Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rose Oaks’ laundry room is dead at eleven-thirty in the evening. 

You retract the thought as soon as it forms. 

No, no, not dead. Silent. Calm. Yes, that’s better. 

In Gotham City, it’s best not to associate things or people with the word dead. Lest you, you know, tempt fate. 

While it is true that Rose Oaks, your fifteen-story apartment building situated between Chinatown and the Upper West Side, is safer than the previous complex you lived in in Burnley — it has a doorman and everything, how fancy is that — you tend to err on the side of caution. 

Of course, you’re also contradicting yourself since you’re coming down to do your laundry at eleven at night and if your parents knew, they would be very disapproving. 

But no one is perfect. 

And anyway, you’re halfway done. You’re moving your clothes and towels from the washing machine to the dryers, pouch of quarters rattling around in the pocket of your hoodie as you go. 

Kneeling in front of the open dryer, you tense when you hear the door open. You peek around the dryer door, watching a guy your age — early twenties — walk inside with a laundry basket propped on his hip. 

Your eyes quickly catalog lean muscles, dark hair, and pale skin before you force yourself to turn around and finish tossing in the wet clothes bundled in your arms, detangling some of them as you go. 

When you stand, turning back to the wall of washers, you glimpse his back, shoulders stretching out a white t-shirt. 

You go back to the washers you were using, a couple feet away from him. He is dumping his clothes inside. All of them. You get it. You were raised to separate your darks and whites and bright colors but when you have to pay to do laundry, you cut corners when necessary. 

You only separated your stuff for a few months before you got tired of paying the extra dollar and fifty to run another load. 

You bend forward to pull out another armful of clothes, careful not to let the whole world see the few pairs of underwear there, then turn and go back over to the dryer to throw them in. 

When you step back to the washers, you glimpse the guy intently studying the back of the bottle of laundry detergent. Like it’s got the secrets to the universe and not just the instructions on how to use it. Another bottle sits on the edge. Wait a second…

You pull out another armful, cross the room to deposit it into the dryer, then on your walk back, you squint to get a good look. 

Oh, yup. Fabric softener. Yikes. You don’t even think that can be used with these washers? The cheap ones that last, like, two decades and don’t exactly rotate like a regular front-facing washer does but rather very aggressively spins. 

Like the cherry on top, he seems to be using the measurements on the cup, the ones that the instructions tell you to use but you shouldn’t because you don’t actually need that much detergent, the companies are just trying to get you to use more and thus buy more. 

Oh, you can’t look anymore. It’s just too much. 

You grab your final armful of clothes, toss them in the dryer along with a dryer sheet and close the door. You just need your towels now. 

The guy is doing the fabric softener now. You look away, opening the lid on the other washer.  

Inside the circular washer, your towels are plastered to the sides. You reach down to unstick them. See, this is what you mean. It’s just cheap. For such a nice building, they should have better washers and dryers. Or better yet — apartments with an in-unit set. But this one was in your pay range and only half a mile from the school, which did sway you. 

No matter. At least the laundry room is in the same building. Your old apartment complex had a separate building for it and you hated making that walk. 

You throw in your towels and a dryer sheet, then shut the door. 

Behind you, you hear a similar sound. 

You stick your hand into the pocket of your hoodie, where your baggie of quarters is. Opening it, you mentally count out twelve quarters. A dollar and fifty for each load and you have two. You also hate that. Having to pay. You’re already paying for rent and utilities, you have to pay this, too? All landlords suck but Gotham ones, you’re convinced, are even suckier. 

You slot in the quarters until it beeps at you. You press start, then do the same for the other one. 

You turn and catch the guy scratching his head, glancing between his phone and the frayed poster on the wall that advertises the app you can download and use to pay for the washers and dryers. 

The thing is, the app stopped working, like, two weeks ago. Previous encounters with others in the laundry room assure you that everyone else is experiencing it. So, you have to do it the old-fashioned way and pay with the dusty seldom-used coin slots. 

You almost prefer it. With the app, you had a minimum limit of ten dollars when reloading money and oftentimes you aren’t doing more than two loads. You hated seeing the money leave your account. 

More head-scratching. You take pity on him.  

“It’s not working.”

