impact.

Inevitably, they slow down. Just before they come to a stop he decides to act. He uses the boost of momentum to propel himself onto the windshield, shattering it.

"HOLY SHIT!" Goon One presses on the gas, swerving to the side, nearly slamming Jason into a nearby store. Luckily, he moves off the vehicle before they get that chance.

"How'd you know I was gonna go for the windshield?" Jason called out, smirking as he loaded his Glock with rubber bullets.

"Dude, DRIVE—"

"YOU DON'T THINK I'M TRYING?!" Goon One snapped back, attempting to reverse the truck away from the massive dent in the (now-decimated) store.

Jason strolls casually over to the truck, knowing it won't get very far. The shattered glass beneath his feet clinks under his boots as he slowly approaches the vehicle. He doesn't get too close though because—

"OH FUCK!" Goon Two cried out as the vehicle was propelled upward by an explosion, causing it to land on its side. The entire back half of the truck was bathed in bright incandescent flames, but— Jason noted— it hadn't spread to the front yet.

Jason saunters over to the front, noting the lack of a windshield. He tilted his head down the side of the tilted vehicle to see the two goons still inside, coughing. Hastily, they unbuckled themselves and crawled through the shattered glass, garnering sharp cuts with each movement. Eventually, they distanced themselves from the burning vehicle, laying sprawled, face up, and eyes closed on the pavement. Then they open them, only to be greeted with his body towering over their own.

Jason gives them a malicious smirk behind his helmet. "Hey, I don't think you can park here." He gestures his thumb towards the flaming truck.

Goon One's brow turned down, his lips scrunched up in such a disdainful glower that Jason was almost impressed. He spat towards Jason's boot, missing it. "Fuckin' bastard. Thought you was busy in Crime Alley."

"Well, now I'm busy here." Jason took his boot, placing it over the guys ear. "Now, how about we talk? I gotta few questions for you two."

"Hold it right there, Hood." Jason turned, unsurprised by the new voice, towards the dozen of armed men surrounding him.

"I'll take that as a no." Jason pressed down harder onto the guy's head, the goon let out a small whimper at the pressure.

"How about you leave my buddy alone, and we'll make this quick." One of the new guys said, turning his pistol's safety lock off.

Now, Jason isn't stupid. While he knows he could take these guys down, he also knows he's extremely outnumbered. Typically, anybody would say that in this case, the odds are against him.

He knew something like this would likely happen. He can't imagine that transporting such precious cargo would go without safety precautions. He realized early on that whatever caused this spike in the drug trade wouldn't vanish over night; he had to play the long game.

While intercepting the truck was a bonus, the real point of this was to find the base of operations. It was to find where this started and who they reported to. It's why he went out of his way to go get a special smoke bomb from Bruce.

Okay, he didn't actually ask Bruce, but that's besides the point. He had gone into the cave a couple weeks ago, not knowing anybody would be there, let alone you. Jason immediately recognized you, though. There was a point in time where all Dick would do was rave about you. It was honestly a little annoying, but it was all worth it the moment he cut you off in the middle of your introduction. The way your mouth parted in surprise, like a fish out of water. He chuckled at the thought.

Anyway, you being there didn't stop him from completing his objective. He was already there, so he wasn't going to turn around because you were hanging around. If anything, he was glad he ran into you as opposed to literally anybody else. At least your questions he could handle (as nosy as they were).

The smoke bombs he wanted to take were special because they expelled nanoparticles into the air. Anybody exposed would be coated in them, and could thus be tracked when isolated on one of Bruce's satellites. They wore off after a week or two, but they'd get the job done. Jason knew that Bruce had them, and he grabbed it specifically for this mission. With so many people surrounding him, one of them was bound to end up in an important location, one that he could track.

He had taken them back to one of his warehouses weeks ago in the box you provided. While he was there he had also restocked on some of the gadgets he was low on. He already made an effort to show up at the cave, might as well make the most of it.

Jason grabbed the smoke bomb, hidden in one of his pockets. He kept it out of view before he reached to pull the pin—

Wait, this was one of the normal ones.

Trying not to show his alarm, he subtly pats himself down as the other guy continues to blab about who knows what. He doesn't feel it anywhere on him. Fuck, he could've sworn he grabbed it. He tries to think back to where he left it… The box… Then he realized.

Shit… you were right.

—

"Go left," you tap your finger on the desk of the Batcomputer as you watch the purple and red dot— Spoiler and Red Robin— move across Gotham. "Your other left." You correct them as you watch the dots move away from the crime.

For the past couple weeks, you had been practically begging Bruce to let you be useful in some manner. After all, you already spend so much time with them, why not just add you to the team?

Okay, that was a bit of a reach, but you argued that even if you aren't a skilled fighter or trained assassin, you can always help on comms. You had gotten Babs to vouch for you, and finally Bruce relented, saying that you could help only when Babs is on comms with you to help. You thought it was a little counterproductive considering Babs could be out there as Batgirl instead of being forced to babysit you as Oracle, but you knew you needed the training. Perhaps one day you'd get good enough for Bruce to let you work on your own with comms.

"What do you see? There's no cameras I can access nearby." You ask, cycling through all nearby cameras at the crime scene. All of the available ones are out of range. You'd have used the cameras on Steph or Tim, but that's not something Babs has taught you to use yet.

"Looks like a group of four thugs, all around the same height, like 5'11? They are covered head to toe in all black. Each of them has a balaclava on. It looks like they're robbing a…" Tim hesitates, "sandwich… store? One of the guys is attempting to break into a car parked on the curb."

"Are they hungry or something?" Steph whispers.

You frown as you look at cameras in the area, noting that a nearby building is burning down. You look back at their colored dots on the map of Gotham. "Not hungry, just panicked. There's a building burning on the seventeenth floor two blocks down from you. Looks like an explosion went off. You guys think you can handle that?"

"We'll be fine, one of us will deal with the building while the other goes after the sandwich guys." Steph proposes. "I'll go after the sandwich guys."

"That's objectively easier— whatever, guess I'll see you then." Tim hums frustrated, you watch as their dots separate on the screen.

"You're doing pretty good." Babs suddenly speaks, causing you to jolt. You had decided to make a specific channel for your work to be on. It wasn't very practical, but it meant that there was a backup in case the main one ever got leaked.

"Thanks." You huff, this was stressful.

"Might wanna send some backup to Red Robin though, it looks like that fire spread." She notes. You look at one of the cameras near it, and— yep, wow that spread really fast.

You make sure that Tim can hear you before you speak, you tend to make sure you're muted unless they actively need you. After all, it'd probably be distracting to hear casual conversation in the background while you're fighting.

"Red Robin, do you need backup?"

Tim breathes heavily, "That'd be nice!" You hear the building start to collapse in the back of his audio. "If I can get to the heart of the fire I should be able to extinguish it, but I'll need help getting these kids out. I'm almost there." You nod before searching for the other dots that are nearby him that are tuned into your frequency. You notice that one of them is oddly close to you, that's weird, basically everybody is out tonight.

"I think Black Bat is near you, I'll send her over in a sec—"

"What the— Oh shit— What are you doing here?" You hear Tim curse before asking… somebody. It's kind of difficult to tell what the other voice says. It seems that Tim stopped the fire, but the background of his audio wasn't any calmer.

Sitting up straighter, you scoot closer to the desk, "Red Robin, do you copy?"

After a long pause, Tim responds, "Backup is here… I'll be fine, tell Black Bat it's all good."

Raising an eyebrow, you try to see who it is, "You… sure?"

"Yep!" Tim immediately responds, "Yep… I gotta mute though—"

You furrow your eyebrows, "What? Who is it?"

"I'll tell you later— Yeah, give me a second— Actually, you'll probably see him later. Gotta go— Yes, we're on a different comm frequency give me a moment!" You presume that the random switches in topic are him talking to the "backup."

"Red Robin, wait—"

"I'll be all fine, bye!" You can't conceal your jaw dropping as Robin mutes himself from the comms. You clench your hands as you attempt to pull footage of Tim's location. With how deep he is in the building, there is nothing that provides a clear view of him or the mysterious assistance. You huff, leaning back in your chair. "I can't believe him."

"I can."

You whip around so fast that you feel your vision blur momentarily before settling on none other than—

"Jason Todd?" You furrow your eyebrows and immediately compose yourself, trying to appear unbothered.

Jason raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "We still doing the full name thing?" He sets his helmet next to your keyboard.

"Don't act like you aren't the one who started it." You point an accusing finger to him.

"Hm," Jason grunts, turning his gaze from you to your workspace.

"Don't 'hm' me!" You furrow your eyebrows, following his gaze to your desk. It's less than ideal. The entire space is crawling with scrap notebook paper, filled with little notes you left for yourself. The Batcomputer is even worse. Despite the numerous monitors that make up the device each one has its screen split into at least two other tabs. "Oh, so we're judging now?"

Jason blinks slowly at you, moving to lean against your desk. "I'm not judging."

"Ohhhh my bad, are you 'merely observing?'" You do air quotes. Tim would say that to you all the damn time. Even repeating the wretched phrase makes the heat in your chest rise.

Jason raises a hand, snapping the fingers before pointing at you. "Yes."

You nod, "Great, great. Just so you know, for the record…" You slowly close out of some tabs on the various side monitors, "I'm usually more organized." You close a few more.

Jason nods slowly at you, "Alright." He sounds vaguely amused.

"Like a lot more." You close a few more tabs.

Jason nods slightly faster, his eyes closing as if he resonates with your statement. "Of course."

"You caught me at a bad time." You close even more tabs.

Jason sucks in air through his teeth sympathetically, wincing. The amusement on his face is now evident. His lips are turned slightly upward the longer you keep talking. "Been there."

"It's organized chaos… It looked bad, I know, but I knew where everything was." You close the final tab, silencing your comms, before turning to face him entirely.

Jason crosses his arms, still leaned against your desk, "Yeah," He is openly smirking at you.

"You know your sarcasm isn't really appreciated." You feel your eye twitch as you mirror his pose, crossing your own arms and kicking up one leg to rest on the other in your seat.

"Hm, unfortunate." He deadpans, "Is there a more convenient time to deliver it when you will appreciate it?"

"Actually yes," you roll your eyes, but can't help the smirk on your face. You back straightens as you clear your throat, "Saturdays, 2:34 AM." You randomly pick the first time and date that comes to your mind, something inconvenient.

Jason's eyebrows shift up slightly before settling, "Really? That's the only window?"

You nod contritely, "No later, no earlier."

"Does the second matter?"

You're taken aback for a moment, but don't let that show. You are committed, you can not let this guy win. "As long as it's within the minute."

"Generous." Jason snorts.

"As I'm told." You bow your head in acknowledgment, no bothering to hide your amusement. "Now, care to tell me why you decided to try and give me a heart attack when I'm trying to help your teammates not die?"

"I didn't try to." Jason tilts his head slightly.

"Yet you did anyway." You stand up, pushing your chair back. You got the feeling he got a sort of satisfaction of looking down and teasing you in the chair.

