i forgive it all as it comes back to me

He had notes on the child part. What age made statistical sense? What financial position made the most sense? What neighborhood, what school district, what—

The plan did not account for a Tuesday in March.

Specifically: a Tuesday in March after a terrible week, after a case that had gone three days too long, after he'd come home at two in the morning to find you still awake with leftover takeout and a movie you'd paused and that specific look on your face that meant I'm not going to ask how bad it was, just come here —

The plan had not accounted for that Tuesday at all.

He found out on a Saturday.

You'd been quiet in a way that wasn't your regular quiet — you had a comfortable quiet, the kind that meant nothing needed to be said, and this wasn't that. This was the quiet of someone choosing their words carefully before they'd decided what the words were.

Tim noticed. Tim always noticed things. It was the whole problem, really.

"What's wrong," he said, not a question, over coffee.

"Nothing's wrong," you said.

He waited.

You'd learned early on that Tim Drake waiting was a specific and patient thing, and that it always, eventually, worked.

You put down your mug.

"Okay, so," you said.

He waited.

"You know how I was feeling weird last week."

"Yes." He'd catalogued it. Mentally. Because he catalogued everything.

"And I thought it was stress, and then I thought it was something I ate — "

"Yes."

"And then I took a test this morning." You looked at him with the expression of someone who had made peace with a thing and was now watching someone else begin the journey. "And then I took two more. Because one felt statistically insufficient."

Tim went very still.

"Three tests," he said.

"All the same result."

The kitchen was extremely quiet.

"Okay," Tim said.

"Okay?"

"Okay, I'm — " He stopped. Started again. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, actually. Kind of calm." You tilted your head. "How are you feeling?"

Tim opened his mouth.

Closed it.

"I need a minute," he said, very precisely, and stood up and walked to the window and stood there looking at the street below with the posture of someone doing complex internal mathematics.

You drank your coffee and let him have the minute.

He came back after four.

"My plan," he said, sitting back down, "had this at thirty-one. Earliest. After the property acquisition and — there's a whole section, I have it in a document — "

"I know about the document, Tim."

"You've seen the document?"

"You left it open on the laptop once. I wasn't snooping." You paused. "It's very thorough."

"It had reasons. Financial projections. There were charts."

"I remember the charts."

He put his head in his hands.

You watched him with the expression you'd perfected over two years of being with Tim Drake, which was fond and patient and quietly, genuinely entertained.

"Tim," you said.

"I'm fine," he said, into his hands.

"I know."

"I'm just recalibrating."

"I know."

"The plan needs — there are variables now that weren't — "

"Tim." You put your hand on his arm. "We're going to be fine."

He looked up. His eyes were doing the thing where they'd gone very focused, which meant his brain had shifted from reaction to processing, and processing with Tim Drake was something to witness.

"Yeah," he said, slowly. "Yeah, we are." A beat. "I'm going to need a new document."

The new document was something to behold.

You found it open on the laptop three days later — he'd clearly meant to close it before you saw, but he'd gotten distracted, because Tim always got distracted mid-task when a new branch of thought appeared — and you sat down and read the whole thing with your coffee going cold in your hand.

It was called: Revised Timeline and Preparation Framework (v1.0).

There were sections.

Section One: Immediate Medical. GP appointment, OB referral, prenatal vitamins cross-referenced with current supplements to check for interactions. A note that said confirm folic acid levels, don't assume, verify.

Section Two: Financial Restructuring. Which was thirty-two bullet points long and involved words like liquidity and education fund initiation, and, at the bottom, in smaller text that felt almost like a confession: update will and beneficiary designations. Do not put this off.

Section Three: The Apartment. A list of what the second bedroom currently contained, what it would need to not contain, and then a separate list of what it would need to actually contain. This section had a note that said: " Do not buy everything immediately. Prioritize. Make a staged acquisition plan. And then below that, in different colored text, clearly added later: look into glider chairs, the research on them is actually compelling.

Section Four: Reading List.

The reading list was two pages.

You scrolled through it slowly. Pregnancy development week by week. Infant sleep research — with a sub-note that said Weissbluth vs Ferber, read both, form your own conclusion. Nutrition. Child development stages. Cognitive development research. A note at the bottom that said: ask about pediatrician recommendations, don't just pick one, interview multiple.

Interview multiple.

He was going to interview pediatricians.

You closed the laptop.

Tim appeared in the doorway with two mugs of coffee.

He clocked your expression.

"You saw the document," he said.

"I saw the document."

"It's a working draft."

"Tim." You took the mug he offered. "You have a reading list."

"There's a lot to know. I don't know any of it. That's …  that's a gap that needs addressing."

"It's two pages."

"I've narrowed it down."

You looked at him for a moment. He had the look he got when he was braced for you to tell him he was being excessive, which was a specific kind of braced shoulders slightly in, jaw slightly tight.

"The glider chair thing is actually correct," you said. "My sister had one. She swore by it."

Something in his posture shifted. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Good call."

He sat down next to you. "I know it's a lot."

"It's very Tim."

"Is that okay?"

"It's extremely okay." You leaned into his shoulder. "I like that you're doing this. I like that your brain immediately went to how do I make this work instead of anything else."

"I panicked first," he said, honestly.

"You had four minutes of panic and then made a document. That's practically zen for you."

He made a sound that was almost a laugh. "I still have the old document open in another tab. I keep looking at the original timeline and then looking at the new one."

"Does it bother you? That it's not the original plan?"

Tim was quiet for a moment. The real kind of quiet, not the processing kind.

"It bothers me that I can't control for all the variables," he said finally. "That there's so much I don't know yet. That I might get things wrong and the stakes are …" He exhaled. "The stakes are different now."

"They are," you agreed.

"But when I'm not thinking about the variables … " He stopped.

"What?"

He glanced at you sideways, like he wasn't sure how the words were going to land. "I keep thinking about teaching them things. Like — what they'll be curious about. What kind of person will they be?" A pause. "Whether they'll like to read."

"That's the part that's not on the spreadsheet," you said.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "That part doesn't really fit in a spreadsheet."

You stayed leaning against him in comfortable silence.

"The document is fine," you told him. "Make as many as you need."

He was already reaching for his laptop.

Week eight arrived with morning sickness that had clearly not read any kind of schedule, and Tim responded to this development the way Tim responded to all new information, which was to research it at an intensity that would be alarming if you didn't know him.

"There's conflicting data on ginger," he said, at six in the morning, sitting on the bathroom floor next to you, "in terms of whether the supplement form is more effective than the raw form. The studies are inconsistent. But anecdotally — "

"Tim," you said.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. Stop talking."

"Right. Yes. Sorry."

He handed you a cold, damp cloth and didn't say anything else.

That was the thing about Tim, which took some people a while to understand: when he finally stopped talking, he was still entirely, completely there. Present in the specific way of someone who had decided that wherever you were was where he was going to be.

He sat on the bathroom floor with you at six in the morning and didn't mention the document once.

He had opinions about the OB.

"She seemed good," you said, on the way home from the first appointment.

"She was good," Tim agreed. "I have some follow-up questions."

"You had a list."

"A preliminary list. She answered most of them. The follow-up questions are the ones that arose from the answers." He glanced at you. "Is that okay? That I had a list?"

"Tim, I love that you had a list. She loved that you had a list. You could tell."

"She did seem to appreciate the specific questions."

"She called you thorough."

"That was a compliment."

"It was absolutely a compliment." You took his hand. "You're going to be the most prepared person in any waiting room we're ever in."

"That's the goal," he said. And then, after a moment: "The heartbeat was … "

He stopped.

You looked at him.

Tim Drake, who had read seventeen books on fetal development and could tell you the statistical likelihood of any number of outcomes, had gone briefly, completely quiet.

"It was fast," he said finally.

"It was," you agreed.

"That's … that's normal, at this stage. Hundred and fifty to a hundred and eighty beats per minute, I knew that, I read that… " He stopped again. "But hearing it is different than reading it."

"Yeah," you said softly. "It is."

He drove the rest of the way home, not saying much. You let him have it. He was processing, and Tim's processing was its own quiet country, and you'd learned that the right thing to do was just be in it with him.

When you got home, he updated the document.

But he also just sat with you on the couch for a while. Didn't open any of the books. Didn't make any lists.

Just sat.

You thought that might be the closest Tim Drake ever got to being speechless.

The nursery became a project in a way that was very specifically Tim, which meant it was researched, phased, and occasionally argued about in the best possible way.

"The research on color and infant visual development is pretty clear," he said, standing in the middle of the second bedroom, which currently contained his backup computer equipment, three boxes of old case files, and a very sad exercise bike that had never been used. "High contrast is more stimulating in the early months. Soft colors are fine, but they’re more for the parents than the baby."

"I like the soft colors," you said.

"So do I, aesthetically." He looked around. "We can do both. Soft base, high-contrast elements. There are mobiles designed specifically for … "

"Tim."

"Yeah?"

"Let's pick a color first. Before the developmental research."

"That's fair. What color do you want?"

You looked at the sad, grey walls of the spare room. "Something warm. Not yellow. Maybe green? Soft green?"

Tim looked at the walls. "That would work with natural wood tones. And there's a specific shade — I'll find the research."

"Please don't find research about paint colors."

"It exists. That's a fact."

"Tim."

"Soft green. Got it. No research. Just the color." He made a note on his phone. "I'll get samples."

He got eleven samples.

You picked one.

He was genuinely fine with this. He'd just needed the options.

The thing about Tim — the thing you'd known for a while, but understood differently now — was that the planning wasn't anxiety exactly. Or it wasn't only anxiety.

It was care.

It was Tim's specific way of saying you matter to me, this matters to me, I'm going to make sure I do this right in the only language he'd ever been fully fluent in.

The books were loved. The document was love. The eleven paint samples and the interview list for pediatricians and the very detailed spreadsheet comparing stroller safety ratings — that was all love, expressed in the particular dialect of a person who had learned early that preparation was the closest thing to protection.

You thought about this at week twenty-two, watching him sit on the floor of the nursery — soft green now, and honestly gorgeous — with a flat-pack crib and an instruction manual he'd already read twice, methodically laying out the hardware in order of assembly sequence.

"You labeled the bags," you said.

"It's more efficient." He held up a tiny labeled zip-lock bag. "This is stage three fasteners. Once you get to stage three, you don't want to be sorting through everything looking for the right — "

"Tim." You came and sat on the floor next to him. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always." He didn't look up from the hardware.

"You're going to be really good at this."

He did look up then.

"You don't know that," he said. Not dismissive. Just be careful, the way he was careful with things he wanted badly enough that he was afraid to hold them.

"I know you," you said. "That's enough."

Tim looked at you for a moment. Then he looked at the half-assembled crib, the labeled bags, and the soft green walls.

"I keep thinking about things I don't know how to prepare for," he said. "Like — I can research sleep schedules and developmental stages and car seat installation. But I can't research the actual person. Who they're going to be. What they're going to need from me specifically."

"No," you agreed. "That part you just have to show up for."

"I'm good at showing up."

"I know you are." You leaned your head on his shoulder. "That's what I mean."

He was quiet for a moment.

"The crib instructions are actually well-designed," he said finally. "Clear diagrams. Logical sequence. Whoever wrote them was thorough."

"Highest compliment you can give."

"I thought about writing them a letter."

"Tim."

"I didn't send it."

"Okay."

"I drafted it."

"Of course you did." You kissed his shoulder. "Finish the crib."

He finished the crib.

It was perfect, obviously. Every piece exactly where it was supposed to be. He checked it three times and then once more, and then looked at it with an expression that was trying very hard to be a clinical assessment and was not succeeding.

"It's a good crib," you said.

"It's a structurally sound crib," he said.

"Tim."

"It's a great crib," he said, quieter. "It's — yeah."

Week thirty-eight.

Tim had a bag packed. Had had it packed since week thirty-four, because the standard recommendation was thirty-six weeks, and Tim Drake did not do things at the last minute.

He'd also — and you'd discovered this by accident — made a laminated card.

A laminated card.

It lived in his wallet. It had the hospital route, the backup route, the OB's number, the hospital's direct line, the relevant insurance information, and a three-step checklist for the moment things started.

"It's efficient," he said when you found it.

"It's laminated," you said.

"Lamination protects against — "

"Tim. You laminated an emergency plan."

"The ink can smear. Under stress. It's practical."

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

"I love you so much," you said.

"The lamination is a reasonable precaution," he said, but he was almost smiling.

It happened on a Wednesday, which Tim would later note was statistically neither the most nor least common day of the week for labor to begin, and which he would also note he'd somehow still not fully prepared himself for despite thirty-eight weeks of trying.

You called him from home, calm as anything: "Hey. So I think this is it."

There was a pause.

"Okay," he said, in the voice he used when he was being very controlled. "Okay. I'm — how far apart — "

"About eight minutes."

"Right. Right, okay. I'm leaving now. Don't — stay where you are, I'll be there in — "

"Tim."

"Yeah."

"The laminated card."

A breath. "Right. Yes. I have it." A pause where you could hear him finding it. "I have it."

"Then you're fine," you said. "Come home."

He was there in eleven minutes, which was impressive by any measure. He came through the door with the bag already over his shoulder and looked at you on the couch with an expression that was trying to be the checklist and was instead something much closer to the surface than that.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," you said. "I'm okay."

"I know you are." He came and sat next to you. "I brought the bag."

"I can see that."

"And the insurance card. And I called the OB, she's aware, she said when they're five minutes apart — "

"Tim."

"Yeah."

"Sit with me for a second. Before we go."

He sat. He put the bag down. He took your hand with both of his, which was a Tim Drake thing — he always held on with both hands, like once wasn't quite enough — and he just breathed for a moment.

"I've prepared for everything I can think of," he said.

"I know."

"There's going to be things I haven't prepared for."

"Definitely."

"I don't love that."

"I know." You squeezed his hands. "We'll figure those out when we get to them."

He looked at you. The expression on his face was not the document, not the reading list, not the laminated card. It was something underneath all of that — something that had been there since a Tuesday in March that had rearranged everything — and it was, you thought, the most unplanned thing about him.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," you said.

He picked up the bag.

The birth was, in Tim's words, "not what I'd modeled."

In your words: "kind of intense, actually really beautiful, also Tim cried."

"I didn't cry," Tim said, from the chair next to your hospital bed, holding a very small person with the concentrated focus of someone who had read extensively about proper newborn head support and was now applying that knowledge.

"Tim. I watched you cry."

"I was — it was an emotional response to significant stimuli. That's different than crying."

"That's crying."

He looked down at the very small person. "She's lighter than I thought she'd be," he said. "Based on the estimated weight, I thought — " He stopped.

"What?"

"She's looking at me," he said, quietly.

"She is."

"That's — the visual acuity at this stage is limited, she can see light and shadow and movement, I know that — " He stopped again. "Hi," he said to her. Very softly.

You watched him.

Tim Drake, who had a document and a reading list and a laminated card, who had interviewed three pediatricians and researched glider chairs and color-coded his preparation into phases — Tim Drake looked at the small person looking approximately in the direction of his face, and all of the planning went somewhere quiet and he was just there, present, in the way that had nothing to do with preparation.

"Hi," he said again.

The small person made a sound.

Tim looked up at you.

"She made a sound," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "She does that."

"I — " He looked back at her. "I know what the sounds mean, developmentally, I have a chart — "

"Tim."

"I know."

"You don't need the chart right now."

He looked at her for a long moment.

"No," he said. "I don't."

He didn't reach for his phone. Didn't update the document. Didn't make a note.

He just held her, both hands, careful and completely present, in the soft quiet of a room where something had happened that no amount of planning could have fully described.

The Tuesday in March had not been in the plan.

This, Tim Drake was beginning to understand, was the best thing it could possibly have been.

(The document was updated later. He couldn't help it. But at the very top of version 4.0, above all the sections and subsections, he'd added a single line:

Some variables are not variables. Some things just are.

He never told you he'd written it. You found it six months later when you borrowed his laptop.

You didn't tell him you'd seen it.

His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.

The Joker had called it “light acid.”

As if acid could ever be light.

As if anything about it had been.

After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.

Jason never got that stage.

He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.

Until now.

At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.

There is hair there.

Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.

Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.

It doesn’t.

The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.

It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.

Not that time.

“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.

He looks dreadful.

That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.

He leans closer.

At least his skin looks better.

That part softens something in him.

You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You  just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.

He grumbled the whole time.

You ignored him the whole time.

In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.

Jason had fallen asleep like that.

Just like that.

He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.

“I knew it was hair!”

Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.

He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.

You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.

Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.

Like you belong here.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.

“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.

He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.

“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.

You hum, pretending to consider it.

One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.

“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”

Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.

Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.

“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”

The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest. 

Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.

“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”

He stills.

It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.

“I…” he starts, and the word drags.

Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.

“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t have to.

The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.

“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.

Jason watches you through the mirror.

Why now?

It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.

He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.

Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.

Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.

He doesn’t say that.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.

Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.

The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.

But you didn’t run.

The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.

If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.

You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.

“C’mere,” you murmur. 

You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.

“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.

“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.

He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.

You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.

Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.

“Hold still,” you murmur.

He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”

“You’re flexing.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.

He forces his shoulders to drop.

Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.

But this?

This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him. 

You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.

Your touch changes when you reach the scars.

Not hesitant. Not afraid.

Just attentive.

You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.

You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”

He snorts quietly despite himself.

The razor touches his skin for the first time.

It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Jason feels it more than he expected to.

Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time. 

That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.

The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.

He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.

“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Yeah.”

The answer is simple. Immediate.

Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek. 

His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.

You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.

“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.

Jason’s eyes close for a second.

He lets them.

There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.

When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.

“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”

“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.

You grin. “Sure, baby.”

You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.

He watches you again.

The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.

When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.

“There,” you whisper.

You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.

“Much better.”

Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.

The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.

He looks at himself in the mirror again.

The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.

But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.

He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.

Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Thats the goal,” you say.

And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.

jason peter todd tag-list : @justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree, @kekeanna266, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theonlysakura, @givemefinganame, @theonlyshowgirl, @melllzz, @strawbrysapphic, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @tasia13, @foivetimesacharm, @noble-17, @celestialend,@superuddertrash-blog, @revesephemeres, @redhooduwu, @themessedupsonata

Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too

(｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)

Dick Grayson:

Jason Todd shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want to be here. And yet, he had nothing better to do and the opportunity to get Dick back for what he did to him last week was just too good.

He almost feels bad when he finishes telling Dick what his dare is and sees the horrified look on your face. He clocks it immediately—the way your mouth presses into a line, the way you’re suddenly shaking your leg, the way you can’t even look at Dick.

“That’s a stupid dare.”

You nod in agreement but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little disappointed. Why wouldn’t he want to make out with you?

Jason simply shrugs. “You can always choose truth if you’re feeling shy.”

It’s the way Jason says it that has your ears perking up. You risk a glance at Dick only to see him staring right at you, offering a sheepish smile. You nod, ever so slightly, the quietest signal that what he’s about to do is okay.

Dick rises to his feet and your heart jumps into your throat. You set your cup on the coffee table and match his movements, standing up on shaky legs. Your pulse picks up with every step closer to Dick and you’re painfully aware of the distance between you growing shorter and shorter.