"Unfortunate side effect." Jason shrugs.

"You don't seem that upset." You raise an eyebrow.

"Unfortunate for you." He emphasizes, he is openly smirking now.

"Oh, so you're saying you don't want my help with whatever you need." You pretend to think, watching as his mouth parts in surprise. Feigning innocence, you prepare to sit back down in the chair—

"Now I didn't say that." Jason holds his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling.

"You implied it." You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, shrugging.

Jason doesn't dignify that with a response, giving you an unamused stare. (Okay but he's got to be amused, he was smirking less than a minute ago!)

You sigh, eventually conceding, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need something."

"I… figured. I can't imagine we'd be having this conversation if you didn't." You respond dryly, leaning against the desk.

Jason's eyes narrow, but you don't fold, merely raising an eyebrow. He sighs, "Remember what happened a couple weeks ago?"

"A couple weeks ago…" You nod, "When we met?" Jason nods, silently.

"Oh," you blink, "Oh." You smirk. He came back for what he dropped in the cave a few weeks ago. Something he wouldn't have dropped if he had just listened to you when you told him to not drive his bike with an open box.

Jason doesn't meet your eyes, "Do you have it?"

"Have what?" You smile innocently, batting your eyelashes.

Jason's eye twitches slightly, his smirk widening in irritation, "You know."

"Mm, I don't? There are lots of things that I have and don't have." You casually trace your fingers on the ridges of his helmet on the desk. Jason glares at your hand, but doesn't move to take his helmet back. The helmet is rougher to the touch than you expect, you can feel every imperfections on it. "Gonna have to specify what you want."

Jason narrows his eyes at you, and you smile at him. "The thing."

You nod, "Oh, the thing." You reply gravely, pointing to him as if you just figured out what he's talking about. "Yes, I know where the thing is."

Jason takes a deep breath, before sighing. "I thought you said you don't accept sarcasm unless it's during your unnecessarily specific time?" He raises an eyebrow, frowning slightly, it almost looks like a pout.

Closing your eyes, you nod, "That I did." You look from his helmet to his eyes, "But I said I don't accept it until that time.

"So you can just dish it whenever?" Jason responds impassively. "That doesn't seem fair."

"What can I say? I receive a lot of it." You shrug, sitting down in the chair, the added weight to the chair causing it to roll away from Jason.

Jason watches as you roll back to the keyboard of the desk, letting out an amused exhale, "I can imagine, working with them?"

"I can't imagine you're innocent." You raise an eyebrow.

Jason smirks, but doesn't respond to that. "I do need the thing though."

You slowly turn the chair to face him, "That is no more specific than the last time you said 'the thing.'" You tap the armrest of your chair.

Jason inhales, and this time you can hear it. "The gadget."

"Which gadget?"

"You know which one."

"The one you dropped when leaving after I told you to close the box?"

Jason is silent for a moment, staring at you as if your expression will tell him its whereabouts. You raise an eyebrow, an easy-going smile painted on your face. "Yes." He grits the words out.

The smile on your face grows, you perk up in your seat. "Ohhh, why didn't you just say that?"

Jason tries to mirror the smile on your face, but it looks stiff. "I did."

You raise a finger up, shaking it. "Nuh-uh, you said 'the thing' and 'the gadget.'"

"You knew what I meant." Jason huffs, looking away from you.

You smirk, "Well, now I do."

Jason sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. You almost feel bad."You have it right?"

"Hm?" You blink, holding back a smile, "Oh, no. I threw it away like a week ago." You wave your hand casually, biting the inside of your lip to keep yourself from smiling.

Jason stares at you, unblinking. "What?"

"Nah, I'm playing." You grin. "Be lucky I didn't though." You stand up, gesturing for him to follow.

"Yeah," he huffs, slowly following behind you, "so lucky."

Grabbing a small box, you hand it over to him. "It's actually sealed." You drop the box abruptly into his arms. It's small, but light. You can feel the gadget roll around the box as you drop it. He catches it with ease.

"Taking a gamble just dropping it like that." Jason examines the tape covering the box. "What if there's a bomb in here?" He shakes it gently, as if trying to hear what is inside.

You huff, "There's not a bomb in there. Didn't look like any bomb I've seen." You shake your head at him. No need to tell him you've never really seen a bomb in person. He eyes you, looking from the box, up to you, and back down to the box.

You stand up straighter, furrowing your eyebrows in contemplation. Jason smirks at your uncertainty, shaking it harder. "Wait!" You frantically shake your head, reaching your hands out to him. Snatching the box back, you hold it out of his reach, "Are you crazy?"

"You just said there's 'not a bomb in there.'" He tilts his head innocently, something that should not be possible for him.

You open your mouth to respond, before closing it. "I'll give it back before you leave."

Jason shrugs, he chuckles silently, "If that makes you feel better."

"It does." You nod, narrowing your eyes at him. He smirks at your stare. You look down at the box, "Did you seriously just come back for this?"

"It was very important." He nods at the box.

"So important that you left it behind before you even left the cave and didn't come back for it for—" you pretend to check a watch on your wrist, "—two weeks?"

Jason doesn't respond, instead he walks by you, pushing past your shoulder, back to the computer. "Weren't you busy making sure they didn't die or something?"

You huff at his avoidance. "I left my comm open, it's fine. They can yell if they need my help." You follow him back to the computer.

"Right," He looks at the home screen of the computer, with no tabs open. You walk up from behind him, confused why he is just staring at the screen. It's not that interesting. Last you checked, it was just a couple of red dots flashing on a screen. Tim had back-up anyway (whoever that may be). It can't be that riveting—

Oh… right. You closed off all the tabs, essentially going radio silent. Frantically, you push yourself past him, sitting in the chair and opening the comms again. "There you are." Oracle immediately cuts in the second you activate your comm again.

"Heyyy…" You grimace, feeling Jason rest on the back of your chair. You look up at him, and recline your chair back in an attempt to shove him off. He offers you an innocent wide-eyed look before moving to lean against the desk again. "Sorry, something needed my attention."

"More important than Spoiler, Red Robin, and Nightwing?"

Both you and Jason freeze, sharing a look of pure unadulterated horror. Well, Jason looks more amused than alarmed at the prospect, but you are definitely horrified. "Nightwing?" You attempt to sound unaffected.

"Yep. Apparently that's the 'backup.'" Babs responds.

Jason mouths "Oh shit" to himself before leaning closer to you, eying your screen. The grin on his face is positively roguish. You glare at him. "That's… uh… great! Didn't realize he left Blüdhaven." You attempt to smile, but your strained frown and twitching nose at the idea says otherwise. Jason openly chuckles at your face.

"Yep, he's been around since yesterday…" She pauses, "Is somebody there with you?" Barbara asks tentatively.

You whip your head around to Jason— who is still smirking— already opening his mouth. You frantically cover his mouth with your hand, cutting off any words he was going to say. He attempts to lean out of your hold, glaring at you. You mirror his glare, using your free hand to do the "Shush!" motion at him. Slowly you remove your hand from his mouth, using your middle and index finger to point at him in an "I'm watching you" motion. He huffs, looking away, but not attempting to speak again.

"Nobody is here." You speak into the mic, eying "Nobody." Jason nods his head in acknowledgment at your words, eyes dancing with amusement. "Just me." He huffs, shaking his head disapprovingly.

You don't think before locating your favorite pen, throwing it directly at his forehead. To your surprise, it actually hits the target. You have to withhold your bark of laughter seeing his unimpressed face, the ink left a light streak of black ink across his forehead. Smirking, you turn your gaze back to the screen.

"...Okay?" Babs doesn't sound convinced, but doesn't ask anymore questions. "Well, think you can refocus?"

You break your attention from the screen to look at Jason… Who is not currently where you last saw him.

Alarmed, your eyes scan the cave, trying to find where Jason could've gone. He was just beside you less than five seconds ago! He couldn't have gone that far. Apparently, he's a lot more stealthy than he looks. You can barely hear Babs' voice as you stand up to look around the cave. Finally, you spot him.

The white streak on his forehead starkly contrasts his otherwise dark hair. It makes him easily identifiable even from a distance. Once he notices he's been spotted, he straightens up against his bike— box in hand, when did he even grab it— before getting onto it. He doesn't break eye contact, smirking the entire time. He gives you a wave, and you can observe something in his hand. You can't tell what it is due to the distance though. Nevertheless, your blood pressure rises as he lightly shakes the box.

Barbara says your name, but you don't pay it any mind. Instead you shake your head at Jason, who chuckles under his breath. Neither of you break eye contact as he puts his helmet on. He starts his bike, tapping the box— as if taunting you before revving the bike and zooming off, as if he was never here at all.

Babs says your name again, and you snap your attention back to the screen. "Yeah, sorry. I was distracted, it won't happen again." You inhale as the bike's engine echos grow quieter throughout the cavern.

Babs sighs, "Alright," she sounds less stern, more worried. "Was just trying to say that they put out the fire, all the civilians are safe. Nightwing will likely be returning to the cave with Red Robin and Spoiler." Her words are merely facts, but you can't help but take them as a warning, whether that was her intention or not.

You take a deep breath at her words, your chest nearly shuddering in apprehension. It's been about two months since you've returned to Gotham after leaving for college. Years used to get over your feelings for the first Robin. Two months of not contacting Dick about being back in Gotham. All culminating to the present, your inevitable reunion. You inhale through your teeth, the sound almost like a hiss. You force a smile, despite knowing Babs can't see it.

"Great."

–

Tim glances as Dick as they enter the cave. Dick doesn't look at him, instead narrowing his eyes at the ground. He glances at Steph who seems to sense the tension, but doesn't say anything. She meets his gaze before looking past him towards Dick. Tim follows her gaze, only to already see Dick eying him out of the corner of his eye. Everybody's eyes are awkwardly shifting over one another, the silence only exacerbating the tense atmosphere.

So it's going great.

Dick had quickly realized that Oracle was not who they were talking to, figuring out it was you. He had all but demanded the frequency their comms were on. Tim had reluctantly told him, but (thankfully) you suddenly vanished from the comms. Tim isn't sure what caused the big gap, but when you returned you had just told everyone to "Head back to the cave," not leaving any room for comments.

Anxiously, the three of them enter the cave. Dick looks up to see you in front of the Batcomputer. He draws in a sharp breath at the sight of you. He hasn't seen you for years, and you've been here sitting in the cave. You slowly sip the mug sitting at your desk, gently placing it on the Batman coaster next to your keyboard. Your foot bounces uneasily as you pretend you don't see them in your peripherals.

Dick takes the mask off his face, his eyes trained on you as he approaches. Tim and Steph follow closely behind him. She peeks around Dick's shoulder to see you inconspicuously turning your head to a different monitor. Dick's exhales steadily before he speaks. He says your name.

You pause, your hands frozen on the keys before turning to face him. You note Tim and Steph in the back. Tim looks unsure how to proceed, but Steph doesn't give away her thoughts.

You sigh, you expected this. "Dick." You hesitantly stand, meeting Dick's eyes. The two of you stare at each other for a moment as he hesitantly draws near you. You resist the urge to look away, feeling the shame bubble up. After all, now he knows you're here and that you've been here for at least some time, all without mentioning it to him.

"I–" He tackles you with a hug, cutting you off. The force of his action surprises you, almost knocking you off balance and into the desk. You slowly hug him back, "Sorry, I didn't– uh– say anything." You swallow down your nervousness, looking back at Tim and Steph. Both of them are blatantly watching you. You glare at them as Dick constricts you in his embrace.

"It's okay," he pulls back slightly, but doesn't let go of you. His hands rest on your arm, a soft smile on his face. "I get it."

You chuckle awkwardly, "You… do?" Your eyes flicker between him and Tim. You have a feeling he's got something to do with this.

Dick sneaks a glance back to Tim, who does not meet his gaze. "Uh– Well, I mean– I get that you probably needed time to settle back into Gotham! Stuff must be different now. All that time gone, you know?" Dick frantically explains.

You narrow your eyes to Tim, who avoids your eyes. "Right,"

"Well, we should hang out sometime! Catch up, you know! I mean if you're going to be helping us out we gotta do– like– team bonding activities!"

You blink, "Is that a thing?" You ask Tim and Steph. Steph opens her mouth, but Dick covers her from your view.

"It is now! Come on, it'll be fun!" Dick grins. The rest of you look at each other dubiously. You let Dick pull you along, watching as Tim and Steph attempt to follow you two.

"Shouldn't you guys change first..? Are we uh– doing this now?" You ask, slowly taking your hand back from Dick. He looks down at your hand before letting it leave his grasp.

"Oh," he pauses, suddenly hesitant, "I just figured we could catch up. With you being back and all." He gestures you up and down, as if still stunned that you are actually here.

You nod, glancing at the time which reads 2:02 AM. "It's–" You pause at Dick's hopeful face, "Yeah, sure?" You attempt to smile at him, looking to Tim and Steph for help. "I can't imagine you guys would want to be walking around in full vigilante attire though."

Dick sighs, as if this is a deal-breaker, "Fine…" He looks at you hesitantly. "We'll be back before you know it." You watch as Dick slowly moves away from you, grabbing Tim and Steph as he walks away.

Weird. Maybe he is not that mad that you didn't tell him you were back? The conversation didn't really flow like it used to, but you'd chalk that up to having spent years apart. Perhaps he's right, after a couple conversations everything will go back to normal. Watching his retreating figure, you can't help but smile. He mutters something to them both, leaning down to talk to them. They both point at him, responding in turn.

Getting over him wasn't an easy process. Part of the reason you chose to move so far away was to get over him. Sure it wasn't the only reason, but it was one of many. Time apart would give you time to separate yourself from him. You knew he never liked you back even back then, him dating Kori soon after your departure sure communicated that loud and clear.

If anything, it gave you a sense of peace. It almost felt like you two were stuck in an endless dance around each other for years with no resolution. When he started dating Kori, it ended your torment, proving that you were never an option. You could finally move on. Of course, you still thought about him. You still wondered how he was doing. You had heard that there was a new Robin and that the vigilante "Nightwing" had appeared in Blüdhaven.

When you came back, you figured that things would finally be okay. You wouldn't have to worry about messing up your friendship because of liking him. Your worries were gone. That doesn't mean you weren't surprised about some things, though.

Ever since learning about Dick having dated Barbara previously, you've been waiting for one of the two to mention it to you. You aren't surprised that Dick didn't say anything, seeing as he didn't decide to tell you about Kori. You never met Kori, so you weren't shocked that he never spoke to you about her.

But Babs? You were there when they started getting close, and you had befriended her quickly. Hearing that none of them decided to say anything? That hurt. Not in the heartbreaking lovesick way, but as a friend. Not one person told you, and you had to find out from Tim. Someone you hadn't even met until a couple months ago! Sure, you questioned if they were dating when you were kids, but that's much different than actually hearing that they've not only dated but have broken up. It's not like it's any of your business anyway.

"We have returned!" Dick grins, arms spread grandly as he walks back to you.

A small smile appears on your face, "Joy." You deadpan.

"Don't be like that," he chuckles, rubbing your shoulders casually, "Anyway," he slings that arm around your shoulder, "I asked Alfred if he could make some of his cookies for us." He whispers it to you like it's a secret. "It would've just been just for us, but somebody blackmailed me into sharing." Dick throws a half-hearted glare to Tim, who shrugs.

"Shouldn't have barged into my room." Tim gives a small, knowing smile.

You raise an eyebrow, "Why would you do that?"

Dick eyes look through you as if realizing he messed up, "Yeah, why would you do that?" Tim asks smugly, walking over to you. Steph appears to be messaging somebody on her phone, typing at light speed.

"Cause I found out some very important info about a case." Dick offers a strained smile to Tim.

Tim smiles, "Mhm, a 'case.'"

You blink at the two of them, maneuvering yourself out of Dick's hold. The tension is palpable. There's clearly something there, and if there's something you've learned during your time here, it's that you don't push it. No matter how curious you are.

You move in between them, clasping your hands together, smiling, "So… Cookies?"

—

"You were not invited." Tim's eye twitches as he watches Damian grab a cookie from the platter laid before the four five of you.

"I do not require an invitation to dine at my own residence, Drake." Damian scoffs, taking a bite into the cookie.

"The cookies weren't for you." Tim narrows his eyes at Damian.

Damian raises a dubious eyebrow, "And they were meant for you?"

Tim exhales, affronted, his eyes flicking to you and Dick. Damian smirks, tilting his head up before looking down haughtily at Tim, "That's what I thought." He takes a bite of his cookie, waving it tauntingly back at Tim.

Dick sighs, but the action is more out of fondness than exasperation. "You know, you could've called me if they ever got out of hand. I know they can be a lot to deal with."

You shrug, grabbing a cookie, Alfred's cookies really are the best. "They eventually sort it out on their own…" you take a bite. You smile, turning to watch Damian and Tim bicker. Steph seems to be using it as a distraction to sneak more cookies into a separate container to stow away. "It's actually kinda funny."

Dick snorts, "You say that now." He takes a cookie from the tray. "Babs was telling me that you've been helping out on comms too?"

You nod, a proud smile forming on your face, "Yep, took some convincing, but eventually Bruce said I could help as long as she's there to guide me."

He nods, slowly, "Nice…" He stares down at the cookie, "That's… uh— nice." The wavering in his voice doesn't go unnoticed. You aren't sure if you should ask about it, but you don't have to. "No— I mean, I'm really happy for you…" He attempts to correct himself.

You inhale through your nose, bracing yourself. "But..?"

He swallows, glancing between Tim, Steph, and Damian, who are engrossed in their own conversation, "But… I…" He exhales discreetly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

You blink, "Well, it's a pretty recent development. I would've told you eventually—"

"Would you?" Dick cuts you off, his words are soft, lighter than a whisper despite the heaviness they carry. They're soft in the way his expression conveys his pain: nearly silent, but present.

Cookie forgotten in hand, you place it down onto your plate, turning to Dick. Perhaps he was downplaying how upset he was earlier. "I would have eventually. I just needed…" You inhale, frustrated, and are faced with a new dilemma. Uncertainty churns in your gut, should you tell him you liked him back then?

On one hand, it shouldn't matter anymore. You don't like him like that now. The biggest reason you never told him was to preserve your friendship. There is no risk of losing that now that you no longer hold feelings for him. On the other hand, it's been so long. Like it or not, there's a distance between you two that wasn't previously there. Years apart have widened the gap between you both, something that was once so closely knit. If you tell him now, will that widen it further? Despite the fact that you avoided him, you don't want to lose him as a friend. Will telling him now ruin everything you held so closely to your chest for years?

"It's complicated," you turn your head away, unable to look him in the eyes.

Dick's pained expression steels itself at your words, "I…" he looks down at the plate in front of him, "I understand."

You sneak a small glance at him, "It wasn't personal…" You blatantly lie.

He smiles, the action strained, but still a smile nonetheless. "I know." His words hold something knowing to them. "I can't imagine how different everything must've been after being gone for so long." His smile turns more genuine, but his eyes are gazing far off.

You reluctantly smile at him, "It was definitely something. There's so many of you now." You pick the cookie back up, taking a bite.

Dick snorts softly, "Sometimes I miss when it was just us." His eyes rest upon Tim, holding a cookie out reach from Damian.

You smirk at him, "'Sometimes?' Not all times?" You lean into the back of your chair, this is more familiar. The banter, the teasing quips shared with one another.

Dick mirrors your smirk, it feels more drained than usual, "All times." He jokes.

You nod approvingly, "That's what I thought."

He looks down at your hands, absentmindedly holding the cookie. "You are going to finish that, right?"

You glare playfully at him, holding the cookie out of his view. "Why? You want it or something?"

"No." Dick lies, grinning as he conspicuously eyes it in your hand.

You take a bite of it, not breaking eye contact. "I've already eaten half of it."

Dick shrugs, huffing, "Like that will stop me."

"It's got cooties." You tut, waving the half-eaten cookie up at his face tauntingly.

He glares at you, "It was one time."

"Cooties last forever—" you take another bite of the cookie, "It's mine." You grin at him. He narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting to the cookie, then back to you. With no warning, he hand snatches the remaining chunk of your cookie. You can't move fast enough to reclaim it before he devours it.

Your mouth parts slightly in surprise. For a second you're struck wondering if you've ever shared food with him like that. All you can do is blink as he smugly takes a few stray crumbs from your plate. In the past you might've shared snacks, but nothing that the other had already eaten. You were close, but Dick had one time (jokingly, he insisted) told you that you had "cooties." Cooties! Like you were in preschool. For about a month afterwards, you avoided sharing snacks with him under the pretense that they had "cooties." He was amused at first, but your stubbornness eventually got to him.

"I can't believe you." You scoff. Even if you wanted another cookie, you couldn't get one. During your conversation, somehow the table had cleared the entire platter.

"Believe me." His eyes crinkle in amusement, the grin on his face growing even wider.

"I'm starting to remember why I left." You meet his gaze with an unimpressed stare. He gasps so loudly that he catches Tim's attention, who looks curious, yet unsurprised by Dick's antics. Dick doesn't pay him any mind though, merely continuing to give you an exaggeratedly anguished expression.

"After all we've been through? You wound me." He gestures dramatically, and you roll your eyes at him unsympathetically.

"Shouldn't have taken my cookie." You sigh, matching his tone. "It pains me just as much— actually… more to do this."

"Are you cutting me off over a cookie?" Dick narrows his eyes, playful irritation in his eyes.

You wipe an imaginary tear from your eyes, "I'm sure you understand… It must be done." You respond gravely.

"Must you continue with these dramatics?" Damian cuts in, the two of you turning to face him. You offhandedly notice Tim smiling in faint amusement, and Steph seems to be engrossed in your antics as if watching a telenovela play out in front of her.