Eyes are on you, the rest of the people in the room—Dick’s friends, mostly—watching with bated breath.

As if the universe doesn’t hate you enough in this moment, you stumble over your own feet, Dick catching you in his arms and pulling you against his chest. 

“I gotcha.”

You’re at a loss for words, everything you could possibly say right now caught in your throat. You settle under his touch, forcing yourself to take deep breaths to keep yourself cool through the moment. 

It’s Dick that hesitates. Hands on your waist and lower back, lips only inches from yours, he freezes up. Lucky for him, you don’t.

You press yourself closer to him and tilt your head back, parting your lips to meet his. You catch his bottom lips between yours, eyes fluttering shut, and let yourself move against him. Something woody lingers on his mouth, floods your senses as you kiss him.

Dick tugs you closer, beckoning you in until the space between you is nonexistent. You forget how to breathe for a second, heat crawling up your spine until it suffocates you.

You pull away, Dick grinning goofily at you. His cheeks are slightly pink, his shoulders tensed.

You open your mouth to speak, only to be cut off.

“What’s wrong, Grayson?” Jason heckles. “At a loss for words?”

You’re too busy watching Dick’s own flustered face to realize you’re completely free of any shame, the heat that was rising up your spine having dissipated into nothingness. 

“You feeling alright?” You tilt your head at Dick, a knowing grin on your face.

He shakes his head. “I think I need you to kiss me better.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes and oblige.

Wally West:

Wally’s eyes are on you. Your eyes are on the floor. Knots form in your stomach, heat crawls up your spine and you cannot bring yourself to look at the man who just spun the bottle that landed on you.

Roy Harper’s elbow digs into your side. “Hey, we don’t have all night.”

“Asshole.” You mutter.

He snickers in return, clapping a hand on your back and pushing you forwards. You stumble to your feet, eyes still on the ground, and make your way across to you to where Wally’s sitting. More eyes are on you, the eyes of your fellow teammates who absolutely know about the torch you carry for the red haired speedster.

It only sends the heat racing further through your veins. 

Five more steps to Wally. Your heart pounds in your chest, smashing so hard against your ribcage you’re sure it’ll break.

Wally leans back where he’s sitting on the floor, crossing his arms behind his head. You wish you had something to throw at him.

It was his idea to play Spin the Bottle, him who grabbed the empty Pink Whitney bottle that Kory had left laying around and set it on the floor. Him who made you sit through several rounds of this while your nerves only grew more and more. 

You’d been pleading with the universe, to any higher power that would listen, for the bottle to not land on you. But then you’d considered the possibility of having to watch Wally kiss someone else and venom had risen to your throat and then you weren’t sure whether you wanted the bottle to land on you or not.

You swallow hard and force yourself forwards, straddling Wally’s waist and sitting down on the meat of his thighs. You can feel the thick muscle through his jeans, feel it rub against your own thighs as you sit down.

Wally grins at you, cocking his head to the side, red strands falling into his face. “Don’t worry,” he winks. “I’ll be gentle.”

The heat grows unbearable. Your hands shake slightly as you raise them to cup his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And without another thought, you’re leaning forwards and pressing your lips onto his, snaking your hands to the back of his neck to tangle them in his hair.

Wally gasps, tongue darting out to swipe the backs of your teeth. His lips move perfectly in sync with yours, hands grasping at your hips and tugging you in closer. 

A small sound of disappointment slips from his lips when you pull away. His hands don’t leave your hips. His lips are swollen and sticky with saliva, cheeks flushed almost as red as his hair. And somehow, someway, you’re completely fine.

You poke his red cheek. “You feeling okay, Walls?”

“Don’t—don’t even,” he grumbles, fingertips digging into your skin. 

Roy claps his hands, shaking his head in disbelief.

Barry Allen:

You’re not sure why you agreed to play this stupid game. You’re not even sure who came up with the idea to play this. Given almost everyone here is either pushing thirty or well beyond it, you have no idea where seven minutes of heaven even came from.

But now, put on the spot and told to get into the old janitors closet with Barry fucking Allen of all people, you wish you’d never agreed to play. More than that, judging by the stupid smirk on Hal Jordan’s face, you wish you’d never told the stupid Lantern about the torch you carry for Barry.

Hal whistles lowly, looking between you and the speedster. “Come on now, we don’t have all day.”

You flip him the bird and shoot him a glare, a weak distraction from the knots that your stomach has been tied in. Barry’s gaze burns into your face but you can’t bring yourself to look, leaving yourself to wonder if he feels as flustered as you do right now.

You glance at the closet, the door haunting you. The sound of Barry’s Converse sneakers scuffing against the floor has your head snapping up, eyes finally meeting his. Heat immediately blooms in the pit of your stomach, crawling it’s way through each and every one of your veins.

You swallow hard and force yourself to meet his strides and walk towards the closet.

Hal, not being able to help himself as usual, grins wickedly. “You kids have fun, okay?”

Barry scoffs and mutters something under his breath that you can’t hear. You silently put a curse on the pilot, hoping even more of his hair will go grey.

The door to the closet closes, darkness falls and you find yourself pressed chest to chest with Barry Allen.

“We don’t have to kiss if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

You can barely make out the frown on his face. “I can feel your heart racing,” he mumbles, and it sends a shiver up your spine.

“That doesn’t mean I’m uncomfortable.”

“Then what are you?”

You’re not sure why you do it. Maybe it’s the growing tension in this tiny dark closet, or maybe it’s to save yourself from saying something that you’ll great, but suddenly you find your lips pressed against Barry’s.

You expect him to push you away, to want to talk more. You’re not ready for the hunger he responds with, for him to push you against the wall and cup a hand behind your thigh and to graze your lips with his teeth.

It’s not awkward like how you expected it to be. It’s hot and dizzying and has butterflies erupting in your stomach. You kiss him back just as ferociously, snaking your hands up his shoulders and into his hair and tugging on it.

You—a loud knock comes at the door, Barry flinching back from you. You have just enough time to wipe some of the wetness off your mouth before Hal rips the door open and light comes streaming in.

You blink, entirely shocked by the redness of Barry’s cheeks and the complete mess you made of his hair. Hal looks just as surprised as you feel, looking between the mess you made of Barry Allen and your own perfectly composed face.

“Shit,” he says, shaking his head. “You really went for it.”

Barry shoulders past him, grabbing your hand in his. “Shut up, Hal.”

Hal Jordan:

The music blaring from the old bar speakers is almost enough to drown out the sound of Hal Jordan making the last shot in pool. The cue ball clacks against the 8 and you watch with wide eyes as it sails across the table, bounces off the side and perfectly sinks into the pocket he called.

He turns to face you with a toothy grin, pool stick still clutched in his hand. “So?”

Heat rushes to your head as you remember your earlier bet with him. If I get this ball in, he’d said, you have to kiss me like you mean it. 

It was an eye rolling comment, something you’d snorted at despite having a very strong urge to actually kiss him. Not that you’d ever tell Hal that—it would go straight to his head.

But now, faced with the smiling pilot, all messy hair and warm eyes, you kind of wish you hadn’t made that bet.

Barry smiles at you from the other side of the table, his eyes knowing. Your partner at pool, albeit not much help with how clumsy he is, is the only one who knows just how you feel about Hal Jordan. You’re not entirely convinced he didn’t throw the game on purpose just so he can finally stop hearing about Hal Jordan.

You sigh and take a step towards Hal, slowly closing the gap between the two of you. You’re a few inches away when Hal suddenly rests a hand on the small of your back and tugs you flush against him, his lips hovering mere centimetres away from yours.

The breath catches in your throat. You close the gap between you, moving your lips against his. The taste of leftover whiskey and smoke on his lips fills your mouth, the flavour an odd comfort among your racing heart and frayed nerve ends.

Hal’s hand is warm on your back, his body radiating heat through yours. You pull away and swallow away your nerves, forcing a brave smile.

“That good enough for you, Jordan?” You say and you’re entirely surprised you managed to say it without stuttering.

His cheeks are flushed, mouth slightly open as he looks at you in surprise. “I don’t—”

You laugh and Dinah Lance, propped against the counter next to Oliver, wolf whistles. 

“Cat got your tongue?” You go to take a step back only for Hal to catch your wrist. “What, do you want round 2?”

And you should know to never, ever challenge Hal Jordan, especially not when his heart is racing and the adrenaline is hitting him so clearly. Hal tugs you back into him, cupping your chin and smashing his lips back onto yours.

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"Do you think they wear capes just because it looks cool?"

Your question had thrown Tim for a loop. You'd been sitting on the couch in your apartment for a while, just hanging out. Your legs were draped over your friend's lap, one of his hands casually caressing your skin as he checked some work emails.

"What do you mean?" he asked in a soft tone, stopping the caresses as he finally turned slightly to look at you.

"I've been watching some videos of Batman and Robin. Also several of Red Robin. I like how the cape looks, but wouldn't it be a bit of a nuisance in some cases?" you asked, slightly pursing your lips. You had started watching a pixelated video of Batman and Robin jumping across rooftops, their capes billowing in the air.

And then you had ended up watching each and every one of Red Robin's available videos.

That man was fucking hot.

"Well, I don't know... It might get in the way during some fights, but if they're still alive, it must be useful for something." He muttered, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes lingered for a few seconds on your lips, soon pressing his own together before returning to caressing your legs, adjusting them more comfortably on his lap.

"Edna Moda says no capes," you shook your head, moving your finger in the same way. "What if they get caught on an industrial fan or something? It's a possibility."

Tim just sighed, setting his phone aside so he could place both hands on you. "I don't think that'll happen. Their capes look kind of heavy, probably made of some special material. Their suits rarely tear too."

"Hmm... I don't know. I'm just as worried about it." you sighed, letting out a heavier sigh. Batman had been wearing a cape for years; Tim was probably right, it must be helpful. "I guess his capes are useful and look cool."

“Do you really think they look nice?" he chuckled softly as his attention returned to you.

"Obviously! They look incredible. They're always up there on the roof, looking so serious, and their capes move in the wind. If I were a criminal, I wouldn't even dare to peek out the window." You raised both your hands as if in a sign of surrender, shaking your head.

"Although… I wouldn't mind seeing Red Robin up close..." you murmured a little later, your gaze fixed on the tree-shaped stain on your coffee table.

Your statement almost made Tim choke on his own, instantly averting his gaze. "Why would you want that? All the media outlets say he's weird."

"Timothy Jackson Drake." His name came out of your mouth with such seriousness that you could see his body tense completely. He only glanced at you out of the corner of his eye; you never called him by his full name. "You don't seem like you're my best friend. Do you even know me?"

"Of course I do, why wouldn't I know you? I just don't understand why you'd want to be near him," he tried to explain quickly.

"Because he always looks so awkward! Haven't you seen the few videos of him talking to some citizens? He's always so stiff and you can see him trying to soften the interaction but he just can't. He's so weird, I love him."

As you explained your reasons, you let out little giggles. You really did find that boy very handsome, even with the domino mask on. It didn't matter anyway; you knew you'd never meet him in person.

"And I really like how the colors of his suit look on him! And haven't you seen that picture where his cape is completely closed? He could practically disappear into the dark!” As you continued talking and talking about him, a small smile appeared on your friend's lips; he hadn't imagined you were such a fan of his "other self."

"It would be terrifying to run into him at night after you'd committed some crime. Can you imagine? Just seeing his white eyes from a ray of light that hit them." You feigned a shiver before continuing to ramble. Not many people really believed that Red Robin could be truly scary, but in your opinion all the vigilantes managed to terrify criminals at least a little. "Although, since I'm not a criminal, I must admit he looks incredible when he's around."

"I didn't think you liked Red Robin that much. People don't usually take him into account for some things; I've seen them prefer to go directly to Batman." He shrugged, his hands gently massaging your legs; you had realized quite a while ago that he was someone who liked a lot of physical contact.

"I guess it's because of how long they've been seeing him… He seems intelligent and efficient." You muttered, tilting your head. They should give him more recognition. "I think he does his job very well... And he looks good doing it, by the way."

Drake just rolled his eyes, chuckling softly before turning his attention back to his phone to try and hide his flushed cheeks. If he'd known you liked Red Robin so much, he would have tried to interact with you at least once.

Although he had to admit that it made him feel somewhat shy that you thought he looked cute with all that equipment on him.

Perhaps there was a possibility that you might also find him cute without all that? He hoped so.

Tim met you almost two years ago, more specifically at a flower shop he frequented to buy bouquets for Bernard—it was his attempt to get forgiveness after missing his date because of work at the company or as a vigilante—

With so many visits, you ended up becoming friends. Many times he would write to you in advance, asking you to put together a bouquet that would express "regret, longing, and shame." More than three times per week.

Meanwhile, you started joking around. He would tell you the dates he had a date with his boyfriend, and you would text him that afternoon to find out if everything went well or if you should arrange another bouquet. On several occasions he would just appear in the store, looking like a puppy in the rain, putting the bouquet together with you while you explained the meaning of each flower.

There was a day when you asked about his date and he told you there was nothing more to be done. The guy had broken up with him that same day and you certainly couldn't blame him, he stayed in that relationship with Drake for too long.

Somehow you two ended up in a pretty decent bar, drinking some beers while you listened to him moan a little. He was also very aware of all the mistakes he had made during that time; rather, he was surprised that the blond guy hadn't broken up with him sooner.

As time went on, you grew closer. He would occasionally drop off a smoothie at your work, you went out together, and on several occasions you came to visit his office, always carrying a pair of flowers with you to leave in a small vase that you had given him.

Suddenly, you also started hanging out at each other's apartments, cooking together, and even having sleepovers in the living room. You were just two friends in their mid-twenties; Tim didn't always have free time, but when he managed to free up a little, he tried to come see you.

He didn't even know when it happened, he only knew that your smile began to brighten his days, the sound of your voice silenced all the thoughts in his head, and your touch relaxed his body.

Even so, he remained silent, he liked the way your relationship was at the moment and it was no secret to anyone that he was terrible at dating, he didn't want to ruin your friendship. Then yes, he started being much more attentive to you and sometimes used very cute nicknames, but nothing more. It was something you already considered quite normal and you loved being around him.

That afternoon you let out a deep sigh as you left your boss's office. You were supposed to watch movies with Tim that night, but apparently some people had a craving to order 250 flower arrangements for the next morning. You weren't going to leave early, not even if you wanted to.

At the same time as you reached for your cell phone in your back pocket to send him a text, you received a call from him, answering almost instantly.

"Hey, Dollie. Are you off work yet?" he asked in a soft tone, almost too soft. You knew him perfectly well.

"No, and I won't be able to leave until much later. Someone ordered too many flowers for tomorrow morning, and well, you know how it is." You muttered, heading to the back room. At least three other workers would stay with you to assemble them. "But they'll pay us well, that's something."

"Oh... Okay, that's good because I was just about to tell you I wasn't going to be able to make it to the movies, but it's bad because what the fuck, you were supposed to have closed an hour ago, what's your boss doing taking orders?" The guy immediately complained, glancing at his watch. You'd be leaving way too late for it to be safe. "How are you guys supposed to get home? Did he at least call you a taxi?"

“Uh… No, but it's okay, I'll call one when I get done.” You shook your head. It wasn't the best idea, but there was no other option.

"You're not going to go alone in a taxi that late, have you lost your mind? I'll come get you, just let me know when you leave." His voice became much more stern; he knew you liked doing things on your own, but she couldn't allow something like that.

"Tim, really, don't worry about it. I'll probably go with one of my coworkers. If you can't make it to movie night, it's probably because you'll be working late." You didn't want to bother him, much less interrupt his work. "Besides, my apartment isn't that far away; I'll be there quickly."

"Then I'll send you the money and you'll share your location. What are you going to do if the driver goes off course? You didn't want me to teach you self-defense." If he couldn't take you himself, then Red Robin would have to keep an eye on you.

You sighed heavily. Ever since you'd become friends, he'd never let you pay for much; the only times you managed to do so were when he wasn't paying attention. "It's not necessary, really, everything will be fine. I'll let you know when I leave and when I get home."

The other end of the line was silent for a few seconds, only speaking again when you were about to say something. "Let me know when you're about to leave."

"Okay. You'll see, I'll be there in a few minutes, it's not a big deal." Despite how simply you said it, you were aware it wasn't so easy. Anything could happen in a couple of blocks.

"Boyfriend?" one of your coworkers asked with a laugh once you hung up the phone. You shook your head a little.

“Just a friend.” The girl hummed without believing you too much, just bringing together the things they would need to put the arrangements together.

Just as you were about to put your phone down, the screen lit up—a notification from your bank. He'd sent you more than enough to pay for taxis for two months straight. "This dumbass..."

You'd have to get his information somehow to pay him back; you weren't planning on spending it—you weren't planning on taking a taxi. You were going to run all the way back to your apartment.

When you finally stepped out of the store, it was nearly two in the morning. You had only sent a short message to your friend letting him know you were on your way home.

You adjusted the hood of your sweater, saying goodbye to your companions before starting to walk.

Gotham nights were always cold and had an eerie silence. It was always just a matter of time before the sirens of a police car or ambulance wailed, or perhaps you'd hear screams, a car crash, or gunshots. If you were lucky enough, you wouldn't run into any villains up to no good so late.

As you walked, you began to feel watched. The only sounds around you were your footsteps and the small drops falling from the rooftops. You wanted to get home before it started raining again but the dark clouds looming over the city didn't seem to agree with your idea. However, the feeling wouldn't let you feel completely at ease; You were more afraid of the possibility of being watched by something dangerous than of arriving home soaked.

When you were just a couple of blocks from your building, small drops began to fall on your body, and you muttered to yourself that you'd forgotten your umbrella at home. Tim was going to give you a lecture for hours if you ended up with a cold.

The drops had begun to get thicker and the heavy rain had begun to cloud your path, until suddenly none of it was falling on you anymore.

As soon as you looked up, the first thing you noticed was a pair of white eyes beside you. Out of pure instinct, you tried to move away, but a hand briefly touched your waist. "Don't be scared, it's okay.”

You had to blink a couple more times before you realized that the boy in front of you wasn't just any masked man, he was your favorite vigilante. One of your hands flew to your mouth, covering it instantly as you raised your eyebrows and your eyes widened in surprise. "What the—what are you doing here?"

"That's what I should be asking you. It's the middle of the night and it's raining terribly. What are you doing?" His voice seemed familiar, but at the same time it seemed deeper; you couldn't quite place where you had heard it before.

"I... I got off work late and didn't want to call a taxi," you explained, sounding a little embarrassed. You hadn't expected to run into any of the Bats that night, but you weren't complaining either; at least you could feel safer.

"And you preferred to walk alone? At night? In Gotham?" You couldn't see it very well, but you thought he had raised his eyebrows a little.

"Well, if you put it that way, it does sound really bad... But I don't live that far away, nothing's happened to me so far, just some rain." You complained, puffing out your lips, walking slowly while he followed you, you hadn't even noticed that he was covering you from the rain with his cape.

"Just because nothing has happened to you yet doesn't mean it couldn't have happened. Someone was being robbed just two blocks from here." You were only able to look away; you didn't want to agree with him. "Was there really no one to pick you up?"

“My friend offered to pick me up, but I didn't want to bother him... Now I have to figure out how to pay him back for the taxi, that idiot never lets me pay for anything." You almost spat, rolling your eyes. Tim was too sweet to you—when he wasn't bothering you—and you didn't know how to repay him.

"And that's bad ‘cause...? I think it shows he's well-mannered." He muttered, shrugging his shoulders as he kept his arm over you, shielding you from the raindrops. His hair was already soaked, but that was the least of his concerns.

"Oh, no. It's not a bad thing at all, actually I think it's very sweet, but I'm embarrassed that he always ends up paying for everything. It's not fair." You shook your head calmly, quickening your pace to try and get there sooner. You didn't want him to get any wetter.

"Hmm. You should just let him spoil you, of course, as long as it doesn't make you uncomfortable." You only made a small sound while nodding a little. Tim was always very attentive to you, always ending up with a grimace whenever you didn't let him buy you something you liked.

And for nothing, because in the end you always ended up finding what you wanted in your room after one of his visits.

"I live here. Thank you so much for walking me home and for..." You pointed to his cape, which was still covering you. "...for the makeshift umbrella. You should go get a hot shower."

"You're the one who should be taking a hot shower and having some tea. From what little you said, I doubt that friend of yours would be happy if you ended up with a cold." A small smile appeared on the vigilante's lips as he nodded towards the door of your building.

"Yeah, he's going to freak out if he finds out I walked here," you murmured, pressing your lips together. It would be best if he didn't find out. "Goodnight, Red. Thanks again!" you finally said goodbye with a smile before entering the building, closing the door behind you.

It was only when you went upstairs and were inside your apartment that you realized what had just happened.

Several excited squeals escaped your lips as you closed your eyes and a wide smile curved your face. The Red Robin had walked you home!

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," you repeated several times while you jumped slightly in place. You had won in life.

Your excitement was only interrupted when the apartment filled with the sound of your cell phone; it was the specific ringtone you had for Tim. "Damn," you muttered before quickly pulling your phone out of your bag.

"Timmy! I thought you'd be asleep or something..." you said as soon as you answered the call, finally taking off your wet shoes and heading to your room.

"I was waiting for you to tell me you had arrived, you didn't share your location and you didn't say anything about the taxi either." In the background of his voice you could hear the rain falling, he must have been near a window because of how loud it was.

"Oh, it's just that... I forgot that part, but I'm home now, don't worry." You chuckled softly, knowing that despite your best efforts, you wouldn't be able to hide the fact that you hadn't called a taxi for long. "Are you finished with your work? I'm going to take a shower and go to sleep."

“I'm almost finished. I just need to check a couple more things and then I'll go home." You were talking to him while you were looking for the pajamas you would wear.

“Are you still at the company? I really don't understand how you can stay there so late so many days a week." You sighed wearily at the thought. "Luckily, they gave me the day off. I'm going to sleep in."

"You know how it is, sometimes unexpected things happen." You hummed as you headed to your bedroom window. You were going to open the curtains a little to let in some light, but you weren't crazy enough to open the window.

"I'll let you finish working, Tim. See you later, okay? And send me your details so I can return the money I didn't spend." On the other end, you heard the click of his tongue and rolled your eyes.

"Leave it like that. Better use it to buy something nice on Saturday, I'll come out to eat with you that night." With some hesitation, you agreed. Finishing picking up the curtains. "See you later, make sure you get a good night's sleep, sweetheart."

"Yes, yes. You too, dummy. Rest and don't drink so many energy drinks, you need to sleep at least a little while or you'll short-circuit." You said goodbye with a chuckle, hanging up and leaving your cell phone on the nightstand. When you looked out your window, you could see the vigilante on the roof of the building across the street.

His cape covered his entire body; you could only see his mask by the light of some lamps. Contrary to what you had said a few days ago, he came across as more beautiful than terrifying.

With a small smile, you waved your hand towards him, doubting that he had seen you, but you noticed how he nodded in recognition of you. A few seconds later you heard what sounded like a bird singing, but you were pretty sure you hadn't heard it before. The guy immediately turned his head to another spot and you instantly saw him disappear among the rooftops.

"Well... Vigilante stuff." you muttered as you headed to the shower for a well-deserved hot bath.

The night hadn't ended as badly as you had expected.

Timothy had spent the day in his office at the company. He had been forced to review several documents that had been sent to him by his secretary, and on occasion he took breaks—breaks he used to review some cases he was working on.

Although the day had been passing by very quickly, he had made sure to send you lunch at the time he knew you should already be awake. He knew your habits and quirks very well; he had your schedule memorized and often used it to his advantage.

It was very likely that you wouldn't leave your apartment that day, not even for the slightest reason. Maybe if he left early, he'd check on you to make sure everything was alright. He was a little annoyed that you had decided to lie to him about your return home, but he could understand your reasons—even so, he still didn't like the shady dealings—it was only a matter of time before you gave yourself away.

Since he was completely sure that he would not receive much of a sign of life from you during the day, he did not worry about being on the lookout for who might come to his office.

That's why his assistant took him by surprise when she knocked on his door and announced the arrival of "his girl".

His girl must be sleeping very comfortably under the covers, wearing one of the many sweaters he had left in your apartment for you to use.

All his mind could only think about was what kind of crazy woman had sneaked into the building this time; he didn't want to have to deal with it. He was tired of several people trying to approach his workplace with other intentions; the crazy ones seemed endless in that city. How long would he have to—oh, it actually was his girl.

"Dollie, I thought you'd be asleep, what are you doing here?" he asked, tilting his head, his furrowed brow instantly relaxing as his pupils seemed to dilate as you approached his desk.

"I came to have lunch with you. It's not fair that you send me so much money for a simple taxi and then, on top of that, send me food when I'm pretty sure you skipped your breaks, Drake." Your voice was stern, your brow furrowed. You weren't truly angry with him, but it frustrated you that he was so careless. Soon you were on his side of the desk, moving aside some pens and a stapler to sit on the edge. You left the food near the opposite corner.

You seemed to have a magnet for his eyes; the poor fool just stared at you, his expression becoming almost pitiful as he noticed the tone in which you spoke to him. "I ate a sandwich when I arrived, I haven't eaten again because I haven't been hungry."

He tried to explain himself as one of his hands instinctively went to your thigh; he didn't like that you were upset with him. He was the one who should be upset!

"Besides, I'm almost certain you didn't use the money for the taxi. You took ages to let me know you arrived; I even had to call you." He remarked, resting his elbow on his desk, his work completely forgotten now that you was near.

"That's not the point, Tim." You denied it instantly. "The point is that you should at least take a break every now and then."

The man in front of you sighed, leaning back completely in his chair as he tried to loosen his tie with his free hand, the other remaining on your thigh, even unconsciously giving it a slight squeeze.

Suddenly you wondered if he had always looked so hot in his formal clothes.

Tim was attractive, and you weren't blind. You could see why so many people were after him. You could even congratulate whoever had been with him at some point, but that was all.

You couldn't imagine anything more, no matter how much you wanted to; it was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend you didn't mind every time he used cute nicknames for you. Light touches had always been common in your friendship, but there were times when they felt much more intimate.

“Tell me, did you get enough rest? When you have days off, you try to sleep in." he asked softly, his eyes remaining on your face. He was dying to look down and explore your body, but that would be too intrusive. "I don't like it when they make you work so many hours out of the blue."

"I don't like it either, but there's not much I can do. We get paid extra when something like this happens anyway." You shrugged, reaching for the hand he had on you, and he intertwined your fingers with his in an instant.

Anyone who saw you acting like that could swear you were dating.

His voice softened considerably, as did his gaze, leaving gentle caresses on the back of your hand. "I've already told you I can get you a job in the labs, doll. I know you like working at the flower shop, but don't fool me, you miss being in a lab."

“Tim…” You sighed, looking away. It was a complicated issue for you.

You had studied biochemistry, you loved being in a lab, and your first years as a graduate were incredible. However, in an attack by the scarecrow, several labs were rendered inoperable. Getting another job in your field had become almost impossible, and you only managed to find one at that lovely flower shop.

"I'm serious. You'd have a more convenient schedule and better pay. It won't be a problem," he insisted once more, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. He groaned when you shook your head again.

"I know that, but I don't feel competent enough to work in such a prestigious laboratory. You know I haven't even got my master's degree yet." You sighed, looking down at your clasped hands. If you looked directly into those beautiful blue eyes, it would have been hard to say no.

“But that's no problem, sweetheart. I'm sure you'd do fine.

"No, honey. I don't want to get a job just through connections and if my resume isn't up to par... Let me study a little more and maybe I'll consider it."

The dark-haired man could only manage a heavy sigh, moving closer to you and letting his head fall into your lap. Your free hand instantly fell into his hair, murmuring a thank you.

"At least tell me why you lied to me last night. I know you, I know you didn't come back in a taxi." He whispered after a while of silence, only receiving your caresses in his hair.

You pressed your lips together, focusing on tangling one of his strands around your finger. There was little point in hiding things from him when he always found out the truth somehow.

"I didn't want to bother you so late, much less worry you," you whispered, shrugging your shoulders.

"It doesn't bother me, if I tell you I can come get you it's because I really can. I don't like you being alone on the street so late." He hid his face even more against your legs, shaking his head a little. "What would I do if something happened to you and nobody knew anything about it?” He whispered your name, almost in pain.

“But nothing happened and I'm fine. Don't be sad, Timmy." You gently tugged on his hair, chuckling softly in an attempt to cheer him up a little. "Besides, I wasn't completely alone, guess who I ran into."

"Batman?" he asked, uncovering his face a little to see you, even though he already knew the answer.

"Much better, Red Robin." You smiled, gently running your thumb along his cheek. Every time he acted like this, you felt your heart clench.

But you were just friends and that was more than perfect.

“Seriously? And how did it turn out?" he asked as he finished wrapping his arm around your waist, his other hand holding yours firmly.

"He's so sweet! And so attractive too." You laughed as you swung your legs in the air. "He's a total gentleman."

"Oh, really?" He laughed, looking at you without moving from his spot, his cheeks just getting a little color.

"Yes. He was covering me from the rain with his cape, you should have seen him, Tim. He was soaked to the bone and he was still covering me." Your smile was getting bigger and bigger. At other times Timothy would be more than jealous, but since it was his second persona, it wasn't so bad.

"Well, I could have driven you in the car, with the heating on and without you getting a single drop of rain, but the girl doesn't like it when I do that," he complained falsely while giving your waist a gentle squeeze.

"Oh, don't be like that, Tim." You pouted as you ruffled his hair. "I really didn't mean to upset you... And I came out on top! I even saw him on the roof with his whole cape covering him." You moved your legs more excitedly, smiling again.

"Yeah? And he looked terrifying?" He asked, rolling his eyes as he closed them, almost opening them abruptly when you spoke again.

"He actually looked really cute, like a wet chick," you laughed, shaking your head slightly. "It's great not to be a criminal, cute vigilantes help you and make sure you get home safely," you hummed, gazing dreamily at the window of his office.

"I don't think he'd appreciate knowing he looks like a wet chicken." He muttered in a dejected grunt. His idea was to impress you, not to touch your heart.

"It doesn't matter, he'll never know anyway." You shrugged. "Can one have a crush on a vigilante? Because I think I already have one on him. He's just too cute, Timmy!"

Despite everything, a small smile played on the man's lips; he liked hearing you speak so animatedly... even if it was about 'another man.' "I don't know, I suppose so," he complained again as he lifted his head from your lap, finally looking you in the eyes.

"But it infuriates me that you call him a gentleman and then come and scold me. I'm the one who takes care of you every day, sweetheart. Not him," he insisted, frowning slightly.

"Oh, Tim." You pursed your lips again, raising your hand to his cheek to leave a soft caress. "You're right, you're a gentleman too... with a real knack for spending your money on unnecessary things."

"They're not unnecessary; often they're things you like or things I send for your safety. I could even send you one of the company's drivers, but you get all worked up every time I mention it." He shook his head, finally loosening his tie and unbuttoning the first three buttons of his shirt.

Your eyes couldn't help but drift down to his chest, swallowing hard before you answered. "It's just... I feel like I'm taking advantage of you, and I don't like that." You tried to explain, returning your gaze to his face, a heavy sigh escaping your lips as you rolled your eyes at the crooked smile on his lips. "Don't say a word."

"About what? That you were looking at me?" he asked, his smile unchanged. "I know you like me, beautiful. You don't have to play dumb," he said, his tone clearly joking but full of self-importance. "Don't worry, there's plenty of Tim Drake here for you."

You quickly let go of his hand as you climbed down from his desk, about to turn around when his hands caught your hips, pulling you down onto his lap.

A loud laugh escaped his lips as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer to his body while placing a noisy kiss on your shoulder.

"Don't be mad at me, I just like teasing you." He murmured, leaving more noisy kisses. Giggles continued to escape his lips. "Come on, give me a smile, doll."

"I'm not going to give you anything, you're annoying," you complained, crossing your arms. Your cheeks were flushed red.

You couldn't concentrate on complaining when you could perfectly feel his strong arms around you and notice how well-defined his chest was. From afar, one wouldn't believe Tim was strong, but you had already confirmed it several times.

and his biceps—you wanted to bite them

"Ah, but I'm sure you'd smile at Red Robin," he insisted, poking you on the ribs, making you squirm a little.

"That's another matter, it's Red Robin. He was getting wet just to get me home safely." You turned slightly away from him, wanting to be further from his face.

"How silly of him, he probably has some kind of raincoat and forgot it." he muttered, rolling his eyes; it was exactly what had happened to him because he'd been in such a hurry. "Meanwhile, here you have a nationally recognized CEO, with tons of money, who worries about you every second. But no, you don't smile at him."

"And I'm not going to smile at you while you keep bothering me," you almost whispered, keeping your gaze fixed on his office door.

"Sweetie, come on. Don't be like that." He almost whined as he placed another kiss on your back. "If we eat together, will you not be upset anymore? We can even take a nap on the couch, don't you want to?"

When you hesitated to answer, a wide smile curved the boy's lips, and he gently patted your hips. He knew that had won you over. "Let's go eat. When we're done, I'll close the curtains and we'll take a nap."

He finally let you get up from his lap. You took the small bag with the takeaway food and headed to a small table near the couch. He rarely offered to rest, so you had to take advantage of it.

"Don't you have any meetings coming up? Then someone walks into your office out of nowhere, they see us and the Gotham Gazette ends up saying we've been together for five years, have three kids and two dogs.”

You sat on the floor as you began to unwrap everything, Tim shaking his head as he headed for the door, completely ignoring the fact that he was a mess, his hair disheveled and his shirt open. "I'll tell them not to bother us."

By the time you finished putting everything away, he had already returned to your side, sitting next to you. Being close was almost an unconscious thing he did; he always sought to feel at least a little of your body heat.

Tim knew he wasn't a good match, but he was trying harder than ever for you—and you didn't even have anything going on—. He also knew the image you projected to outsiders; his brothers often asked if you were his girlfriend, looking at him incredulously every time he denied it.

Likewise, he didn't complain about it. There were several photos of you two on his Instagram profile; some people claimed you both looked in love, but you just ignored it.

As you began to eat, you would occasionally offer him pieces of stir-fried meat to try. He did the same with the sweet and sour chicken, bringing it to your mouth for you to take.

You were both too infatuated with each other, but you had been friends for so long that you thought it was your dynamic and nothing more.

"Do you have a lot of work to do?" you asked in a gentle tone as you finally began to clean up. He shook his head slightly.

"I just need to review some documents and that's all. I was thinking of coming to see you tonight," he said, getting up to throw the rest in the trash.

"If you want, I can stay here with you and we can go together." You slowly got up, stretching in your seat before taking a seat on the sofa.

Tim made a sound of affirmation, wiping his hands with a napkin and throwing it in the trash before closing the automatic office blinds and turning to you again. Without paying much attention, he rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows, taking off his shoes as he went.

You had seen that same scene so many times that you should have been used to it, but each time you were surprised by how fast your heart was beating. When he was completely in front of you, you raised your head to see his face, returning the smile he was giving you.

"You look cute when you're not mad at me," he said, crouching down in front of you and taking off your shoes as if it were already part of his routine.

"It's not my fault you're always trying to annoy me," you murmured, letting him do it, patting the seat next to you when he finished.

"You also look cute when you pout and look at me like you hate me." He giggled as he settled down beside you, took your waist before lying back on the sofa, bringing you with him along the way.

You settled more comfortably, resting your head on his chest, one hand on his chest, while one of your legs found its place over his. "You're a pain in the ass."

"You love it when I tease you, don't play dumb," he whispered, giving a gentle pinch to your waist, chuckling softly as you pressed closer to him in surprise.

"I hate you." you murmured finally, closing your eyes, more than ready to sleep.

"I love you too, beautiful," he murmured with a smile on his lips, letting out a sigh as he gently caressed your waist.

His caresses, the citrusy and woody scent of his perfume, the dark office, and the rhythmic beating of his heart were the perfect mix to put you to sleep—and Tim knew it very well.

His eyes were fixed on you as his free arm rested over his head. He'd noticed that when he wore that perfume you slept better beside him, not to mention that the first time he held you to sleep you fell asleep within seconds.

He knew that at night you didn't like to sleep uncovered, but in the afternoons you preferred to sleep only in a pair of comfortable socks. He knew that when you entered a deeper sleep you tended to make very low noises, almost as if you were trying to talk.

And he knew very well that when you woke up you needed at least a few minutes to realize that you were no longer asleep. He loved seeing your disoriented little face while you woke up.

Contrary to what many believed, Tim could fall asleep almost anywhere. That's why he constantly kept a caffeinated drink on hand. He tried to meet all his responsibilities on time, and that meant sacrificing his sleep.

At that moment he should have been reviewing documents, but if he moved too much while hugging you, you would wake up.

So his duty at that moment was to rest with you, finally allowing himself to close his eyes for a while.

You woke up after a long while because of other voices in the office and Tim's absence. You frowned slightly as you ran a hand over your face. Your eyes remained fixed on Tim's back; he was still sitting on the sofa but was no longer by your side.

You shifted slightly, muttering under your breath before fixing your gaze on the person in front of him. "Mmm... Hi, Mr. Wayne."

"Hi, darling. Is Tim treating you well?" His voice was low and deep, and he smiled very slightly at you. He liked seeing that you were getting closer and closer. He knew very well how much his son cared about you and was really just waiting for confirmation that you were dating.

“Mhn? Monday to Friday” You answered without really understanding what he was asking. Tim just shook his head a little.

"Oh, so not on weekends?" You frowned at Mr. Wayne's question, looking at Tim for a few seconds.

"Yeah."

"Don't pay any attention to her, she doesn't even realize she's awake." The boy shook his head, pushing you back towards the cushion when you tried to sit up. He wasn't very happy to have woken you up like this, but Bruce needed to talk about some things very urgently.