"We must." Dick nods solemnly. You snicker from beside him.

"Hey, don't judge us. I've seen the way you guys fight over these cookies." You point to your empty plate, leaning against the table.

Steph whistles lowly, "She's got a point." Damian eyes her judgmentally. You gesture your hands grandly around the table, nodding in a silent "I told you so." 

"Besides, you two were fighting like ten seconds ago." You turn, pointing between Damian and Tim.

Damian's eye twitches, "That's because Drake believes that he has jurisdiction in my residence."

Tim looks away as if avoiding eye contact with Damian will make this better, his eyebrow betrays his irritation. "This isn't about—"

Seeing that this isn't going to lead anywhere good (and that you were proven right). You make a point to loudly interrupt. "I'm going to head home for the night. It's already late as it is." You resist the urge to rub your eyes. The argument pauses as the attention is brought to you once more.

Damian frowns, and Dick looks contemplative, pursing his lips. "You sure?" Tim breaks the momentary silence.

"Positive. I want to sleep on my own bed." You nod, smiling. Now that you've mentioned it, you can feel the exhaustion seep into every cell of your body.

Dick frowns, standing up from beside you. "I can drive you back."

You turn toward him, "It's alright. You guys were out all night. I wouldn't want to force you to go out again. Plus, worse case scenario, I call Cass or Bruce or… something." Last you checked, they're still out for the night, and you feel pretty safe knowing that either one would come to your aid if needed.Dick clearly disapproves of the idea, his mouth turned down in a stilted frown, eyebrows furrowed. You heart stings a little by his lack of faith, even if you know it comes from a good place. "I'll be fine."

You and Dick stare at each other for a long moment. For months you've managed to ease your way back into Gotham's atmosphere. You know this city, even if you were absent for a few years. Dick challenging you won't change anything. You may not be Nightwing, but you've lived in this city. You know how to handle yourself relatively well.

Dick sighs, the tension dropping from his shoulders, "Okay, just… be safe."

Your pointed stare breaks into something softer, "Always."

—

When you left, you almost worried you jinxed yourself, that by saying you're "always safe," you'd somehow get kidnapped by Bane or something.

Luckily, you were true to your word (not that you ever doubted it). You even texted Dick a quick notice that you'd arrived home, something he appreciated. You didn't give too much thought before liking his message. Soon after, he sent a quick text asking if you wanted to catch up soon without any intrusions.

You snort at the text. The two of you never really cared back then if Babs tagged along when you hung out or something. You can't imagine that'd be something he cares about now, especially since you've heard how close he is with his family. Perhaps it's because it's been so long? It has been a while since you've gotten to catch up with him. You can see why he wouldn't want his entire family witnessing every moment between you two. Tapping the sides of your phone absentmindedly, you type out a response, confirming that you'd like that.

Dick likes the message, and then proceeds to wish you good night. You smile at the text, before sending the same and finally turning away from the screen. Working on comms is fun until it's one in the morning and all you feel is the sensation of your eyes burning due to the strain of blue light.

Getting into bed, you throw the covers over your body. After a long day, you can finally rest. Of course, you sure didn't feel rested when you woke up the next day. It's a wonder how anybody you know functions like a normal being when they're essentially up from sunrise to sunrise.

Slowly, you get ready for the day, and just as you're about to leave, you pause. You're missing something. Sluggish from the early morning, you carefully pat yourself down as you search every pocket of your clothes. Once you realize what's missing, you groan, heading back inside your room. You rifle through your jacket from last night, finding nothing. Standing up from your now messy floor, you narrow your eyes at the scattered articles of clothing as if it'll provide the answer.

Okay, where did you last see it? You were working at the Batcomputer last night… You had been taking notes.. Then Jason had come, and you threw—

You take a deep breath. That asshole took your favorite pen.

—

Cass analyzes your form as you get into position, her arms crossed and stance lax. She's been the one helping you the most with learning self defense. "You're sulking, makes you tense. It's bleeding into your posture." She maneuvers her way behind you, her touch lightly grazing your shoulders, forcing you to relax them.

You raise yourself out of position. "I'm not 'sulking.' That's a bit extreme. I'm just off my game."

Cass raises a dubious eyebrow, looking you up and down.

"Okay, I'm a little upset." You relent.

She blinks at you, unconvinced.

"It's not that bad." You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Was it Dick?" She tilts her head at you.

A chuckle escapes past your lips, you smile at her assumption. "Actually, no."

She walks over next to you, expectantly, and your arms lower from their position. You exhale letting your arms relax, "Doesn't change the fact that you're upset." She frowns at you.

You look down to the floor, avoiding eye contact, "It's stupid."

She shakes her head, "If it makes you upset, then it can't be."

A smile grows on your face, "No… No, this one is prettyyy stupid."

She mirrors your smile, "Try me."

You look up at her, opening your mouth, but then closing it. "You know… How about we get back to training?" You're not going to complain about a stupid pen to any member of the Wayne family. Even if that pen had the smoothest ink you've ever seen, and had the perfect shade, and had the perfect angle, and you carried it with you everywhere you went, and had been given to you by Dick when you had just started being friends, and—

"You lost something." Cass determines.

You sigh, "I'm really not joking when I say it's stupid."

"Something that had sentimental value." She frowns. "That's not stupid."

"I…" You couldn't really argue with that one, even if the object was a damn ballpoint pen. It's not like you could ever get a replacement! A couple years after you had met Dick, you had attempted to find that pen again, but it was quite literally nowhere to be found. You had even gone so far as to ask him where he got it, and when you searched it up on their website, it didn't exist. Dick had found it amusing, but suddenly that pen became a lot more valuable to you. Not just for sentimentality, but because it was a really good pen, and you'd never be able to buy another.

Cass waits patiently for an answer, and you know she won't judge you. However, currently, you are judging yourself. Imagine being out on the field and the reason you aren't performing to standards is "I lost my favorite pen." Might as well say bye-bye to that comm position you just got cause Bruce will be testing you for brain damage. You inhale, "I lost my favorite pen."

Cass doesn't react, as if that is a perfectly normal response. "Lost?"

You purse your lips before smacking them, "Lost." She stares at you for a long moment, and— of course— you crack under no pressure, "Okay, maybe it was taken."

Cass' lips twitch in amusement, "You know who?"

You think back to Jason, waving what was once an indistinct object, an object which you now know was your pen. "Regrettably." You deadpan.

She smiles, "Then what's stopping you?"

"Can't exactly contact the guy, not like he offered his business number before taking it." You crack your knuckles, sighing as you fiddle with the gauze around the joints.

She looks at the Batcomputer, your gaze tracking her movement and following it. She eyes you from the corner of her eye as if saying "You sure?"

Snapping your fingers, "You… make an excellent point." You tap your temple, smirking as the two of you make your way to the Batcomputer. Powering it on, you navigate it until you find Red Hood's tracker.

"You think he would be able to receive a message from me? Wouldn't he need his comm or something?" You frown, crossing a leg over the other as you ponder your next move.

"Most likely. Try sending a message to his phone instead." Cass suggests, and you nod, a smirk growing on your face.

You pull up an emulator embedded with the computer. It already has everybody's numbers saved, so you click his contact and start typing. Simple. Straight to the point. No possibility for your message to be misinterpreted. Professional in every sense of the word. Concise, yet thought provoking. An argument so convincing that Batman himself would have to cede victory to you. A message so moving that he would be riddled with guilt for even thinking to steal your prized possession—

Pls give it back :(

Cass' eyes shine with mirth, her lips twitching. The two of you stare at the screen, as if your combined concentration will invoke his response. You tap your finger apprehensively against the cold metal of the desk.

Red Hood: ???

Red Hood: What?

You know what you did.

Red Hood: So accusing

You can almost see him mockingly shake his head. He probably has the damn smirk on his face too.

Red Hood: Do you even know what I did, or are you just trying to get me to confess to a crime I didn't commit?

Come on, I literally gave you your not-bomb bomb back

Red Hood: yeah after pretending not to know what I was talking about for 15 minutes, great service, truly

exactly, so return what you took from me

Red Hood: get it yourself

I don't even know where you live

Red Hood: you're literally tracking my stuff

I'm literally not??

yeah that's why I can hear you muttering to yourself from my comm that you definitely aren't tracking

You gasp, turning to Cass whose face betrays nothing. You scramble to turn off your mic, horror-struck. After fiddling with the input devices connected to the computer, you eventually find— to your embarrassment— that your mic isn't even connected.

Red Hood: bet you just checked didn't you

no

Red Hood: admit you did it and I will consider returning your pen to you

Your heart pounds as you hastily type your confession.

ok ok I did

You pause for a moment, waiting for a response. When nothing appears you send another message

can I have it back now

Red Hood: I said I'd consider

Next time you leave something behind I'm gonna send you a video of me destroying it

Red Hood: wow okay, you aren't getting this pen back

wait I'm sorry please don't go

Hooooood

I'm sorry I would never destroy your stuff, it's very precious to me

pls respond

Jason Todd you asshole I will never forget this

Read 3:54 P.M.

Your eyes narrow at the screen, the status taunting you. Why can't he just cooperate? Your hands hover over the keyboard, debating whether or not to send him a message. You look to Cass in exasperation. "That went as well as I was expecting." You mumble. Groaning, you shut off the computer, not even wanting to see the screen.

She gives a reassuring smile, "At least you know where it is."

"I figured he had it, the worry was that he'd just taunt me with it." Crossing your arms, you stare into your reflection in the now black screen. "Seems I was right."

She pats your back sympathetically, "You'll get it back eventually."

Your hum in acknowledgement, still staring at the darkened screen. "You're right." You narrow your eyes at your reflection, a plan starting to form.

—

The night wasn't quiet, it rarely was. In fact, Jason has learned that Gotham being quiet never bodes well. Silence invites catastrophe. Sure, a lack of silence meant there was work to be done, but it was familiar. He didn't have to wonder if there was some plot affront (there often was, but at least it's more predictable). What wasn't predictable, however, was Nightwing joining him for the night.

"Remind me why you're here again?" Jason doesn't bother turning to face his brother, brushing his hands against his jacket as he holsters his pistols. He kicks the head of a thug attempting to crawl towards the gun at Jason's feet. Don't bring a gun to a fight if the first thing you're going to do is lose it. Fucking moron.

Dick grins, flourishing his escrima sticks, "'Cause drugs are bad?"

Despite himself, Jason's lips twitch under the helmet, not like he'd let Dick know that. "Aside from that."

Dick secures his escrima sticks to his back, "It's been a while since it's been just us."

Jason grunts, checking the time before walking out of the busted warehouse. "So… you decided that teaming up with me to take down a drug spot was what? Bonding?"

Dick chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender, "Your words, not mine."

Jason sighs, heading towards his bike.

"Any other warehouses to bust? Drug dealers to…" Dick trails off as mimics a lazy punch doing a silent "Pow!" sound effect.

Jason slowly turns to Dick, who is still following him. "It's nearly six in the morning."

Dick shrugs, "Okay…?" He crosses his arms, "That doesn't really change my question."

"I'm heading home." Jason rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"Got it…" Dick doesn't move from his spot.

Jason looks at his brother, revving his bike, "Do you… need something?"

Dick shakes his head, slowly heading to his own bike. "No…"

Jason groans, he's not going to fall for it. This is manipulation. This is a way for Dick way to monopolize his morning. He will not—

"Breakfast at mine, be there in half an hour or else I'm eating your portion." Jason speeds off, not even bothering to check Dick's reaction. If luck is on his side, he will not be seeing Dick at his apartment in half an hour (he knows luck isn't on his side).

He opens the door, already anticipating his older brother to be in there. Shockingly, he isn't, and Jason slides his leather jacket off, throwing it onto the couch carelessly. His apartment was, thankfully, clean. The only thing out of place was a single ballpoint pen on his living room table. Unwittingly, he smiles at the object, thinking back to your messages over it.

He had taken the pen thoughtlessly. You had thrown it at him, so he thought it fair to take it as punishment. After all, it's a pen. Nothing out of the ordinary. However, nothing could've prepared him for what spiraled.

The text he received from you— hell, he thought he was being pranked by some idiot who thinks that messing with him is a good idea. However after staring at the message for a minute he realizes. He hadn't stolen anything recently, certainly nothing from anybody who would send a text message with a sad face.

Upon realizing it was you, he had felt something akin to amusement rise in his chest. He texted back, staring down at his phone, finding himself awaiting your response. The amusement in his chest eventually rose to his face, a small smile at your outrage. He found himself even seeking the object upon your request that you return it. Of course, out of principle, now he had to keep the pen. He found himself chuckling as he pocketed his phone, leaving you to spam notifications to get his attention.

Jason stares at the pen for a long moment, before heading over to the kitchen and grabbing a pan. He greases it with butter before grabbing some eggs from the fridge. He looks at the window, shedding the morning light upon his sink. The sight of it almost makes him feel sleepy, the lack of sleep catching up to him after being out all night. The soft sizzling from the eggs frying the sole sound in his apartment. It's almost peaceful, contrary to the eventful night he had.

Then Dick throws his door open. Jason doesn't even bother turning around, knowing it's Dick just by the way he opened the door.

"Didn't come to greet your guest?" Dick takes off his shoes, tossing his own jacket on top of Jason's on the couch.

Jason breaks his focus from the eggs briefly to look at Dick. "Could you at least hang your jacket or somethin'?" He asks, the tiredness present in each word he speaks. Dick glances at his jacket before turning back to Jason, an amused eyebrow raised. He gestures his thumb to Jason's jacket, a silent question. Jason finally turns to face him, "My mess is fine in my apartment. You could at least be a good guest and be considerate." Jason takes the eggs off the pan, moving them to a plate.

Dick makes a point to deliberately stare at Jason— who is not even looking at him— as he hangs his jacket up, "Satisfied?" A mocking smile on his face.

"Thrilled." Jason deadpans, putting bacon on the pan.

Dick chuckles behind him, walking around the apartment, taking note of some swords and knives on display. He walks over to investigate Jason's bookshelves, filled with classics, he smiles at them. It's not often that Jason actually invites anybody to his apartment. Most of the time, they have to break in if they need something from him. His smile widens slightly as he turns to Jason, whose back is turned toward him, cooking silently. Then he turns his attention to the couch and table in front of the TV. He tilts his head as he approaches it, noticing a random pen laying on the otherwise clean apartment.

He freezes, an audible inhale as he stares disbelievingly at the table. "What's this?" The words are deceptively light, Dick grabs the pen, examining every ridge of the object.

Jason pauses for a moment, turning to face Dick. He narrows his eyes slightly at the way Dick holds the object. "What?" Jason chuckles humorlessly, noticing the way Dick's hand clenches around the pen. "The pen?"

Dick swallows, not even looking at him. Jason straightens up, realizing that something is wrong. "Where did you get it?" Dick asks, the question is quiet, yet its gravity is all-present. The words grind out roughly as they are spoken. His hands tremble underneath the small object, as if it's too much to bear upon his fingertips. Jason's mouth parts in surprise, the words not forming as he watches Dick bite his lip.

"Where?" The words scrape his throat as he snaps his head to Jason. However, his eyes are still trained on the ballpoint pen, as if asking the pen itself.

"I…" Jason hesitantly walks to Dick, the pan forgotten. He isn't sure whether to approach Dick. "The cave."

Dick narrows his eyes, scoffing "So you took it." He whispers.

Jason immediately opens his mouth to correct the misunderstanding, eyes narrowing in indignation. "No…" He scoffs, unable to meet Dick's gaze. "I mean—" he huffs, frustrated the words aren't coming out the way he wants to. He says your name, and Dick freezes at it. "She—"

"She gave it to you." Dick interrupts him.

Jason, frowning, tilts his head, not making eye contact. "I guess you could say that."

Dick stares at Jason for a moment before walking back to the front door. He snatches his jacket off the hanger, roughly putting it on. He forces his shoes onto his feet, not even bothering to unlace and tie them. Grabbing the doorknob, he twists it, causing it to squeak.

Jason furrows his eyebrows, "You're not… staying?" It was unlike Dick to actually ditch any of his siblings.

Dick pauses his body already half past the doorframe. He turns his head to the side, allowing Jason to see his profile. Dick slowly steps back inside, placing the pen on the table near the entrance. "I… I don't feel hungry anymore." He doesn't even give Jason the chance to respond, not bothering to even look at him before slamming the door.

Jason blinks slowly at his closed door before turning his attention to the pen that Dick almost lost his shit over. He thinks back to your text. You didn't seem that upset over losing the pen. Sure, you had asked for it back, and had expressed immense interest at its return.

But not a single one of your messages implied you were that distraught. If anything, they seemed almost playful, with a small twinge of genuine desire to have the pen returned. Jason slowly walks over to grab it, attempting to find anything special with it. If he knew it'd cause this many issues, he would've left the damn thing. Sighing, he walks back over to the table it was originally on. Perhaps he should return it. He didn't mean to take a sentimental object from you. He runs his fingers across the pen, before scrunching his nose in disgust. It smells like something is burning—

His eyes widen. Shit, he forgot about the bacon.

–

"Honestly, just break into his apartment. You said you already know where he keeps whatever you're looking for." Tim shrugs, attempting to keep a straight face. "Just do a little research on the computer before you break in." He waves a hand nonchalantly.

You nod, typing furiously on your phone as if taking notes. "Got it… Would you recommend door or window?"

Tim's eyebrows raise, wow, you are taking him seriously? "Window, most people don't lock them."

You frown, eyebrows furrowing, "I don't think this guy is constituted as 'most people.'"

Tim mirrors your frown, sitting up straighter. Who exactly are you going after? "Okay… Do you mind if I ask who 'this guy' is?"

You fidget in your chair slightly, kicking one leg up over your other, "Uh…" You look around to make sure nobody is listening, "You won't judge?"

Tim snorts, "No, I won't." Actually, before he was just mildly interested. It'd be your first B&E (closer to burglary, but really, same difference, you seemed pretty justified based on what Tim heard). However, it seems that you don't aim low because if you are this nervous about it, it must be serious.

You smack your lips, "It's Jason." Your words are quiet, but they echo throughout the cave. Tim can't hold back the stunned expression he makes, eyes wide and eyebrows so far up they almost disappear behind his hair.

"I know, I know. Trust me, I know it's bad, but–"

"Wait, wait, wait, since when did you meet him?" Tim suddenly cuts you off, his palms pressed against one another, hands covering his mouth. His eyes are focused on you.

"I–" You pause, momentarily thrown off track. "What?"

"You met Jason." Tim states, and you nod slowly. This is not what you pictured from this conversation. You imagined something more along the lines of: "Why would you steal from my brother?"

"Yeah?" You blink, "Was I not supposed to…?" You ask hesitantly. You didn't think meeting him was that big of a deal.

Tim shakes his head, looking down. "I was just surprised." He snaps his head up to you, startling you slightly, "Does Dick know?"

You stare blankly at Tim, "Why… would he?"

Tim nods slowly, pursing his lips. "Taking that as a no." 

You nod, amused, "Yeah, no."

He hums in acknowledgement, shaking his head subtly, "Anyway, you said that you wanted to break into Jason's?"

"Yeah, I know he's kinda your brother and all," you hold your hands up in a placating gesture, "but he took something that was mine."

Tim snorts, laughing at your cautious approach, "I'd help you even if he didn't have something of yours. What'd he take anyway?"

You open your mouth, then close it. "The details aren't important, what matters is that he betrayed my trust."

Tim smirks at you, "Alright then, keep your secrets." He pauses slightly before speaking, "How'd he betray your trust?"

Rolling your eyes, you groan, "Don't get me started."

Tim blinks, "That bad?"

"It's just that I was nice to him, then did multiple favors for him– all without being asked!" You emphasize, your eyes crinkled in barely masked indignation. "I did all of that, and when I ask him to return the one thing he stole, he leaves me on read!"

Tim snorts, "Oh, yeah that's pretty common."

"Yeah, I was messaging on the computer, and like I asked for him to return it, and– Tim, I swear– he was taunting me. Oh, and he got satisfaction out of it." You aren't even looking at Tim anymore. Your chair moves slightly under your flailing gestures.

Tim nods seriously, "Sounds about right." He isn't even looking at you, his eyes frozen on the floor in contemplation. "Tonight, he should be out on patrol. I can try and guide you."

You whip your head back towards him, "Really?" You grin.

He nods, amused, his eyes telling you that he's plotting something. "Of course, all you needed to say was 'break into Jason's,'" and I was sold."

You grin, "Great!" You check the time, "Oh– I have to go, but if you get any info could you send it over?"

He offers you a casual thumbs up, "Yeah, of course. I'll hear from you tonight?"

You nod enthusiastically, "Yep! Thanks, Tim!" You head out of Tim's room, closing the door behind you. Tim waits for a moment, listening for the manor's entrance doors to close before he gets up and makes his way down to the cave. Now, this may be considered an invasion of privacy, but you gave him permission to guide you through this operation.

So naturally, like a true detective, he has to learn all the facts.

Tim scans around the Batcave. Nobody is around right now. The perfect opportunity to learn more. It's convenient that evidence is located on the computer. Tim easily navigates the familiar system, pulling up the emulator. For the future, he would tell you that it's important to delete the trail of messages left behind unless absolutely necessary, but for now…

Tim scrolls to the top of the chat, it wasn't very long, but it was long enough. You said that Jason had taken something from you, but you hadn't elaborated on what. Tim wasn't that nosy, but he probably should know considering he's dedicating his night to helping you retrieve said item.

"Why are you texting Todd like that?"

Tim heaves a sigh, turning around in the swivel chair to see Damian looking at the monitor. "Hello to you too."

"It doesn't match your style."

"Astute observation. 'Cause it isn't." Tim tries to ignore Damian as he turns back towards the screen, hoping that if he makes it sound boring then he'll be left alone.