"Sleep a little longer, we'll go home in a bit." He whispered softly as he placed his hand completely over your face. He didn't want to be so affectionate in front of Bruce. Soon he heard your moan, quickly pulling his hand away when he felt you bite him.

"I've slept a lot. Keep talking, I'll wait outside." you murmured before trying to sit up again, just resting your head on his back, your eyes still trying to close on their own.

"No, no, don't worry. We've finished talking about what we needed to." Bruce shook his head gently as he stood up, straightening his jacket. "You should go home right away. Tim has something important to tell you."

"Okay," you murmured without moving an inch. You could fall asleep right there if you wanted. It wouldn't be the first time Tim had carried you somewhere.

Once the boy said goodbye to the older man and he left, Tim turned slightly to look at you. "Doll, let's go home. I'll order something to eat and you can rest without worrying about it."

You groaned, drawing out his name as you slumped back down on the couch, your hair spread across the cushion as you kept your eyes closed. Drake smiled slightly, his eyes wandering over your face and lingering down to your exposed collarbones.

He would like to see you like that in other circumstances, but it wasn't very polite of him to think about those kinds of things.

With a sigh, he bent down to pick up your shoes and began to put them back on you, getting up from the armchair as he stretched and went to gather his things.

"You know I like carrying you, sweetheart. But right now we're a mess and if we go out like this, rumors will start, I know you don't like the idea." He tried to explain while straightening his shirt and taking off his tie completely, putting it in one of his pockets.

He put his shoes back on and went to his desk to put away the briefcase he was going to take. letting out a low laugh upon hearing your whimpers.

"Oh, let them talk already. It's not like it's the first time they've seen us together." You finally complained, standing up and heading to an office mirror to fix your hair. Your steps were a little shaky from sleep.

"I know, but it's one thing for them to see us looking presentable and another for them to see us looking disheveled." His tone remained soft, running a hand through his hair, picking up his jacket to bring it towards you. "When you wake up you'll thank me, I'm sure that if there was an article saying that someone was sleeping with Timothy Drake-Wayne in his office and a picture of you underneath, you'd cut my head off."

"You have a point," you murmured, taking his jacket to put it on and leaving a fleeting kiss on his cheek. You grabbed your phone from the small table and waited for him to turn off the lights so you could leave together.

Once he had turned everything off, he placed his hand on your lower back, and you both left the office, only giving his assistant a brief goodbye as you headed for the elevator.

While they waited for the basement doors to open, you looked up at him, finally realizing. "You know? This doesn't help with the accusations that we're dating."

"Hmm? Why not?" he asked with genuine curiosity, lowering his gaze to your face.

"Well... we spent hours in your office, we left looking a bit disheveled, I'm wearing your jacket and you won't let go of me," you murmured, pointing at the elevator mirror. The image it projected was of a couple who had been together for a while.

"Mhn...well, but Bruce was there for a while and everything was fine." He shrugged, pulling you closer and tightening his grip on your waist. "If anyone says anything, I'll take care of it."

At that point, everyone knew you were a couple, except for yourselves.

"Your apartment or mine?" he asked when you were both in his car. The passenger seat was adjusted just the way you liked it. Tim immediately turned on the heater for you and, almost instinctively, fastened your seatbelt.

"Yours. I like your bed." You replied absentmindedly, taking out your cell phone to check some messages you had.

[...]

"The food's here!" you heard Tim's voice coming from the living room, you were still in the bathroom finishing getting dressed.

You had plenty of your own clothes at his house, but wearing his pajamas ended up being more comfortable. It was funny because he would sometimes even subtly pass you his clothes so you would consider it as an option.

When you finished. You detangle your hair and dry it more carefully before going out to the living room.

"It smells good," you murmured, approaching to see what she had ordered, smiling at the sight of the pizza. He always managed to order it with the ingredients you wanted that day; it still surprised you when she did things like that. He seemed to read your mind—or perhaps he had you studied too well.

He placed the pieces he knew you would have chosen for yourself on your plate, leaving it on the counter and then serving himself. There were already two open cans of soda for both you.

"What was the important thing Bruce mentioned?" you asked as you sat down, looking at him attentively. You didn't like to eat before the person you were with did too.

"Ah, that." The boy tilted his head from side to side, turning it before moving his shoulders. He was wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts. "He wants you to come with me to the gala next week."

"Has he gone crazy?" you asked bluntly, looking directly into his eyes. Tim was trying hard to avoid your gaze.

"I told him that too, but he insists it would be a good idea. He says that at least something has to keep me interested during the night."

"I'm the sacrifice, I understand." Your words made him laugh a little, finally sitting down to take a bite of one of his slices, only then did you start eating.

"He said I can't look so distracted when we talk to some contributors and that I never try to pay attention to them." He rolled his eyes; it was the same old conversation. "He wanted to talk directly to you because supposedly I pay more attention to you than to other people. So he wants you to keep an eye on me so I don't look so... bored."

"So, I'll babysit, right?" you asked with a giggle. "Tell him he has to pay me a hundred dollars an hour and I might consider it."

"Oh my god. You spend all day by my side for free."

"Yes, but that's in your natural environment, not at a gala full of pretentious people." You waved your free hand before continuing to eat. "I'll go, but I have to find a nice dress; I don't have anything for that kind of event."

"I'll go with you to buy it," he said instantly. He wasn't going to let you spend money on a dress you probably wouldn't wear very often.

"You know what? There's no point in saying no anymore." You shrugged. At the end of the day, he'd always find a way to be with you.

And if not, he still knew where you were; you still hadn't figured out how he did that.

"By the way, it's more likely that your appearance at the gala will generate a lot more rumors. Are you okay with that?" His voice was softer this time. He had no problem being linked to you, but he understood that Gotham's elite and the press could be suffocating. He respected your decision not to get too caught up in all of that.

"Yeah... In the end, we always get paired up anyway; a couple of articles and silly whispers shouldn't be a big deal." No doubt some people would call you a gold digger, but that was the least of it.

Tim loved being paired with you, and the idea that all of Gotham believed it thrilled him a little. No guy with two brain cells would try to get close to you with ulterior motives; you'd practically be his girl publicly.

Perhaps at some point you would also be his in a more private setting.

Sometimes he even thought that you liked him too, that your gentle glances at him, the kisses on his cheeks and the caresses you gave him meant something more, but he was terrified of trying anything further and that you would regret it.

When they finished eating and organized the entire kitchen, they finally did their routines before going to sleep. First you lay down. Stretching out on the big bed and burying your face in the pillows momentarily, they smelled completely of him, a small smile appearing on your lips.

Once you were more comfortable, he climbed onto the bed, wrapping his arms around you and resting his head on your stomach without hesitation. Your hand went straight to his hair, beginning to twist a strand around one of your fingers.

"Timmy..." you called in a whisper, soon big blue eyes were looking at you through his eyelashes. "We're not exactly beating the dating allegations."

"So what? It's just the two of us, and I like being near you." He whispered, smiling at your soft giggle. In moments like these, he longed to confess his feelings for you.

"When I met you, I didn't think you were so clingy. It's sweet." With a smile, you continued stroking his hair. He settled back down without letting go of your body.

If he was like this just as friends, you couldn't imagine what he'd be like as your boyfriend. The mere thought of it made you want to cover his face with kisses, but that would be too much right now.

"It really doesn't bother me that people think we're a couple," he admitted in a murmur, biting his tongue to try not to say too much.

"It doesn't bother me either. I know I often joke about it, but I don't have a problem with it," you explained without stopping the caresses. "I like being with you... I'm glad you decided to go in and buy flowers for your ex." You laughed lightly. If it weren't for that, you wouldn't have met him.

"Yes... I'm glad I did it too," he replied in the same tone, taking his blankets to cover you well. He settled more comfortably in bed, wrapping his arms around you more snugly. "Now go to sleep. We'll go get the dress tomorrow."

With a soft sound, you snuggled closer to his body, relaxing completely in his grip.

You didn't know at what point things had changed between you two either, you were only aware that you spent more time thinking about him and wanting to see him, that you liked being surrounded by his scent much more and that you loved it when he teased you despite pretending not to.

You knew very well that you were just playing dumb about your feelings, wanting to assure everyone that you were just best friends.

But best friends shouldn't want to kiss.

"Your feet are fucking cold," you laughed loudly when you heard it, having hidden your feet under his legs.

By the time the sun was about to set, you had already spent hours between boutiques. None of the dresses you had tried on really appealed to you; they might have been beautiful, but you didn't think they would make you look pretty.

If you liked the cut, you thought the color was awful. And if the color was perfect, you didn't like how it looked on you.

"Tim, I really don't think this is a good idea anymore," you sighed inside the fitting room. You had refused to let him look at you several times because of the way the dresses accentuated the wrong areas. You felt so embarrassed for wasting his time and just wanted to go home.

"Honey, try at least one more, okay? If you don't like that one, we can leave and I'll ask them to make a design just the way you'd like it. What do you think?"

You felt it was too much to ask for an event that was only a couple of hours long, but Tim's worried voice made you give in. "Just one more."

And that was enough to make him feel a breath of fresh air. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had been going through your private Pinterest boards—it's not important how he got them—and had searched the entire store until he found a dress that matched the design of one of the ones you had saved.

"I chose this one for you. I think the color is pretty." He said, passing the dress to you from the side of the fitting room. The saleswoman just watched him with a smile; that guy was head over heels for you.

You couldn't deny that the color was one of your favorites; the crimson red made a nice contrast with your skin. “Okay…”

Even so, you tried it on without much enthusiasm, thinking long and hard before turning around to look in the mirror. It was a long dress; you were going to need slightly higher heels, but you didn't have a problem with that. The fabric was soft to the touch, and the skirt of the dress fell freely from your waist, where it was fitted just enough to accentuate your figure without being too exaggerated. It had a slit along one side; depending on the movement, your legs could be seen. The top part was simple, It was a draped neckline and fell softly over your chest.

And it was perfect.

It might seem silly, but your eyes filled with small tears.

You'd spent the whole day feeling terrible about yourself, you were so frustrated and felt like your body wouldn't look good in any dress. Tim finding the perfect one felt like seeing the gates of heaven. "Tim..."

"What's wrong? Didn't you like it? We can do what I told you, don't worry about it, we just have to—" He had started speaking very quickly, only stopping when he was interrupted by your voice. In his opinion, many of the dresses you had tried on throughout the day were simply perfect on you, but what really mattered was that you were comfortable, not that he liked it.

"It's perfect, Tim." you finally said, stepping out of the fitting room, letting him look at you.

Tim Drake, The Red Robin, who was the leader of the Teen Titans and the Young Justice, who had fought with hundreds of criminals and deranged villains.

Ended up breathless when he saw you.

"You... you, uh-" You could see his Adam's apple rise and fall as he swallowed, his breathing had become somewhat heavy. "Uh, you look-you look gorgeous… Really gorgeous." He whispered, the boy could feel his cheeks tingling, even his ears had turned a little red.

He took another deep breath, his eyes wandering over the dress. A mocking little smile played on your lips. You hadn't expected a reaction like that. "Now I hope you find a tie the same color. We have to match if I'm going to be with you all night."

His eyes darted to your face. Nodding enthusiastically, he said, "Of course, I actually already ordered one to match your dress. I was... I was hoping you'd like it."

"Well, I loved it." You smiled, approaching him and wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug, leaving a loud kiss on his cheek. If you had charmed him before, now you had left him speechless and completely mesmerized.

His hands found their way back to your waist, smiling a little before gently kissing your forehead. "Then we'll take this one. Tomorrow we can talk about accessories and your heels. Right now I just want us to go eat and rest; you've been too busy today."

His voice was low and soft, just loud enough for you to hear. The tone he used reminded you of someone, but you couldn't quite place who. "Go get changed, I'll go pay for it." He gave a gentle squeeze to your waist, only letting go when you did.

Tim felt completely fulfilled at having found a dress you liked. Anyone could tell he puffed out his chest with pride, holding his head high as he went to pay.

You, on the other hand, could only think about how much you loved that fool.

“Do you think Red Robin would like to see me in that dress too, or not?" you asked once you were both in the car, smiling and shaking your head. You chuckled at Tim's sigh.

He found it amusing that you spoke of his other self with such emotion, but at that moment he didn't want you to mention any other man or woman. He had chosen your dress!

He murmured your name softly as one hand remained on the steering wheel and the other rested on your thigh. You could feel your heart leap at the sight; his brow furrowed, his eyes fixed on the road. "I chose your dress, and you liked it. I couldn't care less what Red Robin has to say right now." His hand tightened gently. "If he wants to see you in something he likes, he can come with you and choose it himself."

Tim couldn't see it completely, but a big smile was forming on your lips and a pretty blush was rising on your cheeks. "Are you jealous?" you asked with a giggle.

"Yes, I am," he replied without hesitation. Many people were going to see you at the gala, and that was nagging at him, but he didn't care. You were going there with him; you were his best friend, not theirs. For God's sake, he was closer to kissing you than anyone else you knew.

But Red Robin had gotten under his skin for a moment - even though it was him -

"Don't be, I just like to joke about it." You laughed again, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thanks for picking out the dress for me, Timmy. You have great taste."

"Of course I have good taste. In fact, from now on I'm going to go shopping with you." He couldn't leave any space open for someone else to do it. It had to be him.

"Okay. But I need more feedback than 'you look very pretty' with little, bright blue eyes.” You settled back into your seat, a silly smile lingering on your lips.

"I'll see what I can do..."

When the day of the gala finally arrived, you felt more nervous than you could have imagined. It was just a matter of being next to Tim and reminding him to pretend to be interested in what the guests were saying, but out of nowhere you felt your stomach churn and a bad feeling in your chest.

"I'm going to throw up," you blurted out, even though you were almost ready. All that was left was the accessories you'd wear and putting on your heels. Tim had wanted to hire someone to do your hair, but you refused several times; you didn't want to look too flashy.

His head turned toward you instantly, and he got up from your bed to come closer. He was already fully dressed, just waiting to help you with the details. "Why?"

"I don't know, I just felt like throwing up. I don't want to go anymore, Tim." You shook your head several times as you started pacing around your room in an attempt to calm down.

A pair of hands reached for your waist as you walked past him again, making you stop right there. "Look at me."

With a whimper, you raised your gaze to his eyes, your lips pouting involuntarily at how relaxed he seemed. His blue eyes looked at you tenderly, and his hair was neatly styled but with a touch of tousled looseness.

"Breathe with me," he murmured, taking one of your hands and placing it on his chest to begin taking deep breaths. You soon imitated him. "Everything's going to be alright. I'll be by your side every moment, and we're not going to stay all night."

You nodded gently as you continued to mimic her breathing. "You spent so much time doing your hair and makeup, sweetheart. You look gorgeous, we can't let all that effort go to waste, can we?"

You murmured a negative while shaking your head slightly. His hands gently guided you to the bed, helping you sit down as he bent down and took your new heels out of the box.

With great care, he helped you put them on, leaving a soft kiss on the leg that was now exposed thanks to the dress. Tim had no idea how to restrain himself, but he was dying to explore your entire body with his hands and lips. He wanted to cover you with so many kisses that you would have no doubt whatsoever about how much he loved you.

Still silent, he stood up again to find the accessories you would wear. Gently placing your earrings and necklace on you, the touch of his fingers against your skin made you shiver.

"And that's it. Quite a doll."

You smiled slightly as you nodded gently, getting up with the help of his hand. "If at any point you feel too overwhelmed, we can take a walk in the gardens. I always find a way to escape conversations, don't worry."

"Tim, I'm supposed to be here to stop you from running away from people." You shook your head gently, straightening his tie a little before you left the room together, your cell phone in his pocket as well as the lipstick you had used.

He just shrugged as he placed a kiss on your temple. You worried him more than any work conversation.

You had been to the manor a few times before when you were invited for dinner; it wasn't a new place for you, but you had certainly never seen it so crowded. Your eyes searched for familiar faces, but you couldn't spot any of Tim's brothers.

You hadn't even managed to see Bruce when two men had already intercepted Tim, starting to talk to him about who knows what regarding the company's stock.

You were just hanging on to his arm, almost like a keychain. It was insulting that they didn't even glance at who was with Tim, but you didn't feel like talking to them, so it didn't bother you too much.

On the other hand, there were a few people who were only paying attention to you. Seeing Tim Drake with someone on his arm? That hadn't happened for many months.

Soon the whispers began to spread from person to person, asking who you were and where you came from. They didn't remember ever having seen you before.

You were with him while he was talking to several people; some were more decent and even greeted you politely before returning to the business topic. Sometimes they tried to convince you so that you would then be the one to finally convince him.

You just smiled politely before denying it; you weren't planning on getting involved in those things, you didn't have a very deep understanding of business administration. Your thing was more laboratory-based.

At a certain point you could notice that he was completely frozen at the same time as what sounded like a whistle could be heard throughout the room.

"Did a little bird get in?" you asked curiously, raising your gaze a little; you didn't want to look for the little animal so blatantly.

"Yes, I'm sure of it," he murmured, apologizing to whoever he was talking to before taking your waist and starting to lead you towards one of the hallways.

"Where are we going?" You tilted your head, following him without hesitation. "Bruce won't pay me if I don't do my job properly."

"Don't worry about it, he'll understand." You frowned slightly, still looking at him. He seemed too tense, his eyes darting from one point to another.

Going deeper and deeper into the place, moving far enough away from the main hall.

"Tim, what's going on?"

"Nothing too bad," he said as he stepped into one of the many small rooms in the manor, closing the doors behind him. "I need you to stay here."

"Why?" you asked, truly confused, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. You hadn't realized how tired your feet were until now.

"It's... there are people here who shouldn't be and things could get tense," he explained quickly as he began to look for something to block the door with, dragging a shelf towards it.

"And that's why you're locking us up?" You were thinking it was all very exaggerated, but it was Gotham, anything could happen.

"I'm locking you in. I have to go." That made you jump up, ignoring the discomfort of your heels.

"What are you talking about? If you're locking me in, it's because it's dangerous. What are you going to do outside?" You instantly denied it as you approached him. Tim just kept locking the door.

"I need to get help. You'll be okay here."

"No, I'm not going to stay here while you leave, what's wrong with you? And what if you don't come back? The people in this city are crazy." Your heart was beating desperately and your breathing became rapid; you didn't want him to leave.

"Look, I'm just going out for a little while and I'll come back for you. If I can't do it myself, I'll send someone, okay? I won't leave you alone for long." His hands went to your face, gently cradling it. He hated seeing the fear in your eyes, but he couldn't take you out of there without knowing if there was more danger outside.

"Tim-" You pressed your lips together as well as your hands on his arms when you heard a loud bang in the distance. His eyes went straight to the door.

"I'll be back, I promise." He whispered, leaving a loud kiss on your cheek, quite close to your lips, before letting go and heading for the living room window. "Don't leave here." he repeated firmly before escaping through the window, the curtain covering the space once more.

The banging and shouting outside was not long in coming, your eyes were wide open as you moved away from the door and windows as much as you could.

The place was completely dark except for a small lamp; you hurried to turn it off before hiding in a corner behind a bookcase, crouching on the floor.

You had no idea what was happening, but you knew the need to run might come, so you quickly reached to take off your heels; your hands were trembling too much.

Your breathing was noisy, startling you every time there were loud noises. You didn't know if they could get closer to the room you were in.

You had left your heels somewhere near you; every now and then you looked out the window to see if Tim was coming back. You were starting to get desperate and wanted to get out of there.

You didn't know how long you'd been there, but at some point the noises began to stop. All you could think was that Tim still hadn't returned and you had no idea where he was.

A couple of knocks on the window alerted you, making you get up but not go any closer. The curtain moved slightly before revealing your favorite vigilante.

"Where's Tim?" was the first thing you asked; it probably didn't make sense to do it, but you couldn't help it.

"He's fine, I need to get you out of here." He said, approaching you. He looked very agitated, his hair was disheveled, and he seemed to have some recent bruises on his face.

"Okay, where? He said he'd be back soon and he didn't. Where is he?" You shook your head, moving further away from him as he approached. You weren't going to leave without him. You knew that many times they said your loved ones were fine just to keep you from panicking.

"He's outside with the others. He came to find you, but I stopped him. Now let's go. We have to get out of here; it's not over yet." You roughly pushed his hand away as he reached for you.

"What do you mean it's not over yet? How can you leave him out when there's still danger?!" Your voice was getting louder; you knew Tim could defend himself, but you didn't know the magnitude of the matter.

Red Robin seemed to be having an internal crisis, covering your mouth with one of his hands. "If you make noise, they'll come this way. I'm going to take you to him, but I need to get you out of here first." You were about to complain once again, but he wouldn't let you.

In an instant he had taken you, settling you on his shoulder before hurrying back to the window. "Let go of me! I have to find Him."

Your hands were pounding his back, his grip tightening. The blows you were delivering were pointless given his armor. "Let me go!"

You thrashed your legs, trying to kick him, but he managed to hold you tight as you left. You immediately tried to find your friend among the people around you. "Tim!" You couldn't see him anywhere, nor could you see his brothers. Fear grew stronger inside you.

His family had organized the gala; they had surely come for them, and you couldn't do anything. "Where is he?" you finally sobbed, stopping the blows as Red Robin ran through the gardens.

Your sobbing made him feel like his heart was breaking into pieces; he needed to get you to safety before saying anything. "Red, please. Just tell me the truth, where is he?" You pleaded between sobs, you didn't like where the whole thing was going.

"I'm right here." He whispered as he led you as far away from the manor as possible, approaching a greenhouse they had fixed up some time ago for his adoptive mother. "You'd be safe there."

"I know you're here! That's not what I'm asking. Where's my boyfriend?!" you asked, hitting his back again, shaking violently to try to break free from his grip.

The mere word made him smile, but it was more important to calm you down; he might get emotional later. "I'm right here, doll. It's me," he finally said, setting you down on the floor, his hands going straight up to your cheeks so you would look at him. "It's me, I'm fine, dollie."

Your eyes scanned his face, not quite understanding what the hell Red Robin was saying to you?

"Do I look stupid to you?" the question came out without further ado, still looking at him in confusion and annoyance. A short laugh escaped his lips, a laugh you knew very well.

"Of course not. And I'm telling you the truth, darling." He tried to calm you down, his voice becoming softer until you recognized it was him; he knew that fear clouded people's judgment. "I'm your Tim. I didn't want you to find out like this."

Your mouth was slightly open, looking at him in disbelief, quickly your hands went to his hair, removing it from his forehead, right on one side you could see the beauty mark that you had kissed so many times.

"You... You damn bastard, Timothy!" You slapped him hard across the chest, taking him by surprise. "What the hell is wrong with you? You leave me alone in the middle of a disaster and then you show up saying you're a vigilante?! I thought you'd been killed, you— you motherfucker!"

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out this way, but I couldn't tell you with all those other people around. I needed to get you to safety first, sweetheart." He tried to explain as he grabbed your wrists to stop you from hitting me again. "Don't be mad at me, sweetie. I don't like it when you get really upset."

"Don't tell me how to feel! I thought you were gone, and Red— and you wouldn't tell me where you were, you just kept running away." Your voice broke as a thick tear ran down your cheek. "You scared me so much, Tim."

His hands released yours to cradle your face again; he was frustrated by having gloves on and not being able to feel your skin directly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry," he whispered before wrapping you completely in a hug. "I promise I'm okay, and I'm going to be okay."

He held you close for a few seconds, only pulling away slightly when your breathing calmed down a little more. "I have to get back to the others, but I'll come as soon as we're finished and we'll talk properly, okay? I promise."

"You said a while ago that you'd come back," you shook your head slightly, but you still let him get away. There were other people in danger.

"And I did, didn't I?" A wide smile appeared on her lips, leaving a quick kiss on your cheek. "Give me a moment and you can scold me all you want. I'm not going to leave my girlfriend alone for too long again.”

‘My girlfriend' only when he left did you realize that you had called him your boyfriend a couple of minutes ago.

With a sigh and feeling your cheeks burn, you entered the greenhouse completely and took a seat in one of the rocking chairs. The moon illuminated the place through the large windows. You could see the flowers and plants that Tim's mother had there. You'd been told it was a gift for her on her first Mother's Day in the Wayne family.

There were some photos hanging on one of the columns; it was her with all the boys and some individual shots. You had met her a while ago and found her very warm. You could understand why they loved her so much.

Seeing Tim as a teenager had been very endearing; he still had the same smile as always. You were still a little nervous, but you managed to distract yourself enough by looking at things around the place.

Every now and then you looked towards the garden; your cell phone was still in his suit pants, so you couldn't try to find out what was happening through the news either.

A low sigh escaped your lips. Your Tim was Red Robin.

You certainly hadn't expected that, but now you understand many things. Including the time he appeared to shield you from the rain, covering your face with both hands when he remembered you telling him how attractive you found him.

But oh well, now you had a 2-for-1

While you were waiting for him, it wasn't hard to make connections. Without a doubt, Mr. Wayne must be Batman; his brothers were also pretty obvious, now that you thought about it.

After what seemed like an eternity, you heard the small door open again. Turning around, you saw Red Robin—or Tim?—enter the place, completely exhausted.

You stood up instantly, approaching him with concern; you could see that the bruises were becoming more visible. "Are you okay?"

"Better than ever," he murmured as his arms wrapped tightly around you. Instinctively, you brought your nose to his neck. He smelled of his usual cologne, but mixed with sweat and dust, perhaps even a hint of gunpowder.

"You're sweaty, Timothy," you murmured. You wouldn't usually let him hug you like that, but today you'd make an exception. You chuckled a little as you felt him hug you tighter.

"Oh well, you'll just have to deal with it." His nose buried itself in your hair, leaving a soft kiss. He didn't want to let go of you just yet.

You stayed like that with him, just closing your eyes and allowing yourself to enjoy the moment. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to tell you."

"Don't worry, it's something delicate, I understand that you haven't done it before." you whispered, still with your eyes closed, his hands caressing your waist as he became more relaxed.

"I wanted to tell you when I told you I liked you and wanted to be your boyfriend... But things got a little complicated," he admitted, somewhat embarrassed. He didn't like it when his plans got out of control.

"Well, technically I declared you my boyfriend and then you told me. It didn't turn out so bad." You smiled slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him, groaning when you met his domino mask. "I want to see your eyes."

With a small smile, he removed her mask, leaving it somewhere but continuing to look at you. "Better?"

"far better"

"So... are we officially dating?" He asked, tilting his head. You could swear it was one of the hottest pictures you'd ever seen.

"I think so," you whispered, bringing a hand to his cheek, caressing it very gently. "I take it back, Red Robin isn't cute. He's definitely fucking hot."

"Oh, so that's what we have?" he laughed, tightening his hands on your waist and moving much closer to you.

Your noses brushes with every slight movement, his gaze lingering on your lips for a couple of seconds. "Couples kiss, right?"

"From what I know, yes." you replied in a murmur, just feeling his lips finally meet yours.

Your whole being seemed to explode with excitement, your hands circling him tighter as you returned the kiss. Although it had started gently, it soon escalated to something much more intense.

Your fingers began to play with the hair on the back of his neck while one of his hands went down to your hip, the other went a little further, resting on your ass in an instant.

A small giggle was stifled by the kiss when you felt him tighten his grip there. "Don't laugh, I've been wanting to do this for a while, doll." he murmured against your lips, taking a breath before kissing you again with the same intensity. "And the dress you're wearing doesn't help me in the slightest."

"It's not my fault, you chose it." One of your hands moved up a little more, trying to bring his face closer to yours to continue the kiss.

"I'm definitely going to pick out clothes for you more often." The hand that was on your hip found its way to the opening of your dress, going up your bare leg until he found the edge of your panties.

"Tim, we're in your mother's greenhouse," you whispered against his lips. You couldn't deny that you wanted him to take you right there, but you believed you should at least be a little respectful of your now mother-in-law's places.

He moaned against your lips, lowering his other hand to grasp your buttocks beneath your dress and lift you with ease. "What if I don't take it off? Just light touches," he murmured, slowly trailing kisses down your neck until your back pressed against one of the columns. "It'll be quick, then we can go home." When he pulled away a little, you could see his eyes; they shone with pure desire.

He pressed you closer to his body, finally able to feel how hard he was. If your cunt was already wet from seeing him in the suit and without the mask, now it was much wetter.

"Just touching, Tim. At home we can do whatever you want." you murmured, unable to hold back much longer. For several weeks the idea of being like this with him had been going around in your mind, you couldn't miss the opportunity.

Although, well, this most likely wouldn't be the last time.

A/N: Ok! This was tricky to fix on Tumblr, but here it is. It's the first time I've written such a long one-shot, and I really hope it turned out well. I put a lot of effort into it :( I wanted to do something nice for Tim.

This happens about 6-7 years after Happy Mother's Day! tee-hee

So when Batman told him that a WayneTech transport carrying experimental adaptive-camouflage components had been hit two nights earlier, Tim took the report seriously. When Oracle flagged three smaller thefts across Burnley and the East End involving conductive polymers, compact capacitors, and prototype adhesive fibers, he took that even more seriously. By the time Young Justice arrived in Gotham under the very official excuse of “training exercise, please do not touch anything,” Tim already had maps, suspect lists, patrol routes, and a private suspicion that the thefts were not the work of any of the usual Gotham crews.

The fact that he had to explain all of that to Kon while Kon floated upside down over the Batcomputer was just one of the many trials of leadership.

“So what I’m hearing,” Kon said, “is that somebody stole a bunch of fancy invisibility stuff, and now we get to punch an invisible guy.”

Tim did not look up from the screen. “That is the least helpful summary possible.”

Bart appeared beside Tim’s chair with a blur of red and white and a paper bag that had not existed in the Cave five seconds earlier. “I got dumplings. Gotham has dumplings. Did everyone know Gotham had dumplings? I thought it only had gargoyles and trauma.”

“It has both,” Cassie said, peering over Tim’s other shoulder. “Sometimes at the same time.”

Greta hovered above the floor near the edge of the platform, pale and half-transparent, her hair moving around her face as if touched by water. She had been staring at one of the sites of the theft for several minutes. “Someone else was there.”

Tim paused.

That was the thing about Greta. When she spoke softly, it usually meant she had noticed something everyone else had missed.

“Where?” he asked.

She pointed to the third map, a warehouse near the Sprang River. “Here. Before the police came, the cameras went dark, but one of them caught a shadow on the wall.”

Kon dropped lower, still upside down. “A shadow?”

“A person,” Greta said. “Maybe. They climbed the building.”

Tim pulled up the corrupted surveillance feed again. He had already studied it twice, but Greta’s instincts were worth trusting. The video showed the alley behind the warehouse, rain turning the pavement into black glass, the side of the building shining with old runoff and streetlight. For several seconds, there was nothing. Then something moved across the brick.

Not across the ground.

Across the wall.

Tim leaned closer.

Bart did too, which meant his chin appeared on Tim’s shoulder with no warning. “That’s crash.”

Tim ignored the elbow that nearly hit his jaw. He slowed the footage, dragged the image back frame by frame, and enhanced what little data remained. The figure was hard to make out. Small, fast, and dark against dark brick, with one hand pressed to the wall and both feet somehow finding purchase against a vertical surface slick with rain.

Then, blue-white light flickered under their palm.

The camera died.

Kon whistled. “Okay, invisible wall-crawler who shoots lightning. That’s new.”

Cassie gave Tim a sidelong look. “Please tell me that isn’t one of yours.”

“One of mine?” Tim asked.

“You know. Gotham people. You collect them.”

“I do not collect people.”

“Batman collects people,” Bart said through a dumpling. “You inherited the vibe.”

Tim considered pointing out that Bart had once followed them home from the future and then joined the team on the basis of enthusiasm and questionable supervision. He decided it would waste time.

“I don’t know who this is,” he said instead. “Which means we find them before whoever stole that equipment does.”

Kon righted himself in the air and grinned. “See? Invisible lightning wall-crawler. I knew we were punching somebody.”

“We are investigating,” Tim said.

“Sure,” Kon replied. “With punching.”

The first time Tim saw you in person, you were hanging upside down from the underside of a fire escape, one hand wrapped in a glowing filament and the other pressed over Kon’s mouth.

It was not the entrance he would have predicted.

The mission had gone sideways in the way Young Justice missions often went sideways, which meant it had technically started sideways and then gained speed. The warehouse they had tracked the stolen components to was supposed to be empty. It was not. Inside, a crew of masked men had been assembling something with enough capacitors to fry half a city block, and Tim had barely gotten close enough to identify the device before Impulse accidentally discovered the pressure sensors in the floor.

After that, everything became noise.

Kon went through a catwalk. Cassie threw a crate into a generator. Bart disarmed six men and rearmed one of them by mistake because he thought the weapon had been unloaded. Greta swallowed the room in cold mist long enough for Tim to drag two unconscious workers out of the blast radius. Somewhere in the middle of it, the lights went out, the backup system screamed, and someone Tim could not see dropped from the ceiling, kicked a gun out of a man’s hand, and lit the air with a crackle of blue electricity.

By the time he climbed the emergency stairs to the roof, you were already there.

Kon had clearly tried to follow you. Kon had also clearly underestimated your willingness to web his mouth shut with a strand of pale, shimmering fiber.

“Don’t shout,” you told him.

Kon made an offended sound against the webbing.

Tim stopped at the edge of the roof access door. Rain slid down the outside of his cape and tapped against the lenses of his mask. You turned your head toward him, still upside down, and the first thing he registered was the posture. Calm, balanced, and ready to spring. You were wearing a dark suit with faint silver threading across the shoulders and forearms, a hood shadowing the upper half of your face. Your mask was enough to hide your identity, but your mouth was visible, and it curved when you saw him.

“Robin,” you said. “I was wondering when Gotham was going to send someone shorter.”

Kon’s muffled protest became louder.

Tim resisted the urge to glance at him. “You’re interfering with an active investigation.”

“I’m stopping your loud friend from telling everyone within six blocks where we are.” You looked at Kon, then reached up and patted his cheek with insulting gentleness. “He seems nice, though.”

Kon’s eyes narrowed.

Tim took one step forward. Your body tensed almost imperceptibly. He would have missed it if he had not been trained by Batman to notice the moment before a person chose between fighting and running.

He stopped.

“What do I call you?” he asked.

Your smile softened into something that looked almost surprised, as if you had expected a demand instead of a question. “Silk.”

Kon finally tore the webbing away from his mouth. “That’s a cool name.”

“You ruined the effect,” you told him.

“I’m Superboy. I improve effects by being there.”

“You talk too much to be stealthy.”

“That’s what Robin says.”

Tim did not deny it. He was too busy watching the faint blue pulse still fading beneath your glove. The light had not come from a weapon, unless you had something built into the suit that was smaller than anything he had seen on the feed. It moved under the skin, bright for a second and then gone.

Meta, then. Probably.

“You were at the Sprang River warehouse three nights ago,” Tim said.

Silk tilted her head. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds like a very confident guess.”

“It wasn’t a guess.”

“Fun,” you said, and dropped.

Kon lunged as if you had fallen, which was probably what you wanted. You twisted in midair, fired a thread from one wrist, and swung neatly beneath him before landing near the opposite ledge. The movement was too smooth to be improvised and too reckless to be purely trained. Tim fired a grapple before thinking about it, cutting across the roof in a fast arc as you hit the next building and started running.

Behind him, Kon called, “Are we chasing her?”

“Yes,” Tim said.

“Great. Just checking.”

Chasing you through Gotham was a mistake, which Tim realized roughly fifteen seconds after making the decision. It was not because you were faster than him. You were quick, but Tim had chased speedsters, assassins, acrobats, and Dick Grayson when Dick thought he was being funny. The problem was that you moved as if the city had different rules for you than for everyone else.

You used walls as suggestions. You caught ledges with one hand and redirected without losing momentum. You swung between buildings on thin lines that dissolved into glittering fragments after you released them. Twice, Tim almost had you. Twice, your body flickered at the edges, the dark suit bending into rain and shadow until you were only a ripple in the air.

The third time, he landed close enough to catch your wrist.

Static crackled between you.

Tim’s glove insulated most of it, but not enough to keep the shock from racing up his arm and punching a startled breath out of him. You went visible all at once, your eyes wide behind the mask, your mouth parting as if you were as surprised as he was. For one second, neither of you moved.

His fingers were still around your wrist.

Your pulse was racing.

“That was rude,” you said, sounding slightly breathless.

“You ran.”

“You chased.”

“You fled an active crime scene.”

“You brought a Superboy.”

Tim’s comm crackled in his ear. “Robin?” Cassie’s voice came through, distorted by interference. “Are you okay? We heard something short out.”

Silk looked at the side of his mask. Her eyebrows lifted.

Tim did not let go. “Fine. I found her.”

“Wow,” Bart said over the comm. “She shocked him. I think she shocked him. Did she shock him? Ask if she can do it again.”

You leaned closer, just enough for Tim to notice the rain caught on the edge of your mask. “Your team is very professional.”

“They’re growing as people.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Your smile came back, small and dangerous. Then you rolled your wrist in his grip, twisted with alarming flexibility, and stepped into him instead of away. Tim had prepared for you to pull back. He had not prepared for you to close the distance until your shoulder brushed his chest and your free hand pressed against the emblem on his tunic.

The charge under your palm hummed.

His comm died with a pitiful hiss.

You looked down at the darkened receiver on his shoulder, then up at him. “Oops.”

Tim stared at you.

You vanished.

A second later, his cape tugged sharply to the left, and by the time he turned, you were already on the next roof. He could have followed. He had enough line left, and the route was clear.

Instead, he stayed where he was and looked at his fried comm.

Kon landed beside him with a gust of wind and too much smugness. “So. That happened.”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I’m thinking she touched the R on your chest and you forgot how legs work.”

Tim turned and headed for the fire escape. “We’re going back to the Cave.”

Kon floated backward in front of him. “You know, I support this. You need hobbies. Batman gave you crime and emotional repression, but maybe a girl who can electrocute you is what really rounds out the portfolio.”