Damian's lips twitch slightly in a frown, "Then whose?"

"Apparently the last person who texted Jason." Tim attempts to focus on the texts, but he can see Damian also reading them next to him. "Hey, can you not?"

Damian narrows his eyes at Tim, "They aren't even your messages."

"Exactly, give them some privacy." Tim attempts to shove Damian out of the way, but he merely positions himself on the other side of Tim's chair, undeterred.

"As if you reading their messages is 'privacy.'" Damian raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim.

Tim attempts to swat him, but it's less forceful than the (attempted) shove. The action is more of an afterthought; his eyes are still trained on the messages. However, it's becoming increasingly difficult to read them with somebody pestering him. "I'll have you know I got permission."

"So you do know who sent it." Damian states. He reads a couple of the messages before saying your name, Tim glances at him for a moment, but doesn't confirm or deny his guess. "It is her. My second guess was Steph, but she uses more emojis."

Tim sighs, "Sure,"

Damian glares at him, but quiets down as he reads the messages next to Tim silently, the two of them attempting to decipher their meaning. It's not long before they reach the end, after all, there weren't that many. "She gave him a bomb?" Damian asks, incredulously.

Tim rolls his eyes, wiggling his finger, "Nuh-uh, it says 'not-bomb,' see?" He points his finger to the screen.

Damian scoffs, "I can see that." He leans in to reread some of the messages, "Did she only message him for a pen?"

Tim shrugs, "Must be a nice pen."

Damian points at the last line, "She calls him by his full name too." He notices.

Tim nods, "I mean she's mad at him, I can see it. Plus, you still call me by my last name, you don't get to comment on that."

Damian shakes his head, but Tim swears he rolls his eyes. "She doesn't do that with us though."

Tim thinks back to it, you haven't really gotten mad at anybody in his family (from what he knows). If you have though, he has no recollection of you ever dropping full names onto one of his siblings. Honestly, this would have to be something he'd need to ask Dick about. He has known you much longer. "Hm," Tim frowns, scrolling back to the top of the messages.

Damian smirks, "I'm right, aren't I?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but–" he turns to Damian, "I suppose it's worth keeping note of."

Damian scoffs, "You just don't want to admit I'm right." He walks away from the computer, leaving Tim alone in the cave.

Tim narrows his eyes at the messages. The tone, the style of messaging, Jason even replied quickly.

There is something else there.

–

Tossing on a dark hoodie, you exhale nervously. "Okay, how about a hoodie?" You ask Tim, throwing the hood over your face. You look over to your phone, still on a call with him.

"Well… Definitely matches the breaking and entering aesthetic."

You snort, "So is that a no on the hoodie?"

Tim exhales, "You'll probably be fine." He says dismissively.

You raise an eyebrow, "Probably?"

Tim clicks his tongue, "You're the one who thinks breaking into his apartment is a good idea."

"Yeah, and you're helping me. Don't act like you aren't involved." You point your finger at the phone, despite the fact that you aren't on a video call.

"It's more of a passive involvement." You can hear him roll his eyes.

"Involvement nonetheless." You smile.

"All I'm saying is that if you get murked by Jason 'cause he mistakes you for being some random intruder, it is not on me." Tim says helpfully.

"Thanks for the optimism—" You're cut off by a loud honk outside your apartment.

"I'm assuming that's you." You grab your phone and hurriedly put your shoes on before running down the stairs of your apartment building.

"Let's hope your assumption is correct." Tim responds ominously.

"You really aren't making me feel better about this." You exhale warm air into your hands— it's freezing.

Tim laughs as you knock on his window. He slowly rolls it down, "Uber for one B&E?"

You groan, "If I knew you'd make a big deal about this I would've just done it on my own."

Tim unlocks the door as you shove yourself into the passenger seat, teeth chattering. "Sure you could've, but your chances of success exponentially increase when you get help." He looks you up and down, "Do you… want the AC?"

You toss him a half-hearted glare, "Obviously. I'm sweating in here." You hold your hands together to conserve warmth. Tim doesn't break eye contact as he turns the AC on. You stare at him in disbelief at his sheer audacity. He smiles back innocently.

"Alright, yeah, sure, whatever, can we just go please?" You groan.

Tim chuckles, "Of course, of course." He starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot.

"So, what's the run down?" You bounce your leg as you debate burrowing yourself into your hoodie. You find yourself respecting the Bats a lot more. You could not imagine fighting crime in weather like this.

"What?" Tim stays focused on the road.

You turn toward Tim unimpressed, "Like, what should I keep on the look out for?"

"Oh," he pauses, a smirk growing on his face, "yeah don't worry about that."

You frown, eyebrows furrowing in concern, "I feel like that response in itself is something to be worried about."

Tim spares you a quick glance, eyes alight with mischief, "Let's just say, I came prepared."

You sink into your seat, "Great, so you're just gonna send me in blind."

Tim shakes his head, "No, I'll be there with you— well, in the car. You'll be fine. You're stressing a bit too much."

You narrow your eyes towards him, offended, "Oh, I'm sorry that I'm stressed about breaking into your vigilante brother's apartment despite having no prior experience in any crime whatsoever."

Tim purses his lips, "…You'll be fine." He repeats.

"You know that is no more reassuring than the last fifty times you've said it." You cross your arms, staring out the window.

Tim exhales, amused. "Fine, if it makes you feel better, I should have earbuds in the glove compartment we could use for comms."

You open the glove compartment to find a couple old earbud pieces with the Wayne Enterprises logo plastered on the case. "They still work?"

Tim shrugs, "Should."

You sigh, "Alright, then we'll be on comms. You better not ditch me."

Tim rolls his eyes, a smile on his face, "I'm not that mean."

The rest of the ride is silent. Despite Tim's multitude of reassurances, you did not— in fact— feel better doing this than you did earlier that day. Part of you thought it was just something you'd talk about doing, but would never actually do in practice.

However, Tim seemed very eager to get in on this… heist? Whatever it was. You honestly didn't think he'd care, but apparently you and Jason knowing each other was news.

Thinking back to the conversation, you wonder why Tim cared if Dick knew. It's not like Dick has to know everything going on in your life. So what? You met his family, big whoop. That doesn't explain why would Tim care that you had met Jason.

You tap your finger on the window sill of the car.

Unless…

You think back to Jason's messages. The way that Duke looked at the two of you during your initial meeting. The shock on Tim's face. Suddenly, you sit up, catching Tim's attention, does he think that—

"Okay, we're here." Tim parks the car at the curb across the street from Jason's apartment, (you scouted it out with Google Earth earlier this morning). You open your mouth to ask Tim what he really thinks about this whole scenario, but the question dies in your throat. Instead, you nod resolutely, and pop an earbud into your ear, using the hood to cover it.

"You look sketchy as hell." Tim eyes you dubiously, an amused— almost concerned smile on his face.

You glare at him, elbowing him, "You approved it. Said it was— what was it? 'B&E aesthetic?'" You gesture to your lackluster appearance.

Tim scoffs, "I'm just saying. You just look like somebody who I'd avoid on the street."

Your eye twitches, "Thank you, Tim."

He waves a hand at you, "Yeah, yeah, go head inside." You exit the car, fiddling with the earbud to make sure it stays in your ear. "Oh— take this too." Tim throws a small kit to you.

Not wanting to drop the item, you fumble with it in the air for a brief second before reading the packaging. A lock picking kit.

Your eyes widen as you read it. You rest your arm on the open car door as you turn the kit around for him to read. "You serious?"

He shrugs, "Steph said you had gotten some experience in."

"She taught me once on a random afternoon."

Tim snaps, "Perfect time to make sure your skills are up to date."

You groan, pocketing it into your hoodie, creating an odd rectangular shape against your stomach. Flattering— no, but at least you aren't walking into the apartment practically screaming "Don't mind me, just gonna break into this apartment right here!"

"I'll have your back, don't worry. All you need to worry about is opening that door."

"Thought you said the window was a better option?'

Tim winces, sucking in air, "Ohh, yeah… Don't do that." He shakes his head.

You sigh, shutting the car door. Hearing Tim's muffled "Good luck!" You take a deep breath before making your way into the building and up to his apartment. The trek isn't very long, but you are positively sweating by the time you reach his door. Even if you know Jason won't actually do anything to you if he does stumble onto you lock picking his apartment, it's not exactly something you want to happen. You check the hallway, making sure nobody is around, before opening the kit. Sighing, you get to work.

Tim wasn't lying when he said that you got some experience in lock picking. However you also weren't lying when you said it was a single afternoon. You wouldn't even trust yourself to break into your own apartment if needed, let alone Jason's.

"You almost done there?" Tim's voice causes you to jolt, cursing under your breath.

Clenching your teeth, you attempt to pull on the doorknob, another failure. "Nope."

Tim hums, "Well, he should be out on patrol for at least the next few hours. No rush."

You huff, not saying anything. Instead you focus back to the lock. Inserting the pin, you attempt to listen for the soft clicks of the mechanisms.

Click.

You smile, thank goodness you still remember. Now you just need to do that a few more times. Gently, you maneuver the pick until you can feel the pins. You move the pin until you hear the sound again. You exhale shakily, a smile plastered on your face. While you may not live this kind of life, you are certainly feeling the adrenaline of it.

"One more." You whisper to Tim. He doesn't respond, but you don't expect him to.

Your hands are clammy at this point, sliding against the rusted metal of the doorknob. While it does make your life a bit more difficult, it definitely doesn't stop you. The pick attempts to slide out of your grasp, but you hold onto it so tightly that your hands start to shake.

You press your ear close to the doorknob, pushing the pick further in. You can hear the last pin shift with your movements, it's just a matter of getting the right angle. Eventually, you feel your pick latch onto it.

Click.

You don't celebrate too soon, slowly moving your hand up to the doorknob (somewhere along the way you had sat on the floor to focus better). The door creaks open. "Tim— Oh my— I did it." You stand up in celebration, pick forgotten on the floor.

"Congrats," he slowly claps in the background, and despite the mocking nature of it, you can't help but feel accomplished (even if that accomplishment is successfully breaking into a Jason's apartment). "Don't forget why you're actually there, though."

Snapping out of it, you grin, "Right… Right." Hesitantly, you entire his apartment. The first thing you note is that it is not any warmer than the outside world.

The second thing you notice is that it is impeccably clean. You're not saying you thought Jason would have a messy apartment… but it's clean. Almost unlived in. Perhaps he was expecting a guest?

Your shoes softly patter as you enter the apartment. It's so clean you almost feel bad for leaving your shoes on. You withhold a snort at the thought, expert robber here, need me to take off my shoes before entering?

It's dark inside, the lights of the city funnel through the window just above the sink. You attempt to look for a light switch, eventually turning on the lamp near the entrance.

Now, if you were Red Hood, where would you hide a pen?

"Have you found it yet?" Tim asks.