Tim considered pushing him off the roof. Kon could fly, so it would not hurt him. It might, however, make Tim feel better.

By the next morning, Tim had a file on you.

It was not a satisfying file. Tim liked files with names, addresses, known associates, medical records, criminal histories, and at least one blurry photograph taken from a traffic camera. Your file had a codename, three sightings, four broken cameras, and a growing list of questions.

Silk. Gotham-based or Gotham-adjacent. Unknown identity. Unknown age, though likely close to his own. Metahuman abilities included wall adhesion, bio-electric discharge, camouflage or light-bending invisibility, enhanced agility, and possibly accelerated reflexes. Gear included adhesive filament launchers, though Tim had not ruled out organic production. Motive unknown. Combat style evasive, acrobatic, with strong defensive instincts and a habit of humiliating opponents when given the opportunity.

He wrote that last part after reviewing the footage of you webbing Kon to a fire escape.

“You’re smiling,” Cassie said.

Tim immediately stopped. “I’m not.”

“You were.”

“I found something.”

“Was it her phone number?”

Tim looked up from the computer.

Cassie smiled sweetly at him from the chair opposite the console. She had been helping to review footage for the past hour, which mostly meant she had provided useful observations while joining Kon in making his life worse.

“I’m investigating a potential witness,” Tim said.

“Witness,” Cassie repeated.

“And a possible suspect.”

“The suspect who saved your life last night?”

“She didn’t save my life.”

“She disabled the guy behind you with the shock baton.”

“I had it under control.”

“Tim.”

He turned back to the screen. “She has useful information.”

“She made your voice do that thing.”

“My voice isn’t doing anything.”

“It gets flatter when you’re embarrassed.”

The truly unfair part was that Cassie had become much better at reading people since joining the team. Tim supported this development in theory. In practice, it was deeply inconvenient.

Bart blurred into the room with a stack of printouts. “I found every mention of Silk in Gotham message boards, weird conspiracy pages, and three fan forums that are mostly arguing about whether she’s a ghost, a ninja, or a really committed theater kid.”

Tim took the papers before Bart could scatter them across the keyboard. “Anything useful?”

“There’s a blurry picture from six months ago near Crime Alley, a police report from four months ago about a mugger found stuck to a billboard, and one guy who says she dropped out of the sky, called him ‘bestie’ in a mean way, and knocked him unconscious.”

“That does sound like her,” Kon said, wandering in with a soda he definitely had not gotten from the Cave’s supplies because the Cave did not have supplies Kon was allowed to touch. “Does she have a number? Asking for Robin.”

Tim took a slow breath. “I am going to solve this case.”

“Sure,” Kon said. “And if solving the case involves standing really close to her in the rain again, that’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.”

Greta drifted through the console before Tim could respond, making the screen flicker. “She’s lonely.”

Everyone went quiet.

Tim looked at her.

Greta’s expression had gone distant, her dark eyes fixed on the blurry image of you caught in midair between two buildings. “I don’t know how I know. Maybe because she runs like she expects no one to catch her.”

The words settled over the room with more weight than Tim expected. There was a difference between teasing him and looking at the evidence of someone operating alone in Gotham. He knew what loneliness looked like in a mask. He knew what it cost, too.

Kon’s expression softened first. He tried to hide it by taking a drink of soda, but Tim saw it anyway.

Cassie leaned back in her chair. “So we help her.”

“We find her,” Tim said. “Then we ask what she knows.”

Bart raised a hand. “And then we help her?”

Tim looked back at the screen, where your half-visible outline clung to a wall with impossible grace.

“And then,” he said, “we see what she needs.”

You found him before he found you.

Tim should have been annoyed by that. He had spent the better part of two patrols setting up a pattern he thought would draw you out. He revisited the previous theft sites, mapped likely targets based on the missing components, and positioned himself near a chemical storage facility that had enough conductive gel to complete the device the thieves were building. It was solid work. It was careful work.

It was also apparently unnecessary, because at 1:13 in the morning, while he was crouched on a gargoyle across from the facility’s eastern gate, someone dropped upside down into his field of vision with a soft whisper of silk thread.

“Your cape is dramatic,” you said.

Tim did not startle. He was proud of that.

“Your entrance is impractical,” he replied.

“It got your attention.”

“I heard you on the roof thirty seconds ago.”

Your eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Liar.”

“You land quietly, but you displace gravel when you pivot.”

“That is a deeply annoying thing to know.”

“You asked.”

“I didn’t.”

“You implied.”

You stared at him for another second, then smiled despite yourself. It changed the whole shape of your face. Tim noticed because he was trained to notice things, not because Kon was right about anything.

You released the thread and flipped down to land beside him on the ledge. The movement brought you close enough that Tim felt the faint prickle of static before he heard it. Your suit seemed to hum in the damp air, silver lines catching little glints of city light.

“Your team isn’t here,” you said.

“They’re nearby.”

“That means yes.”

“It means nearby.”

“Does Superboy define nearby in feet or zip codes?”

Tim almost smiled. “Depends on whether he’s bored.”

“Impulse?”

“Continents.”

That made you laugh, and Tim had the sudden, inconvenient thought that he wanted to hear it again without a mask between you. He pushed the thought aside with the discipline of someone who had trained under Batman and then immediately made the mistake of looking at your mouth.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

Your amusement dimmed into something quieter, not gone, only changed. The air between you drew tighter. Tim felt the weight of the city around you, the wet stone under his boots, the cold wind pulling at the edges of his cape. You were still close, close enough that he could see a faint nick in the lower edge of your mask and the small scrape along your jaw where someone had landed a lucky hit.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“It’s Gotham. Everyone’s hurt.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

Tim reached slowly for one of the pouches on his belt. Your gaze dropped to his hand, but you did not move away. He took out a small antiseptic wipe and held it out between two fingers.

You looked at it. “Is that a peace offering?”

“It’s antiseptic.”

“That’s less romantic.”

Tim’s brain stalled for a fraction of a second. You smiled again, sharper this time, as if you had found something worth testing.

“Romantic wasn’t the goal,” he said.

“No?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.”

The static around you snapped. His comm gave a warning crackle, and Tim saw your eyes flick toward it. There was something fascinating about the fact that your power reacted before the rest of you did. Your expression was mostly controlled, but the air betrayed you. The glow beneath your gloves brightened when you teased him. The interference spiked when he stepped closer. On the rooftop two nights earlier, you had vanished only after he caught your wrist, as if camouflage was less a tactic and more a reflex.

He filed that away, then immediately felt bad for filing it away.

“You’re doing it again,” you said.

Tim blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m a case.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

That landed closer than he liked. He lowered the antiseptic slightly. “I didn’t mean to.”

You studied him for a long moment. The humor did not leave your face entirely, but something guarded moved in behind it.

“I know,” you said, and took the wipe from his hand.

You cleaned the scrape yourself, wincing only once. Tim pretended not to notice. The facility below remained quiet, guards moving in slow loops around the perimeter, the eastern loading dock lit by two flickering security lamps. A truck rolled past on the far street. Somewhere below, a siren rose and faded.

“You’re tracking the same crew,” he said.

You folded the wipe and tucked it into one of your own pouches. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“They stole something.”

“A lot of things have been stolen.”

“Something mine.”

Tim waited.

You did not elaborate.

He understood secrets. He had been living around other people’s secrets long before he put on the mask. Batman had taught him that information was leverage, but Dick had taught him that sometimes people handed you the truth only after you proved you would not grab for it. Tim was still working on the balance.

“The device they’re building uses adaptive camouflage as a delivery system,” he said. “The capacitors suggest a directed electromagnetic pulse. Portable, targeted, and strong enough to disable security networks across several blocks if they stabilize it.”

You glanced at him. “You always talk like that?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

“It usually is.”

“Maybe I like it.”

Tim’s glove creaked softly where his hand tightened around the edge of the stone ledge. Your gaze dropped, then returned to his face. The static jumped again, a tiny spark leaping from your wrist to the damp stone.

This time, you were the one who looked away first.

“I think they’re trying to make a ghost bomb,” you said.

Tim latched on to the case because the alternative was thinking about the shape of your smile. “Ghost bomb?”

“That’s what the guy I intimidated called it. A pulse that makes everything electronic go blind while the people carrying the tuned receivers can still see through it. Cameras, alarms, comms, drones, traffic grids, police networks. Dead for everyone else. Open road for them.”

“That lines up with my analysis.”

“Good. I’d hate to disappoint the detective.”

He gave you a look.

You were smiling again.

The eastern gate below clicked open.

Both of you moved at once. Tim dropped into a crouch and raised his binoculars. You slid down the side of the building without needing a line, your hands and feet finding silent grip against stone, until you were nearly level with the top of the gate. A black van rolled inside. Three men in gray tactical gear stepped out, followed by a woman in a glossy white coat carrying a silver case.

Tim recognized her from one of Oracle’s flagged searches. Dr. Maribel Jones. Former S.T.A.R. Labs contractor. Electromagnetic fields, stealth tech, and three sealed misconduct complaints before she vanished from the legitimate research world.

His comm clicked twice, then Cassie’s voice came through. “Robin, we have eyes on the west side. Kon says he recognizes one of the trucks from the warehouse.”

“Tell him not to engage yet,” Tim murmured.

“Too late,” Kon said.

Something exploded on the west side of the facility.

You looked back up at Tim. Even with the mask, he could feel the judgment.

“My team is nearby,” he said.

“I’m getting that.”

Then you dropped.

Tim followed.

The fight inside the facility was a mess, but it was a Young Justice mess, which meant it came with moments of accidental brilliance. Kon hit the first truck hard enough to tip it onto two wheels without crushing the driver. Cassie landed on the hood and punched through the engine block. Bart pulled every magazine out of every gun in the loading bay before most of the men had finished turning around. Greta moved through the walls and whispered from corners until two guards ran into each other trying to flee from her voice.

You fit into the chaos like you had been designed for it.

Tim saw flashes of you between moving bodies and broken light. A thread fired from your wrist, wrapped around a rifle, and yanked it out of a man’s hands. Your palm struck his vest a second later, blue electricity snapping across the armor and dropping him in a boneless heap. Someone swung a baton at your head. You bent backward, planted one hand on the floor, and kicked him under the chin hard enough to lift him.

“Okay,” Kon called from across the room, “that was cool.”

“Focus!” Tim shouted.

“I can do both!”

Dr. Jones was moving toward the central platform, where the device sat inside a metal cradle. It looked unfinished but active, a sleek black cylinder surrounded by stabilizing rings, its surface shimmering in and out of view as if reality had trouble remembering it. Tim threw a birdarang at the control panel. Jones raised one hand without looking, and the birdarang froze midair, caught in a field of trembling blue light.

“Robin,” she said, turning with a pleased expression. “I was told Gotham might send you.”

Tim landed on the railing above her. “You should have prepared better.”

“I did.” Her gaze shifted past him. “I brought bait.”

A scream cut through the facility.

Tim’s stomach tightened.

You stopped moving.

On the far side of the room, one of Jones’s men dragged a teenager out from behind a stack of crates. He was maybe fourteen, wearing an oversized hoodie and a terrified expression, his hands bound in front of him with shimmering filament.

Your filament.

The static around you flared so brightly that the lights overhead flickered.

Voss smiled. “There you are.”

Tim knew, instantly and with cold clarity, that the stolen thing had not been equipment. Or at least, not only equipment.

You took one step forward.

The man holding the boy pressed a weapon against his side. “Don’t.”

Your whole body went still.

Kon drifted lower, his expression shifting from cocky to dangerous. Cassie’s hands curled into fists. Bart was suddenly beside Tim, vibrating with barely restrained motion.

“Who is he?” Tim asked quietly.

You did not look at him. “My brother.”

The word changed the room.

Jones lifted the silver case onto the platform. “Technically, he is also a research asset. Your abilities are more developed, of course, but family patterns are useful. I had hoped you would be sentimental enough to come yourself.”

Your voice, when it came, was very soft. “Let him go.”

“I will, once you help me stabilize my device.”

“You said that last time.”

“Last time, you broke three of my ribs.”

“You had it coming.”

Jones sighed. “Children are so moral until they need something.”

Tim moved before anger could cloud the room. He tapped his comm twice, sending a silent signal to the team. Bart saw it. Cassie saw Bart see it. Kon’s eyes flicked toward the boy, then toward the armed men between them. Greta drifted lower behind the platform, invisible to everyone except the people who knew how to look for absence.

You did not see any of it. Your gaze was locked on your brother.

That, Tim understood. He understood it too well.

He stepped closer to the edge of the railing. “Jones.”

She looked back at him.

“You’re assuming she came alone.”

Voss’s smile thinned. “She did.”

“No,” Tim said. “She started alone.”

The room erupted.

Bart moved first. The weapon against your brother’s side disappeared, along with the gloves, belt, and left boot of the man holding him. Cassie hit the floor between them hard enough to crack concrete and send three guards stumbling backward. Kon flew straight through the stabilizing rings with a shout that sounded entirely too pleased for someone about to collide with experimental technology. Greta rose behind Jones like a ghost from a nightmare and whispered something in her ear that made the scientist scream.

Tim went for your brother.

You went for Jones.

For several seconds, everything worked.

Tim cut the filament from your brother’s wrists, caught him before his knees buckled, and shoved him behind a storage column. “Stay down.”

The boy stared at him. “Who are you?”

“Robin.”

“Oh,” he said faintly. “Cool.”

Then the ghost bomb activated.

The pulse did not explode so much as unfold. Light bent outward from the platform in a shimmering wave, turning the facility silver-white. Tim’s lenses blacked out. His comm died. The security lights shattered. Every electronic device on his belt screamed at once and went quiet.

In the sudden silence, someone laughed.

Jones.

Tim ripped the dead lenses from his mask, blinking through the darkness. Emergency chemical lights glowed faintly along the floor, enough to turn bodies into shadows. The device was still active, its center spinning faster now, unstable without the rings Kon had damaged. He could hear Cassie coughing. Kon swearing. Bart asking if everyone else’s teeth felt fuzzy.

Then he heard you cry out.

Tim turned.

You were on the platform with one hand pressed against the device, blue electricity pouring from your palm into the machine. Jones stood several feet away, one arm wrapped around a support beam, her face lit with wild triumph.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it. Hold it there.”

The device was using you.

Tim saw it in the way your body shook, in the white-blue lines crawling up your arm, in the sharp pain twisting your mouth as your own power was dragged through you and into the unstable core. You tried to pull back. Your hand would not move.

Tim ran.

A guard came out of the dark. Tim dropped him without slowing, ducking a wild swing and driving his elbow into the man’s solar plexus. Another reached for him; a blur that had to be Bart knocked the man sideways into a pile of crates. Tim vaulted onto the platform, cape snapping behind him, and grabbed your wrist.

The shock hit harder this time.

It burned through the insulation, through his glove, through every disciplined thought in his head. Tim held on anyway. You looked at him, eyes wide and bright with pain behind the mask.

“Let go,” you gasped.

“No.”

“It’ll hit you too.”

“I know.”

“Robin—”

“I’ve got you,” he said.

The words came out low and certain, cutting through the scream of the machine. Your face changed as if certainty, from him, had been worse than a confession.

For a heartbeat, the machine, the fight, and the collapsing facility narrowed to the space between your hand and his. You knew his name now. He had given it to you in the middle of a fight with a mad scientist and an unstable electromagnetic weapon, which was possibly the least advisable way to reveal a secret identity short of writing it on a billboard.

He would worry about that later.

Your fingers turned under his and gripped back.

“On three,” he said.

You nodded once, jaw tight.

“One.”

The device screamed.

“Two.”

Jones lunged toward the controls.

“Three.”

You released everything.

The surge that came out of you was blinding. Tim pulled you backward as the blue-white charge flooded the core, overloading every stabilizer still attached to it. Kon hit Jones from the side and carried her through a stack of insulation foam. Cassie grabbed the central column and tore it free. Bart got your brother out through the eastern exit. Greta swallowed the platform in darkness just as the ghost bomb imploded, folding light and sound into a single concussive pulse that threw Tim off his feet.

He landed badly. The impact drove the air from his lungs, his shoulder slamming against the floor with enough force to send pain down his arm. You landed half on top of him, which was probably the only reason your head did not hit the concrete.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you groaned against his chest. “Ow.”

Tim coughed. “Agreed.”

“You make terrible plans.”

“That plan worked.”

“I think your definition of worked needs help.”

“Everyone’s alive.”

You lifted your head. Your mask was cracked along one side, and the hood had fallen back enough for him to see more of your face than before; not enough to identify you, but enough for the closeness to feel different.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth.

Tim forgot about his shoulder.

For one reckless second, he had to remind himself where he was, who was watching, and why leaning closer would be a terrible idea.

Kon cleared his throat loudly from somewhere nearby. “I hate to interrupt whatever this is, but the ceiling is doing that thing where it looks like it wants to become the floor.”

You closed your eyes for a second. “I’m going to shock him.”

“Later,” Tim said.

“You promise?”

His mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

That made you smile, and then you vanished.

Tim felt your weight remain against him, felt the warm pressure of your hand braced beside his shoulder, but your body disappeared in a flicker of light. It was not tactical this time. It was pure embarrassment.

Kon made a sound of delight. “Oh, that’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” you said, invisible and mortified.

Tim, against his better judgment, laughed.

The Cave was not the Batcave, which Tim appreciated more than usual when he brought you there.

The team’s headquarters in Happy Harbor had its own oddities, including souvenirs from missions nobody had properly explained, evidence of Kon’s attempts to use the kitchen without supervision, and a couch that Bart insisted was haunted because Greta had once emerged from it during a movie night. But it did not have Batman standing silently in the shadows, and at the moment, that was enough.

Your brother was asleep in the med bay with a blanket pulled up to his chin and Cassie sitting nearby, pretending she was not standing guard. The team had treated him with a kindness that made you quiet. Bart had offered him snacks. Kon had solemnly promised that getting kidnapped by a mad scientist was a terrible first impression of superhero life and that most days were only a little weird. Greta had stayed close without crowding him, her presence soft and strange and comforting in a way Tim did not fully understand but trusted completely.

You watched all of it from the doorway with your arms folded tight across your chest.

Tim watched you.

He had fixed his comm already, because needing something to do with his hands was better than replaying the moment on the platform when your fingers had locked around his, and you had trusted him not to let go. He had also cleaned and wrapped the burn across his palm, though Alfred would have had opinions about the quality of the work. His shoulder hurt. His ribs hurt. His head hurt.

You were still standing too still.

He picked up the spare first-aid kit and walked over.

“You’re avoiding treatment,” he said.

You glanced at him. Your mask was gone now, replaced by a domino you had taken from one of the spare supply drawers after refusing to remove your hood entirely. It covered enough. Tim had not pushed.

“You’re avoiding sleep,” you replied.

“I don’t sleep.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From everyone?”

“Yes.”

You looked past him toward the med bay. Your brother shifted in his sleep, and Cassie immediately leaned forward to check the monitor. The movement made your expression soften in a way that took the teasing out of you.

“He’s okay,” Tim said.

“I know.”

“You don’t sound like you know.”

“I know in my head,” you said. “The rest of me is catching up.”

Tim understood that, too.

He held up the kit. “Let the rest of you catch up while I look at your arm.”

You stared at him for long enough that he expected another argument. Instead, you nodded and followed him to the training room, where the lighting was gentler and there was less chance of Kon wandering in with commentary. Tim set the kit on a bench. You sat beside it and peeled back the damaged sleeve of your suit, revealing an angry electrical burn across the inside of your forearm.

Tim’s throat tightened. “You should have said it was this bad.”

“You were busy being electrocuted.”

“Because you were being used as a battery.”

“See? Busy.”

He gave you a look.

You shrugged, then winced. “Okay. That was stupid.”

“The shrug?”

“The whole thing.”

“It wasn’t stupid to go after your brother.”

“I went alone.”

“That part could use revision.”

You looked down at your arm. “I didn’t have a team.”

Tim opened the antiseptic and kept his voice even. “You do now.”

The words hung there between you.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the bench. For once, you did not make a joke. Tim cleaned the burn as carefully as he could, watching your face for any sign that the pressure was too much. You were good at hiding pain. Unfortunately for you, he was good at finding it.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

“I am.”

“Slowly, then.”

You gave him a narrow look, but you inhaled more slowly the next time. The static around your skin settled with it, the sharp prickling in the air becoming a faint hum. Tim applied the burn gel and wrapped your forearm with gauze, his gloved fingers moving steadily around your wrist.

“You should have let go,” you said.

Tim did not look up. “No.”

“That’s your whole argument?”

“It’s the important part.”

Your mouth curved despite yourself, but the smile was softer than the joke deserved. “You always that stubborn?”

“When someone is being used as a battery by a homicidal scientist, yes.”

“That’s weirdly specific.”

“It’s been a weird night.”

His fingers slowed near your wrist, and for a moment, the room went quiet around the faint hum of your power. Then he said, very quietly, “Tim.”

You looked at him. “What?”

“My name,” he said. “It’s Tim.”

The static returned, soft and nervous, lifting the fine hairs near his wrist beneath the glove.

“Oh,” you said.

Tim finally looked up. “Yeah.”

He had finished securing the bandage and should have moved away. There were plenty of reasons to put space between you. You were injured. He was injured. The team was nearby, your brother was in the next room, and they had just survived an explosion, captured a scientist, and prevented a localized technological blackout across Gotham. Any reasonable person would have stood up, gotten water, written a report, called Batman, or at least pretended not to notice how close your knees were to his.

Tim had never claimed to be reasonable about everything.

Your uninjured hand rested on the bench beside you. His was still near your wrist. The space between your fingers was very small.

“Tim,” you said.

His name sounded different from you. Softer than it had been in his own mouth. More dangerous, somehow, because he wanted to hear it again.

“You know I could use that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You don’t know me that well.”

“I know enough.”

There it was again, that careful certainty that made him seem older than he was and younger at the same time, like he had learned caution from someone else but trust was still something he was deciding for himself.

Your fingers flexed against the bench. “That’s a lot to hand someone.”

“Yes.”

“Batman would hate this.”

“Definitely.”

Your mouth curved, but the smile did not last long. “I won’t.”

Tim looked at you.

“Use it,” you clarified. “Look for you. Tell anyone. Any of it.”

“I know,” he said.

“You keep saying that like it’s simple.”

“It isn’t.” His hand shifted, close enough that his glove brushed your knuckles. “I’m saying it anyway.”

For a moment, you only looked at him. The faint hum of your power filled the space between you, soft and uncertain, and Tim wondered if he had gone too far after all. Then your hand relaxed against the bench instead of pulling away.

The relief he felt was bigger than it should have been. Trust was a dangerous thing in Gotham, and worse in a mask, where every truth had to be weighed against every possible consequence. But you had made the decision without ceremony, as if the name he had given you was something you could hold carefully instead of use.

Your fingers twitched, and a tiny blue spark jumped against the bench. You made a small, embarrassed sound and started to pull your hand back.

Tim caught it.

Carefully this time. Slowly. He laid his gloved fingers over yours and watched the electricity flicker harmlessly against the reinforced material. You went very still.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Your voice was quieter when you answered. “Yes.”

The invisibility started at the edges of you, your outline blurring where the light met your shoulders. You squeezed your eyes shut as if concentration alone could stop it.

Tim’s mouth curved before he could help it. “You’re disappearing.”

“I’m aware.”

“Is it because you’re embarrassed?”

“I could be preparing a tactical retreat.”

“While holding my hand?”

“It’s a new technique.”

“It needs work.”

You opened one eye and glared at him. The effect was weakened by the fact that half your face had gone transparent.

Tim should not have found it charming. He did anyway.

“I’m usually better at this,” you said.

“At invisibility?”

“At flirting.”

He looked at your hand under his. “This is flirting?”

“You are such a detective.”

“I’m gathering evidence.”

“Of what?”

Tim brushed his thumb once over your knuckles. The movement was small, barely anything, but your camouflage flickered hard enough that your whole body vanished for half a second before snapping back into view.

“That,” he said.

Your mouth parted. Then you laughed, breathless and disbelieving, and electricity danced along your bandaged arm like stars caught under skin.

“You’re smug,” you accused.

“I’m observant.”

“That is worse.”

He leaned a little closer. “I can stop.”

You looked at him for a long moment, the humor in your face softening into something warmer. “I didn’t ask you to.”

Tim’s heart kicked once, hard.

The training room door slid open.

Bart stood in the doorway holding three juice boxes and a bag of pretzels. His eyes went from Tim’s hand over yours to your glowing arm to the fact that you were now mostly invisible below the shoulders.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m interrupting.”

“Yes,” Tim said.

“No,” you said at the same time, then immediately winced.

Bart’s grin spread with terrifying speed. “Crash.”

“Bart,” Tim warned.

“I’m going.” Bart backed out of the room, still grinning. “I didn’t see anything. Or, well, I kind of couldn’t, because she was doing the invisible thing, which is probably private? Anyway, snacks are outside.”

The door shut.

You buried your face in your uninjured hand.

Tim stared at the door and seriously considered changing every security code in the Cave.

From somewhere down the hall, Bart shouted, “I support you both!”

Kon shouted, “I knew it!”

Cassie shouted, “Leave them alone!”

Greta’s voice drifted through the wall, soft and pleased. “They’re cute.”

You groaned. “Your team is a nightmare.”

Tim looked back at you. “Our team.”

That shut you up.

It also brought you fully visible again.

For a few seconds, you only stared at him. Then the corner of your mouth lifted, shy in a way he had not expected from someone who could insult Kon while hanging upside down from a fire escape.

“Our team,” you repeated.

Tim nodded.

Your fingers turned under his, fitting more deliberately into his grip. The static between you warmed without stinging. It felt less like a warning now and more like a pulse.

“Tim?”

“Yes?”

“If you almost kiss me again and get interrupted, I’m going to start taking it personally.”

His breath caught. “Again?”

“You think I didn’t notice the rooftop?”

“I was assessing your injuries.”

“You were looking at my mouth.”

Tim considered denial. It would have been tactically weak and also pointless.

“Yes,” he said.

The glow under your skin brightened.

His own confidence, such as it was, almost failed at the sight. There were enemies he could face with steadier nerves than this. Trained killers. Riddler death traps. Batman’s silence after a reckless decision. None of them had ever made him feel as exposed as you did, sitting on a training bench with one arm bandaged, one hand in his, and a smile like you had caught him somewhere he wanted to be caught.

He lifted his free hand slowly, giving you time to move away. You did not. His fingers touched the edge of your hood, then the line of your jaw beneath the domino mask. Your breath trembled once.

The static popped against his glove.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

“I’m fine.”

“It happens when I—” You stopped.

“When you?”

“When I feel too much.”

Tim’s thumb stilled against your jaw.

There were easy things he could have said. Clever things, maybe. Kon would have teased. Bart would have blurted something honest and horrifying. Dick would have known exactly how to make it charming. Tim had a dozen possible responses and no idea which one would not ruin the fragile, bright thing resting between you.

So he chose the truth.

“I do too,” he said. “It just looks different.”

Your eyes searched his face.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

For a second, Tim forgot every plan he had ever made.

The kiss was soft at first, careful because both of you were bruised and tired and still wearing too much armor. Then your hand tightened around his, and the carefulness shifted into something warmer. His fingers slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, and your shoulder brushed his chest as you angled closer. Static skated across his gloves and up his sleeves, harmless but insistent, making every place you touched feel lit from underneath.

You made a small sound against his mouth when he kissed you back.

Tim’s brain attempted to catalog it and then failed completely.

The lights flickered.

Somewhere in the hall, the repaired comm unit on his belt gave a weak burst of static and died again.

You pulled back just enough to look at it. “Oops.”

Tim looked at your mouth, then back at your eyes. “Worth it.”

Your face went pink.

Then you vanished.

Tim laughed, warm and helpless, and leaned forward until his forehead rested against the place where he knew yours had to be. He felt you there, invisible and shaking with silent laughter, your breath brushing his cheek.

“You know,” he said, “this complicates the report.”

Your forehead bumped his. “Put it under equipment damage.”

“The comm?”

“The kiss.”

“I don’t think Batman has a form for that.”

“Make one. You’re Robin.”

The door opened again, only a crack this time.

Kon’s voice came through. “Are you two decent?”

You stayed invisible, but Tim felt the shift of your weight a second before one of his birdarangs slipped from his belt.

Kon leaned farther into the doorway. “So are you two being weird in here, or—”

The birdarang snapped into the doorframe inches from his face.

Kon went very still.

“Rude!” he called.

“Accurate,” you said, still invisible.

Tim looked at the birdarang, then at you. “You stole from my belt.”

“You were distracted.”

“I’m usually better at that.”

Your smile turned bright. “At flirting?”

“At theft prevention.”

“Same problem, maybe.”

Tim wanted to kiss you again. He wanted it badly enough that he had to remind himself you were both injured, both exhausted, and surrounded by teammates with the self-control of a particularly invasive flock of birds. He settled for keeping your hand in his a little longer.

Outside the training room, someone started arguing about whether celebratory waffles were appropriate after stopping an electromagnetic ghost bomb. Bart was firmly in favor. Cassie wanted everyone to sleep. Kon said waffles were basically sleep for your stomach. Greta suggested pancakes in a dreamy voice that made Bart gasp like she had introduced a devastating philosophical complication.

You listened to them, your expression softening.

“They’re always like this?” you asked.

“Usually louder.”

“That should scare me.”

“It scares Batman.”

Your eyes lit. “Really?”

“Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“You keep saying that like I’m supposed to trust you.”

You squeezed his hand. “You already do.”

Tim had no answer for that because it was true.

Later, after Jones was in custody, your brother was released into the care of someone you trusted, and Batman received a report that was technically complete while omitting several personal details that did not belong to him, you returned to Gotham.

For three nights, Tim did not see you.

He told himself that was expected. You had your own patrols, your own responsibilities, and a brother who needed you more than Tim did. You had been operating alone before Young Justice stumbled into your life with explosions and waffles. It made sense that you would need time.

He still found himself checking rooftops.

On the fourth night, he landed on a grotesque overlooking Robinson Park and found a paper bag tied to its neck with a strand of shimmering filament.

Inside were dumplings, still warm.

The note tucked under the container read, in handwriting that managed to look both elegant and smug:

For the detective. Since Gotham has dumplings, apparently.

Tim smiled before he could stop himself.

“You’re late,” he said to the empty rooftop.

Nothing happened.

Then the air to his left shimmered, and you appeared sitting on the edge of the building with your legs swinging over the drop. Your hood was up, your mask in place, and your grin entirely too pleased.

“You knew I was here?”

“I hoped.”

That answer caught you off guard. Your smile softened, and the faint static around you turned shy.

Tim walked over and sat beside you, leaving enough space that you could choose what to do with it. For a while, neither of you talked. Gotham moved below in uneasy layers: traffic, sirens, distant voices, the rustle of wind through leaves in the park. Above you, the clouds had broken enough for a few stubborn stars to show through.

“How’s your brother?” Tim asked.

“Annoyed that he’s grounded from all rooftops, alleys, suspicious laboratories, and independent hero activity until he’s thirty.”

“Reasonable.”

“He says I’m a hypocrite.”

“He’s right.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

The smile you gave him was worth the stolen word.

Tim opened the bag and took out the dumplings. You handed him chopsticks from your sleeve, because apparently your suit had room for emergency utensils. He decided not to ask. You ate together on the gargoyle while Gotham pretended not to notice.

“So,” you said after a while. “Young Justice.”

“Yes.”

“Is there an application?”

“Bart joined by showing up.”

“Low bar.”

“Kon joined through property damage and stubbornness.”

“Lower bar.”

“Cassie was competent, which confused everyone.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “And you?”

Tim looked out over the park. “I was kidnapped into the first mission.”

You stared at him.

He took another dumpling.

“That explains so much,” you said.

“It does?”

“You have the energy of someone who became team leader because everyone else was worse at paperwork.”

Tim considered that. “Accurate.”

Your laughter curled through the cold air, and this time he did not have to wonder if he would hear it again.

When the food was gone, you leaned back on your hands and looked at the sky. Your shoulder rested against his now. It had happened gradually, the small space between you disappearing bite by bite until warmth pressed through the side of his cape.

“Are you going to ask?” you said.

“Ask what?”

“Who I am.”

Tim looked at you.

Your face was turned upward, the lower half visible beneath the mask. You were trying to sound casual. You did not quite make it.

“I want to know,” he said.

Your jaw tightened.

“But I’m not asking.”

You looked at him then. “Why?”

“Because you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

The words seemed to settle into you the way a hand might. Your camouflage flickered once, not enough to hide you. Enough to tell him it mattered.

“You’re very dangerous,” you said.

Tim blinked. “Me?”

“You make patience look romantic.”

Heat climbed up his neck. “That’s a new accusation.”

“Get used to it.”

You leaned closer. He did too, drawn in by the same quiet pull that had been there since the roof, since the chase, since the moment your hand lit up under his, and neither of you let go. This kiss was slower. Less surprised. Tim felt your smile against his mouth before it deepened, felt the static gather in the air around you like a secret learning how to glow.

His comm crackled once.

You pulled back with a laugh. “Still?”

“You are very hard on equipment.”

“You kissed me first this time.”

“Technically, I leaned.”

“You leaned with intent.”

Tim smiled. “That’s going in the report.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Equipment damage due to leaning with intent.”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing, and he caught your hand before you could pull away. The spark that jumped between your palms was gentle. Familiar, almost.

Below, Gotham carried on. Somewhere in the city, Batman was probably brooding over a gargoyle of his own. Somewhere farther away, Young Justice was undoubtedly turning a quiet night into a group activity with consequences. There would be more cases, more danger, more secrets that needed time before they became truths.

Tim still did not have a contingency plan for you.

He was starting to think he did not want one.

You were actually incredibly patient. You didn’t appreciate the rumor your boyfriend was floating around in your private texts. You could (and have) waited hours for your boyfriend to return home. Usually, a good movie and some popcorn could distract you from his absence. But today was different. Actually, the past three days had been different.

Your skin warmed when there was nothing to cause it. Your body grew tense. You felt like your legs were never stretched out all the way. You felt like your neck was tilted in the wrong direction. No position could make your body relax. You felt like a wave of heat was radiating between your legs. You were plenty capable of handling it yourself. But Tim was oh so much more fun. 

 The only issue was the waiting. You had to wait for him to come home. Then he’d probably want a shower to 'wash crime off' of him. And then he’d probably want to get into his silk pajamas. And then he’d finally join you in bed. You’d have more luck giving a fucking mouse a cookie. You’d been rolling around in the blankets of your bed for the past hour. No position made anything less tense, but at least they were entertaining for a few minutes. 

 The scrape of keys against your door made you gasp. You rolled onto your side. You lounged across the end of the bed, watching the foyer through the bedroom door frame. Tim dipped through the door, his eyes on the floor. He toed his sneakers off, reaching behind himself to lock the door. He dropped his keys into the bowl. He set his large duffle bag by the door, stepping over it to get to the bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 “Hey, babe.” You ignored him as you dug your eyes into his arms. Your mouth parted as he reached up, scratching at the collar of his shirt. The edge revealed one of the hickies you left him, the bruise fading out into his skin. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. It had to be hotter in here than earlier. 

 “Guess what I nicked from the Bat?” Tim chuckled, digging into his pocket. Your eyes dropped to his hand, staring dead center at his crotch. Tim pulled a Batarang from his pocket, holding it by his chest. You followed his fingers as he twirled it around. 

 “Batarang. Pretty sick, huh? Took it straight off his belt; he didn’t even notice.” Tim bragged, setting the metal on your dresser. 

 “Uh huh.” You murmured. Tim hummed in agreement, turning to the dresser. His back was pointed to you. He bent over, tugging open his drawer. Your eyes widened at his ass pointed straight towards you. Tim straightened up, bumping the dresser closed with his leg. He was holding his pajamas. 

 “Okay, I’ve got to get crime off me before I go to bed.” Tim declared, stepping towards the door. Your hands shot out, digging your fingers into the fabric of his sweatpants. 

 “Tim.” 

 “What?” Tim’s eyebrows furrowed at you. You lifted your eyes, pleading with him silently to join you in bed. Tim’s shoulders dropped in understanding. 

 “You cannot be serious-” Tim hissed. You jumped into action, clawing at his hips and dragging yourself closer to the edge of the bed. 

 “Please, Tim. Please. I missed you so much.” You complained, pressing your cheek into his stomach. Tim scoffed at you, his hands digging into your shoulders. 

 “You’re ridiculous!” Tim blurted. He leaned down, keeping you balanced with his hands. He met your eyes. You puffed your bottom lip out. Please work, please work. 

 “This is ridiculous, baby. You have to see that.” Tim whispered. You tipped forward, pressing your lips to his. Tim hummed. He dug his fingers into your cheek, pulling you closer. You tilted your head back just barely. You opened your mouth, running your tongue over his bottom lip. Tim pulled away from you. You held onto his arm, keeping him next to you. Tim turned himself, settling down on the edge of the bed. 

 “This is the fourth time this week and it's Wednesday,” Tim grumbled. His thumb started swiping back and forth under your eye. You scoffed. You pulled away from him, sitting up straight. Tim frowned. He leaned backwards, twisting himself to keep his eyes on you. 

 “Listen, if you don’t want to, that's fine. I can handle it myself. I have hands.” You stated, your tone hardening with all the seriousness you could muster. Tim shook his head, a grin pulling at his lips. He slipped his knees onto the bed, crawling closer to you. He pressed his hand behind your back, tugging you against him. Your body went slack. Your back curved into him, a sigh passing between your lips. Tim dropped his head down. His lips gently brushed against your neck. Your hips lifted and knocked into his. 

 “I didn’t say I didn’t want you,” Tim mumbled against your skin. You dropped your head back, closing your eyes in bliss. Having such a hot boyfriend really comes in handy sometimes. Tim dragged a hand down the front of your pajama shirt, easily popping the buttons. Tim tilted his head and pressed his nose to your neck. 