"I just got inside." You make your way over to the kitchen. Looking to the counter, it's not as clean as the rest of the apartment. You run your finger over it, looking down at the crumbs at your fingertips. It's brittle, blackened, almost burnt. Hesitantly you raise your finger up to your nose to smell it. Bacon? You slowly walk to the sink, flicking the remaining crumbs off your hand.

Making sure your hands are clean, you walk out of the kitchen into the living room. What immediately catches your attention is a bookshelf filled with classics. You walk over to it, curiously running your finger over the spines of the books. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, the list goes on.

You continue to admire the collection before pausing, finger rested on the spine of The Great Gatsby, your eyebrows furrow in disbelief. Did he seriously..?

Gently, you remove his copy of it off the shelf, opening the book to look at the bookmark used.

Smiling, you chuckle as you remove the small index card.

Red Hood Jason Todd, If you're reading this then I was right in assuming that you'd return for your bat-gadget thing. I'm not gonna say I told you so, but… :). Anyway, I hope you enjoy your sealed package. (Notice how I highlighted "sealed"). Thank me later.

Your chest jumps slightly as you reread the message, signed off with your full name. You had written it just for funny 'Gotcha!' moment, not expecting him to keep it. You flip the paper around, it's a standard index card, nothing special besides a few stupid doodles you did to make it stand out.

It's not creased... Not folded, smudged, or damaged. It's in perfect condition.

A fond smile finds its way onto your face. Silently, with all too much care, you place the index card back to the page, closing the book. You slide it carefully back into place, leaving no trace of your interference.

Your eyes fall to the table in front of the couch, and your smile widens. You lean down to grab the pen, giving it a look once over. Yep, it's definitely the pen Dick gave you. Your grip around it tightens, and you look to the front door.

"Okay, object secured." You whisper.

"Great— Oh, shit, get out now." You hear Tim shift in his car seat.

"Tim?" You frown, immediately on alert.

"He is not supposed to be back at his apartment." Tim mutters, and you swiftly make your way to the front door. You open it, and immediately walk into something… someone.

You move your gaze from the floor up to the helmet of Red Hood. Damn it, Tim.

"Hey, you outta there yet? I don't have eyes on him anymore—" You tap the earbud once, muting Tim, not breaking eye contact with Red Hood.

"Heyyy," You smile casually, leaning against the doorframe, acting like it's your apartment.

Red Hood looks you up and down, sketchy outfit and all. "Hey,"

"I didn't expect to see you here." You attempt to inconspicuously slip the pen into the pocket of your hoodie.

"Could say the same about you." He responds, tilting his head. "Could you… move out of the way?"

You blink, looking at his empty apartment, then back to him. "Go ahead… It's your apartment." You slowly move out of the way, opening the door for him.

Red Hood steps into his apartment, "Really?" he mutters, his shoulder bumping into you as he walks in. You roll your shoulder, glaring slightly at him. "Didn't know that."

"Your sarcasm is noted." Rolling your eyes, you watch him head into a hallway, presumably to his room. He doesn't say anything else. You can feel your phone vibrating with notifications (probably Tim), and realize that if you're planning to leave, now is the perfect chance.

You're about to walk out when you pause, "You… You aren't upset?"

Red Hood— Jason walks back out, helmet off, but domino still on. "I'm not surprised."

You frown, "That's… not what I asked."

His eyes narrow, "I'm not surprised." He repeats.

You smack your lips, turning to face him, the door still open. "For the record, you stole my pen. "

Jason snorts, "Yeah, and you can have it back. I ain't gonna deal with whatever emotional attachments you and Dick have to it."

You straighten up, moving away from the door to move back into the apartment, "He saw it?"

"If you're planning on staying, at least close the door, please." Jason moves over to the fridge. His calm detachment of the situation leaves you taken aback.

"I'm not planning on staying." You scoff, moving further away from the door, back into his apartment.

Jason turns to face you, and you raise an eyebrow at him. He sighs, walking over to you. You inhale in preparation for…

He shuts the door behind you. You blink at the action. "I was gonna leave, you know."

"Mhm, yeah, I'll believe it when you actually step through the doorframe." Jason moves over to the couch, practically throwing all his weight onto it. You hesitate, unsure how to proceed. It'd just be plain awkward to leave now.

Shifting on your feet, you open your mouth to speak when he cuts you off. "Dick came earlier today." Jason doesn't turn to face.

You slowly move over to lean your arms onto the back of the couch, next to where his head rests. "Sounds exciting."

He exhales, a small smile at his face, then it vanishes as quickly as it came. "Y'know in the past I've always tried to encourage him to leave whenever he decides visiting is appropriate."

You hum in acknowledgement, but don't say anything.

"Then he saw the—" he gestures lazily at you, "—the damn pen." He slowly removes the domino from his face.

You watch as he slowly removes the mask, his eyes wincing as he forcefully pulls it off his face. "I could've told you it was a bad idea to take it." You smile.

He huffs, "I wish you did." He tosses the domino onto the table.

You nudge his shoulder softly, "I practically did."

He turns to face you, no mask obscuring your view of his features, "No, you just called me an asshole."

You lean your body onto the back of the couch, glaring at him, "'Cause you were being one. You left me on read, after I kindly returned your stuff."

He groans, "Can we just let it go? I fucked up."

"I dunno, I'm currently in your apartment. Will you let me go?" You tap your finger on the back cushions. "You shut the door on me when I was about to leave."

Jason's posture straightens up meeting you at eye level. "Maybe." He whispers, his voice gruff, but a softness is present within it. "As long as you tell Tim to fuck off." He smirks at you.

You swallow, matching his smirk, attempting to appear unfazed. "How'd you know he was involved?"

Jason leans away from you, and you straighten up. He isn't facing you anymore. "I didn't."

Shit, sorry Tim.

You purse your lips, slowly nodding. "Oh," you whisper dumbly.

Jason chuckles, turning back to you, his eyes almost smiling with amusement despite his otherwise neutral expression. "He was the one who disabled all the security measures I had in place. I figured he was with you."

You exhale slowly, "Right…" You meet his gaze, "Sorry… About the whole breaking in thing." You smile sheepishly.

He shrugs dismissively, "Figured it was you anyway."

You raise an eyebrow, "You figured I'd spend my night trying to steal back a pen?"

His lips turn upward, "Well, you're here, aren't ya?"

You offer a small smile, "Hm, guess you're right about that."

You stare off at the table in silence, neither of you speaking for a long minute. "You know, I wasn't joking about telling Tim to fuck off." He tilts his head to look at you, and instinctively you lean closer.

You snort, "You're funny."

"Funnier than Dick?"

You smile, not giving him an answer, "You'll let me go if I text him?"

He nods, not taking his eyes off of you. "If you want."

You raise an eyebrow, "'If I want?'" You repeat unbelievingly. "What's the alternative?" You chuckle, "Like— I could stay 'if I want?'" You ask.

Jason tosses you a disinterested look, "Just tell him to leave my shit alone." He replies, not answering the question.

You smile, "Want me to word it like that?"

"Word it however you want. Just get the point across." He shrugs.

You pull out your phone— which is still vibrating with texts he's been sending. "You know it isn't his fault." You frown, feeling defensive of Tim. Sure he intentions may have been made out of nosiness rather than genuine goodwill, but he still helped you nonetheless.

"He knew what he was doing, tell him to fuck off." Jason shrugs his leather jacket off, you watch him before turning away.

Leaning on the couch, back facing Jason, you type out a response. "How does: 'Hood says to fuck off' sound?"

"Perfect. Send it." Jason takes his boots off. You are momentarily struck by how… relaxed he is. You send the message.

"Alright, message delivered." You smile at Jason, looking at your phone as the read receipt pops up milliseconds after you sent the text. "…And read."

Jason nods, not bothering to actually look at you as he takes off his gear. "Wonderful."

Your phone vibrates, you frown, raising it up for Jason to see, "Now he's calling me." Jason holds his hand out expectantly, his other hand still working with a strap on his boot. Hesitantly you place your phone in his hand, "You aren't gonna steal this too, right?" You smirk, his hand brushing your own as you place it into his palm.

He raises an eyebrow, not breaking eye contact as he answers the phone, putting it on speaker.

"—you can't leave me with that. Is he letting you leave?"

Jason huffs, "Christ, I ain't holding her hostage."

"Funny, I don't exactly see her though." Tim responds.

"I'm alright, Tim. You can head home for the night," you look at Jason for a moment, and he raises an eyebrow, "thanks though."

Tim pauses, incredulously. "The hell did you tell her?" The question isn't directed at you.

"Just had a quick chat. I said she can sta—" You cover Jason's mouth (oddly reminiscent of a prior instance). You don't want to fan the flames of Tim's curiosity.

"He's giving me the pen back. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"Wait, 'chat?' What about?" Tim suddenly switches topics.

"Goodnight, Tim." You smile wryly. Tim says your name, as Jason hangs up the phone, you frown. "You didn't have to hang up on him."

"He wouldn't've shut up if I didn't." Jason offers the phone back to you. You grab it, pocketing it into the pouch of your hoodie. You tilt your head, a silent nod. He isn't exactly wrong, but Tim has been helpful.

"So…" You attempt to shift topic, moving over towards the bookshelf from earlier. "You like to read?"

Jason leans back casually, "No, I just put them on display."

You frown, the bookmarked book said otherwise. "Rightttt," You drawl out. You pick up the copy of The Great Gatsby, thumbing the pages until you reach the index card. Jason watches you, not saying anything, eying the way you pick up the index card.

"Really?" You wiggle the paper towards him, but even you are a bit careful. After all, if it's in this good condition, you'd like to preserve it.

Jason gives you a small smile, "I needed a bookmark."

"So you used my message?" You raise an eyebrow at the index card.

He shrugs, "It was conveniently located. It's worked pretty well so far. Thanks for that."

You place it back, shelving the book. "Yeah. Let me know if you need another."

Jason nods sagely, "Back-ups would be nice."

You chuckle, "You wish." You slowly move your way around his apartment. You feel his eyes follow you as you move around. "Is it just you here?"

Jason nods, "Yeah," his words quiet, but you hear them clearly.

You walk around the kitchen island, "You like it like that?" You circle around it, heading back over to him. "Just you?"

His eyes flicker up to you, his gaze unreadable. "I manage." He looks down, rubbing his knee.

You look down at him before hesitantly settling down on the opposite side of the couch from him. Well, "opposite" is generous. You refrain from getting close enough to touch him, but he is sprawled out so vastly that you're forced into an awkward position.

You look over to him, "You gonna let me on the couch or what?"

His lips twitch, eyes alight in amusement as he turns to face you. In an attempt to give him some semblance of personal space, you press yourself against the back of the couch, clearing up what little space you had. He kicks his legs up, laying his feet upon your lap, and all you can do is stare at him, aghast.

You scrunch your nose up, glaring at him. "Dude, you stink." You attempt to shove his legs off of you, unsure how to proceed.

He doesn't make it very easy, forcing you to exert some effort in tossing his legs off you. "You're the one who sat down."