 “I’m just worried about your sexual health. I can’t imagine being this needy and impatient-” Tim started. You startled, snapping your head up. 

 “I am not impatient.” You scoffed. 

 “Yes, you are. You didn’t even let me finish my sentence.” Tim complained. You frowned. Tim waited for you to interrupt him again. You glared at him with your lips pressed together. Tim tilted his head, the appropriate time for you to speak passing. Tim finally took your silence as a sign and opened his mouth. 

 “I’m just worried-” 

 “You’re an ass.” You interrupted. Tim sighed, giving you a knowing look. You shrugged. Tim raised a brow. 

 “Are you done now?” Tim asked. 

 “Are you done now?” You pitched your voice to mock him. Tim stayed silent, giving you a dead look. You stared at his shirt, picking at the stray hair on his shoulder. 

 “I’m done now.” You stated. Tim hummed in approval.    “I’m just not sure this is healthy,” Tim grumbled. He dropped his head down and pecked your lips. He tried to soften the blow of his words. You rolled your eyes. 

 “First of all, it’s perfectly fine to have a high libido, you dick. Secondly, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you are disgustingly…” Your eyes dipped down to Tim’s muscles stretching the material of his shirt. You sighed through your nose, peeling your eyes back toward his face. Tim was giving you a knowing look, a cocky grin eating at his teeth. 

 “Stupid.” You finished. Tim glared at you.

“So, it’s really not my fault. It’s more your fault.” You jabbed your finger to Tim’s chest. Your attention dropped to it. You had somehow forgotten the extent of Tim’s rippling muscles in the time he pulled on a shirt this morning and right now. You pressed your palm to his chest, petting his shirt down. You could feel his muscles raising and lowering with each breath. His chest jerked as he flexed. Your hand bounced away from him, the memory that he was real and alive startling you out of your daydream. Tim snickered at your reaction. You snapped a glare up to his face. 

 “You’re a total asshole, Tim. I don’t like you anymore. You should go take your shower.” You crossed your arms over your half-unbuttoned shirt. You turned your nose up at Tim. Tim groaned. He tipped forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

 “Come on. I’m just being silly with you. You don’t need to be embarrassed.” Tim whispered to your warming cheek. You shook your head.

 “Nope. You don’t like me anymore. You think I’m disgusting. You think I should move out because I’m so gross.” You scoffed, shaking your head in disappointment at him. Tim scoffed, pulling his mouth off your face. 

 “I do not.” 

 “Exactly, you do not like me. You think I’m awful. You think I’m worse than Joker. You think I’m so ugly. You can’t even think about touching me.” You complained, dropping your head back on the bed. Tim glared down at you. Tim’s hands dipped to your shirt, pulling it out from under your crossed arms. 

 “I think about touching you all the time.” Tim countered, pushing one of your buttons through your shirt. You glanced down at his hands. You hummed and turned your nose up at him again. 

 “You think I’m the ugliest monster ever.” You muttered. Tim pushed another button out, getting closer and closer to the bottom. 

 “I think you’re the most stunning, funny, and smart person I know. Aside from myself.” Tim whispered. He lowered his head, pressing a soft kiss to the column of skin he was slowly revealing with your shirt. 

 “You think me needing you is so disgusting I need to contact my doctor.” You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. Tim didn’t pick up his head. His hands found the second-to-last button. He trailed his mouth down, kissing the space above it. 

 “I want you to be as healthy as possible so you can always feel good,” Tim argued. He pushed the button through. He poked his tongue out, drawing a wet line down to your last button. 

 “You don’t even like me anymore.” You whispered. You didn’t care at all what words were coming out of your mouth. All you could focus on was Tim’s tongue on your body. 

 “I love you so much I can’t go a minute without thinking about you. I’m always dreaming about you.” Tim found your last button. He kissed at the space under your belly button. He lifted his head. He looked at your face as he pushed your shirt off your shoulders. You closed your eyes at the cold of the room hitting your chest. You pulled yourself from the mattress, meeting his lips. Tim pressed his tongue past your lips. His hands pulled at the back of your shirt, slipping it off your arms. You hummed in approval. You dropped your head down, breaking your kiss. Tim huffed for air as you brought your mouth to his neck. 

 “Not mad at me anymore?” Tim asked. You could hear his cocky grin even as you pulled away from the hickey you were refreshing. 

 “Would you just shut your mouth and get to fucking me?” You grumbled. Tim nodded, pulling your leg from the sheets. He dug his fingers into the band of your pajama pants. 

 “I think I can manage that.” 

A/N: Sorry for being gone for so long guys

1 -

Wayne Manor is the kind of place that makes even millionaires feel poor. And your room? Girl. Your room is obscene.

A vanity with Hollywood bulbs. A closet that has its own air-conditioning. A king-size bed with plush sheets, big enough to do gymnastics on.

Which is exactly why Conner is currently half on top of you, kissing you like it’s his only source of oxygen.

His hand slides under your camisole, warm and careful. You gasp into his mouth, tugging him closer by the collar of his hoodie, feeling his smile against your lips.

Everything is perfect until—

The doorknob rattles.

You and Conner FLING yourselves apart like you both got hit by a WayneTech electric trap.

“Sister?” It's Damian’s voice. Of course. Of course it’s him. “I intend to take my midday nap in your quarters—”

You shove Conner so hard he flies into your closet. Literally. He uses his powers to slam inside without sound.

You grab your blanket and throw it over yourself like a sick Victorian child.

The door opens. Damian steps in, nose wrinkling.

“I smell cologne,” he says flatly, eyes narrowing at you.

You smile.

Innocent. So innocent. You might as well have angel wings. “Damian, we live in a house full of men. You smell cologne in the vents.”

He squints. You sweat. Conner probably isn’t breathing.

After a long, terrifying pause, Damian hums. “Very well. May I join you for a nap sister?”

"You know I'd never say no to it D. But could you refill my water bottle for me please?" You ask, in a desperate attempt to get him to leave your room.

"Why yes of course." He grabs your bottle from your nightstand and turns on his heel.

And with that he leaves.

You and Conner stay frozen for ten whole seconds.

Then you flop back on your bed and whisper, “We are NEVER doing that again.”

Conner climbs out of your closet, hair a mess, smirking like the absolute menace he is. “You say that,” he says, leaning down to kiss you again, “but you don’t mean it.”

You really don’t.

"Now get the fuck out of my house before Damian catches you"

2 -

The date was supposed to be simple. Soft pretzels. Street market. Holding hands behind your hoodies. A perfect undercover moment.

And then he kissed you behind a street vendor’s stall, and you melted into him, fingers in his hair, his smile pressed to yours—

Until you spot them.

You shove Conner’s chest, eyes wide. “DINAH. AND OLLIE.”

He freezes. “Now?”

You grab him by the hoodie and yank him behind a dumpster like you’re reenacting Gotham’s Most Wanted.

He stumbles, knocks into a stack of cardboard boxes, and has the AUDACITY to laugh.

“Is this… romantic?” he whispers.

“NO,” you hiss. “This is us NOT GETTING MURDERED.”

Dinah’s heels click by. Oliver is talking about quivers or something. You’re too busy holding your breath and praying to whatever deity looks after feral vigilante teens.

Conner shifts closer, whispering in your ear, “You smell nice.”

“Conner, this is not flirting time.”

"I know but I had to mention it Y/N"

"Thanks it's Sol De Janeiro, Number 62 I'm pretty sure"

“They’re gone,” he murmurs, “and I missed you.”

And because you’re weak, you let him kiss you again.

3-

Rumours start swirling obviously because Gotham has no chill. Your private story? Exposed. Your Instagram? A crime scene. The paparazzi even catch a picture of you kissing Conner in a music store.

Bruce calls a family dinner, which is basically a court trial with boscaiola.

Your father sits at the head of the table, iPad placed down like evidence. He clears his throat.

“So,” Bruce says slowly. “Sweetheart… who’s the boy the press is talking about?”

Dick nearly chokes from holding in laughter. Jason and Tim stop their bickering to listen.

Cass and Duke share a glance. Damian has a handwritten list of suspects.

You want to crawl into a sewer and never return.

Your phone buzzes under the table.

Kon ❤️💍:

DO NOT SAY MY NAME I’M BEGGING YOU

You take a sip of water to buy time. “I don’t know what they’re talking about Daddy,” you lie like a professional.

Your father looks unconvinced. Dick is two seconds from teasing you into the sun.

Jason raises a brow. “Sis, the dude’s hands are on your waist in this picture. Unless it’s a ghost, you’re dating.”

“Perhaps,” Damian says, glaring, “we should interrogate every teenage male in a ten-mile radius.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Dinner becomes chaos. Bruce sighs forty-seven times. You escape with your dignity barely intact.

Conner sends you another text:

i owe you my LIFE

You send back:

im gonna mega knight your ass

He responds with:

no pls

4 -

It’s not your fault. The meeting room is EMPTY. Lights dimmed. Doors closed. No League business scheduled for hours.

So when Conner kisses you against the round table, mouth warm and soft and hungry, you don’t think twice.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. His hand cups your jaw. His tongue slides against yours, slow and addictive, and you make a sound that he swallows greedily.

“God, I love you,” he breathes against your mouth.

You don’t even get a chance to reply.

Because the Zeta tube activates.

“Recognized — Wonder Woman. Batman. Superman.”

You and Conner break apart like you’ve been struck by lightning.

Diana walks in. Stops.

Bruce walks in. Horror.

Clark walks in. Disappointment™.

You stand there, wiping your mouth like it’ll erase the moment. Conner looks like he wants to phase out of existence.

Bruce: “…Baby.”

Clark: “Conner.”

Diana just crosses her arms. “You two need better reflexes if this is the level of stealth you operate with.”

You want the earth to swallow you.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of ALL rooms—why HERE?”

Clark sighs deeply. “Son… really?”

You and Conner mumble apologies, refuse to make eye contact, and vow never to breathe again.

Later, when everyone has stopped freaking out and the world has quieted, Conner sits beside you on the Watchtower balcony.

“You know,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder, “even if we got caught like… every time? I’d still pick you.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “Even in the meeting room?”

He laughs softly. “Especially there.”

You kiss him one more time. This time you don’t get caught

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Sources! -

Dividers - @cafekitsune

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then he presses forward and kisses you at the same time, swallowing down the gasp that took your breath. only an inch inside and he’s the one shaking already, cupping your face with one hand and fisting the bedsheet by your head with the other.

the stretch is incredible. the sheer size of him both unwarranted and ridiculously impressive. but when you consider his soft spoken voice and the gentle rasp that shook you to your core, it only made your arousal greater. he drops his head to your cheek and kisses your face gently. then he lets his lips trail down your jaw, licking down then he could tuck his head in your neck and breathe you in. rocking into you slow like he was afraid to fully seat himself inside you.

jason whimpers your name softly when you tense. “ease up ma.” before letting a hand circle your clit.

“i’m sorry,” breath shakily as you wrap your ankles around his back. “you’re really big.”

something in his perfect face melts and his lips upturn. he stops his hips from moving any further.“don’t apologize to me, i should be doing that. god, please don’t tell me i’m hurting you.”

but the wait was eating you up. the feeling of him there and not giving you it all was building and the ache was defeaning.

you needed all of him.

you shake your head and try to buck into him further, but jason’s hand shifts to your hip and holds you firm. still holding himself back for some reason unknown to you. a whine slips from your lips when you try to get closer and he groans like the action was ruining him.

this time, you decide to plead. “i want it all. jay”

blinking down at you, he shifts his gaze from eye to eye. needing the reassurance as though he truly believed you were saving his feelings.

“are you sure?”

you nod and part your lips, biting your lip softly as the pressure rests there. “please.”

then jason leans down and you think he’s going to kiss you. plump lips pink and swollen with tension as he washes his eyes over your face. resting his forehead on yours before closing his eyes and still not moving his hips yet. just letting the weight of what would fill you stay just in reach but out of touch.

like a threat.

like a promise.

“i love you so much.” he admits before pressing his lips to yours, muffling any response you could’ve had.

you moan into his mouth then, half surprise and pleasure. the feeling was unreal. the stretch around him stole the air from your lungs even though he was moving so slowly.

he pressed forward and despite the pleasureful pain it caused, letting your ankles dig into his back and pull him deeper until he was fully seated inside you. a tear slips down your face just as he parts from you to breathe and a cry escapes past your lips.

the sound is enough to startle jason. he pulls back as the tear is enough to make him second guess himself. fear echoes across on his face.

“shit—did i hurt you?”

taking a moment to compose yourself, you shake your head warily. “no,” the sound another muffled cry as he stayed impossibly still, unsure what to do.

“sweetheart you’re crying,” leaning back trying to pull his weight off of you.

though you don’t let him move far. tightening your hold on him and locking your ankles.

“stay,” gripping him close for dear life.

his eyes stay unwavering and his hips stay still. he reaches up for your face again and brushes his thumb over your cheek before he nods at your determination.

“okay,” shakily he says. “but if it hurts—”

“it doesn’t.” you quickly interrupt. “i promise, it feels good.”

a slow smile creeps up his face. “yeah? you feel good?”

you nod again and stare straight at his lips, urging him on. slowly his resolve crumbles and he lands closer to your face to kiss you once again. pressing his perfect lips to yours like a seal and a lock.

just then he adjusts his hips, shifting them forward and rocking into you. he watches as your breath hitches and your fingernails dig into your palms. head drawing back to drown into the pillow beneath it. he groans at the slight resistance created in the friction but eases up until you let him in so easily. hands on your hips tight but not hurting, just enough to remind you where he was.

he takes your hands and pries your fingers up, interlocking them with his to distract you from the sensation. slowly inching his way inside until the tears in your eyes were accompanied by gentle moans.

then you drag him closer once again and he lets you interlock your ankles behind him.

“let me do the work,” panting by your ear. “let me show you.”

wiping the tears from your cheeks, he smiles. teeth shining brightly as he strokes your cheeks with his thumb. then when you smile, he returns it back.

finally he bottoms out with a soft sputter on his tongue. completely unable to mask his weight behind his heavy hips, touching your cervix from this angle. your nails dig into his hand, needing to be grounded and feel him completely. but part of you wanted to guide him even closer though you knew it was probably impossible at this point. jason pants heavily, putting your hands up higher and higher until they rested just above your head.

the ministrations resume and he moves with less restraint than you’d started with. watching how your expressions changed and the sounds escaped your lips quicker with every movement.

his deep thrusts could’ve knocked the air from your lungs but he was doing it so slowly as he inched himself further, it melted away. pleasureful bliss blooms across your skin as he kisses your neck. leaving open mouthed smooches up to your face and worked back down, surely leaving marks in their wake.

“please jay,” moaning out as though he wasn’t already fucking you. “more.”

jason fucks you like he was about to lose you then, when he looks up and sees your eyes rolling and the tear streaks on your face. letting go of your arms to lift you up and over him. he rolls onto his back and seats you in his lap, never pulling completely out, just enough that you feel what you’d need to retake.

“okay princess,” he coos. “i’ll help, yeah?”

already exhausted but willingly to please him, you grip his shoulders and start to grind down into him. he cups your ass and lifts you up, letting your weight back onto him over and over. the mix of your arousal making it easier to fuck up into you as he holds you effortlessly. shifting your hips against him weakly, jason decides to take up the task entirely but not until he really sees you struggle to fit him inside you.

a couple more whines escape you as you attempt to move, taking an inch deeper just to grind against his pelvis. minutes go by like this, when he tries to tell you it’s okay and he can do it, you shake your head like you’re already gone. then you tell him you can handle it.

both of you know you can’t.

another roll of your hips against his where a broken moan pulls him out his head causes jason’s brain to flip. he doesn’t just hold you anymore, no, he starts to get meaner. not like he wants to hurt you, but he wanted to give you what he’s wanted all night—to fuck you full.

thrusting up again and again while he watches your face contort, slowly melting onto his chest while he sits up further. moving you up and down onto him, biting his lips to control his moans when you whimper his name. then he can’t even hide that. groans and moans, gasps and sighs—they fill your ears like sinful symphony as he works himself up further. he listens to the praises you say in his ear while he does the work you should’ve, fucking up into you as though on a mission. his pace picks up as he feels you moving back into him, matching his thrusts with your own.

the peak sneaks up on you when he tangles his hand in your hair to get a look at your face. pulling just enough to see your expression and gasp when he continues his ministrations.

“i wanna watch you let go for me.” he admits. “you gonna let me? huh baby? can i come inside you?” breathy voice coaxing you.

you nod vigorously as the pace begins to falter and his throats only become deeper as though he wanted to get closer to you.

it’s enough to stir you on. enough to push you right over the edge as you see his pink, bitten lips and the flush on his cheeks. the ruffle in his hair that proved how long this had been going on for. he looked so incredibly hot, you could die a happy woman tonight just from his good he’s fucked you.

through the peak, he carries you over, not stopping and not pausing his filthy promises. you’re clamping down around him when he sputters your name, groaning harshly and prolonging the feeling. you can feel him reaching his climax, bucking into you and movements stuttering. when he comes, you feel the pulses as he fills you. rope after rope painting you white from within. the waves of intense pleasure as his veins drag and he starts overstimulates himself. then he reaches between you to circle your sensitive bud, thrusting sloppily as you’re limp against him and throwing you into another orgasm.

practically screaming his name as you muffle a cry into his shoulder, barring your teeth and taking a bite of his supple skin. shaking as he fucks you through another climax and pushes his seed deeper inside. hand slipping off his shoulder as he slows his movements. groaning softly by your ear as he makes shallow bucks as though he didn’t want this to end.

but fucked out in his arms is his lover, drenched in sweat and slick that he didn’t know had even reached those places. and still, he was buried inside you with no indication of wanting to move.

minutes go by like this, both of you entirely spent and trying to catch your breath. he’s first to look at you and ensure that he hadn’t harmed you. eyes closed and lips parted, panting hard like you’d run a marathon as jason looks the same. leaning back further just to see the look on your face, jason kisses your forehead then.

“was that okay?” he twists at your heartstrings. “did i hurt you?”

still he was questioning himself and you were just coherent enough to shake your head and speak in a slur. “you’re perfect. my perfect boy.”

the breathy words only made him smile. his grin wide and toothy as he kisses the top of your head over and over. ignoring how your hair stuck to your head, hoping you’d do the same to him.

“sweet girl.” murmuring between kisses that felt like cuteness aggression. “i love you so, so much.”

you hum as you nuzzle into his chest. “mmhmf, i love you too.”

still cheesing, he holds you tight against him. part of him felt like he was dreaming with how much he loved you. his body shaking with restraint as he twitched inside you but he knew you were too exhausted to go again. leaning himself back onto the mattress to tuck you against him further, holding you there like something sacred. as though you would run or get taken away if he faltered his hold at all.

the hold on you only grounding as though you were floating over your body still, ghosting like he’d fucked you into the afterlife. sleep eases its way through your body and jason absorbs it.

only minutes later you’re completely asleep, snoring peacefully as jason drools on your head.

and there’s no place you’d rather be.