"You treat all guests like this?" You glare at him, attempting to distance yourself from him, disgusted.

He holds his hands up in surrender, now fully laying down on the couch. His neck is propped up on the armrest, arms crossed, and legs glued to your lap. "You aren't a guest. You broke into my apartment." He stares at the ceiling, a smile on his face.

You finally shove his feet off of you, "Okay, but you said I could stay. That sounds like a promotion from 'trespasser' to 'guest.'" You sit up on the edge of the cushion, ready to stand at any further attempts of trapping you he has in mind.

"Ah," he raises a single finger up, waving it at you condescendingly, "you said that you could stay, not me."

You meet his smug expression with an unimpressed one. "Alright," you sigh, standing up. He startles slightly, sitting up to watch you head to the door.

"Where're you going?" He asks, and you find yourself almost charmed by his stupefaction.

"Home?" You toss on your hood off your back, ready to brave the freezing weather.

Jason places his elbow onto the back of the couch, eyebrow raised, "It's one in the morning."

You open the door, a blast of cold wind whipping past you. "Glad you know how to read a clock."

"You even have a ride?" Jason asks, looking you up and down.

You chuckle, shutting the door slightly, but not closing it. "You won't believe this, but Red Hood actually told my ride to 'fuck off.'" You do air quotes.

Jason relaxes his head against his propped up hand, "Crazy," he deadpans. "So what, you just gonna walk home?"

You pause, thinking about it. Technically you could. You've walked further in the past. Sure it's Gotham, but perhaps you can convince Jason to lend you a bat or something (ha, get it?). Honestly, thinking back to the drive, it'd probably be like a thirty minute walk you could—

"Tell me you aren't actually considering it." Jason sits up straighter, now ready to stand up.

You stand there, frowning, "I mean you proposed it."

"I was joking," he rubs his temples before standing up. "I'll take you home."

"You don't have to do that…" You open the door wider, ready to leave. Jason, as if sensing your idea, moves past you to shut the door, locking it.

"I know." He looks at you before heading back to the couch. You shift on your feet as he puts his boots back on, when he finishes he grabs his leather jacket. He's about to put it on when he stops, he looks you up and down (again).

"What— Oh my—" You're cut off by his leather jacket smacking you in the face.

"How can you and Tim plan to break into my apartment and forget to wear proper clothing for the weather?" Jason doesn't even spare you a glance, heading to his room down the hall. He returns seconds later with another leather jacket and two motorcycle helmets, giving you an odd look. "You gonna put it on or freeze?"

Slowly, you place the leather jacket down onto the couch "You don't need to give me your jacket. It's a quick drive anyway."

Jason grabs the jacket and attempts to give it to you again, "It doesn't matter if it's a quick drive, it's cold and we're taking my bike."

You open your mouth, but he raises his eyebrows as if challenging your next words. You don't break eye contact as he slowly puts the leather jacket back into your arms. "Guess you make a good point." You mutter softly. Jason huffs, muttering something under his breath. You aren't sure what he says, but you feel bad for taking so long since Jason patiently waits for you to finish putting the jacket on before opening the door once again. "Thanks, Jason." You look at the ground as you speak, before turning your gaze up to his. His mouth is parted slightly in surprise before settling into something more quiet. His eyes squint slightly, and you furrow your eyebrows at his expression. He's openly smiling now. "What's so funny?"

He blinks, and the moment that felt almost too personal vanished. His countenance settles into something more familiar. He lightly taps your shoulder, "Jacket on hoodie combo. Quite the fashion statement you got there." He uses his arm to push you out of the apartment. Not forceful, but enough to get you moving. "Watch your step."

You stumble out of his apartment, "I'll have you know this outfit had Tim's approval."

Jason barks out a sharp laugh, "That was your first mistake."

You chuckle softly, your warm breath visible in the air. Jason walks past you, heading down to the parking lot as you follow behind him. "Where do you live anyway?" He hops onto his bike. You tell him your address as he checks his phone, plugging in the location. He looks from his phone up to you, "Well?"

You raise an eyebrow, "Well, what?"

"You gonna get on?" He asks, head tilted slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, and your eyes follow the action. He smirks softly as you clear your throat.

"Right, I was just…" You had never been on a motorcycle before. Jason watches as you slowly make your way onto the seat, your arms settled onto your legs. He eyes you out of the corner of his eye. Just as you finally get accustomed to it, he shoves a helmet into your lap. You smile, giving him a quiet "Thanks."

"Dick never give you a ride on his bike?" He shifts his body around slightly, looking down at your hands stiffly placed on your thighs. His arm adjusts slightly, raising to almost grab your own, but he stops. "Quick warning," he eyes your hand before looking up to you, "you're gonna wanna hold on."

You nod, not trusting yourself to respond as he revs the bike. Wincing at the sound, you slowly wrap your arms around his torso, causing him to stiffen up. "Sorry!" You wince, voice competing with the bike. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. Despite stealing your pen, you don't think he is a bad person. You already feel awful making the guy drive you home after you broke into his apartment.

He clears his throat, the sound is low, you barely catch it, "'s fine," he mutters softly, "ready? Just follow my lead." You nod against his back, finding yourself thankful he insisted you wear the jacket. He starts up his bike, and you give his torso a tight squeeze in anticipation as he moves out.

The ride is quiet, but quiet isn't necessarily bad. As the minutes pass, you begin to feel yourself relax. It also helps that as it progresses, so does Jason. You can't see his expression, covered by the helmet, but for some reason you can't help but find yourself wondering. You look down at your hands wrapped around him, then back at him, concentrated on the road ahead. You'd never met Jason before before his time as Red Hood. Unlike Dick, you never witnessed his time as Robin. Would things be different if you did?

You lean slightly into him unthinkingly. If he notices it, he doesn't say anything. You attempt to catch his eye, but he doesn't spare you a glance. You look at his hands, clenched around the handlebars, turning your focus to his mirrors. Coincidentally, he also looks in his mirrors, catching you observing him. You look away. He pulls up to a stop light, "You alright?" He asks, turning his head to face you slightly.

You swallow, nodding. "Yeah, I'm good." He nods in acknowledgment , the light turning green.

It's not long before he pulls up to your apartment. "This it?" He asks, turning towards you.

"Mhm," you hum, turning towards your apartment. "Thanks, Jason Todd." You remove the helmet, the cold air attacking you once more.

He removes his helmet too, revealing the tired, yet mirthful glint in his eyes. "Of course," he says your full name. You can't hold back the smile at it. The first time he said it in the cave it sounded like he was stating facts. Like you were something to be cataloged.

Now? The way he says it… It's quiet, personal. It was a small joke that spiraled out of proportion. You can imagine somebody might be offended by such an impersonal gesture. However, neither of you appear upset at how you address one another. In the past the tone was teasing, but it doesn't feel that way anymore.

It's between you two, and only you two. Natural in a way that can't be replicated with anybody else. Even with Dick, somebody you kind of grew up with, saying his name never felt so… personal. Sure he'd call you pet names, but you had learned long ago that's just how Dick rolled. Maybe that's why you feel your heart stutter as Jason says just your name, no last name attached. Your eyes snapped to him. It's a step past teasing… almost intimate. It's not the "sweethearts" Dick would throw at you relentlessly. It's simply… you.

"What?" You snap out of your head, still caught by the whole name thing. Frowning, Jason looks at you expectantly.

"Geez, did you get any sleep before coming to my place? Don't fall asleep here, you're almost home." He rests his helmet onto his lap, still looking at you.

Chuckling, you shake your head, "No, sorry, I'm just…" You pause, "Thanks for the ride." You give the helmet back to him.

"No need to make a big deal out of it." His diverts his gaze from you to the helmet, brushing off imaginary dust.

You smile, "Still, thanks." You aren't sure when to look away from him. Is this goodbye? Should you say bye? No… it feels too formal. Goodnight? Is that too casual? Maybe you should just—

"Need me to walk you up?" He asks, his gaze unreadable.

Your eyes widen dramatically, "No! Uh— Not that I don't want you too. I mean, it's just right there. I'll be fine. Thank you," you swallow, "thanks… though."

Jason's unreadable gaze turns into something almost fond. "Of course," he turns away, as if aware you're over-analyzing his face, shielding himself from any further examination. "Text me when you get home, 'kay?" The eye facing you flickers to your body, but he doesn't turn to face you. His attempt at casual indifference makes you smile internally.

"Mm, two things, one: I am already home," you gesture to the building. "Two: I don't have your number." He blinks at you, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to reason through something. It's kind of funny, you can actually see him think on his face, wondering how you texted him to begin with, before realizing it was on the Batcomputer.

"Well," he holds his hand out, "perhaps we should change that." You feel your heart begin to race, placing your phone onto his hands. He immediately types in his contact info before holding it back towards you. You take it back, looking at the screen.

Jason Todd

You raise an eyebrow at him, "Insistent, huh? Wanna add your middle name too?" You tease. Jason huffs, a small puff of air visible in the cold Gotham atmosphere. He snatches your phone back, typing something on it, and handing it back.

Jason

Face heating up in spite of the cold weather, you chuckle softly. You can't help your heart's increase in tempo. It's so stupid, it's literally just his damn name. Removing his last name doesn't mean anything, but your heart sings at the gesture. "Prettyy sure removing your last name is kinda the opposite of what I asked." You wave your phone at him.

He scoffs, but you can see the smile on his face. "Goodnight," he says your name, and only your name. "Text me once you make it inside your apartment."

You nod, your smile widening at his concern, "Goodnight, Jason."

Slowly, you walk away from him, expecting him to leave as soon as you turn your back. He doesn't. He watches as you make your way inside the building. You offer him a small wave before entering. He nods, putting his helmet back on, and driving off. With a grin on your face that should not be there at 2:14 AM, you make your way to your apartment.

Now, of course, after all of that, you couldn't sleep. You hadn't even taken a shower yet. Instead, you laid on the floor, on your phone. You had texted Jason once you made it inside, a quick message. He had liked it a couple minutes after you sent it, making you wonder if he liked it while driving.

As you sat on the floor, doomscrolling, you couldn't help but feel… kinda pathetic. I mean this is basically how you acted with Dick back when you were kids. You refuse to regress to the "idiot in love with (former) Robin" phase. It's not like you even love him. You scoff. Not doing that again. With that thought fueling you, you take your time doing your night routine. You remove your jacket— wait.

You look down at the leather jacket laid comfortably over your torso being used as a makeshift blanket.

God, he's going to think you did it on purpose after stealing your pen. You groan, carefully taking the jacket and hanging it up at the front of your closet. Guess you'll need to return that. 

Ignoring your (accidental) theft, by the time you've finished your routine it's just past 2:30, and you nestle yourself into your warm bed, ready to let sleep capture you. Then, just as you make sure your phone is charging, you get a notification. Usually you wouldn't care, but its sharp ring signaled it to be text. Curious, you check your phone to see who is messaging you at this time.

Jason

You want to know something crazy? I think somebody just stole my jacket.

Delivered 2:34 AM