His head snaps to you. It is with something of a sucker punch that you realize he is cute. Gorgeous, really. Black hair falling over his forehead into blue eyes that blink at you. 

Your heart does a weird wiggly thing at his attractiveness. You’re no good with pretty people. No good at all. 

Ignoring the sudden bout of nerves, you gesture to the poster. “The app isn’t working, right? It hasn’t for two weeks now. Dunno when they’re gonna fix it. You have to use the coin slot.”

“Great,” he sighs, his voice a mellifluous tenor. 

He puts his phone away, then reaches into the pocket of his sweats, pulling out a wallet. 

“Who carries coins these days, anyway?” he mutters, making your lips twitch; the quarters do not magically appear by the way he closes his wallet, puts it away, then looks at the coin slot, deliberating. 

You don’t think anyone has ever stolen another person’s clothes. At least it hasn’t happened to you but you can’t speak for the other tenants in this building. Still, you wouldn’t run upstairs and just leave your clothes in there. Even for a few minutes. 

But it doesn’t really matter, anyway, in the end. You already know what you’re going to do. 

“Here,” you say, pulling out the baggie of quarters and opening it again, venturing closer to him. 

“You don’t have to —”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, shooting him a small smile. “I wouldn’t want to leave my clothes here if it’s not on, either. Just one, right?”

He seems to accept his fate, nodding. 

You pull out twelve quarters like last time. 

“For the washer and the dryer,” you say when he opens his mouth to presumably protest. “Just in case.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

You laugh. “In quarters, too?”

Amusement shines in his eyes. His lips quirk. “If you’d like.”

“No repayment necessary,” you tell him. “Really.”

Collected quarters in hand, you extend your hand and he opens his beneath yours. Your hands brush as you pass them to him carefully, making sure they don’t fall to the ground. That would be embarrassing. 

“Thanks,” he says, sending you a grateful look. 

You nod and put your baggie of coins back in your pocket. “No problem.”

You turn away, making for the door, pleased to have helped. 

You see him again the following weekend. Same time. Eleven PM on Saturday night. Your laundry slash cleaning days. You like to wait until much later in the evenings; the laundry room can get busier earlier in the day, especially the afternoon. There is never a short supply of washers to use but the dryers can be a scarce commodity if it’s busy. You’d hate to have a basket full of wet clothes and no dryer to put them in. 

At this time, only a couple washers run and a few dryers hum. 

When you slip inside to move your clothes from the washer to the dryer like last time, Detergent Boy is already there. 

Except not with a bottle of fabric softener or a bottle of liquid laundry detergent but… laundry detergent in powder form? 

What is he doing, conducting some kind of experiment? 

You also wonder about the lack of fabric softener. Did that not go well? You thought it might not. Too bad. 

You wonder in general, about him. He seems rather… confused about everything regarding, hm, laundry. 

He looks over his shoulder at your entrance, lips ticking up when he sees you. That does funny things to your heart.

“Hey,” he says. “Is the app working?”

“Is the — oh. No. Still doing it the old-fashioned way.” 

You are briefly confused at the question, considering he was inside before you, though he hadn’t yet started the machine. Then you realize you are stepping in empty-handed and he must’ve concluded by that that you had already thrown your clothes into the washer and you are now moving them to dry. 

Huh. He is… observant. Or maybe it’s normal and you’re just too used to dealing with the short attention spans of your kids at school. It’s probably that. 

You are a teacher’s aide at the freshly-opened Gotham Pointe Academy, a middle and high school combined into one, funded heavily by Wayne Enterprises, located in the Upper West Side. You assist the kind but scatterbrained teacher, Ms. C, in sixth grade social studies. 

The pay is good, which is due to the aforementioned funding by Wayne Enterprises. WE seems to be on a public education kick recently, pouring money into not just Gotham Pointe but the existing underfunded schools in the city. 

You won’t complain. The state of many in-city schools is not great. Things are better in the ones in the suburbs, you’ve heard. And of course, private schools like Gotham Academy have no issues at all. At least when it comes to funding, anyway.

“I figured it wouldn’t be working yet,” he says as you go over to the washers, lifting the lid. His is a few over from yours. 

“Yeah, I have no idea when they’re going to fix it. The office says we need to talk to the app’s support but I feel like that’s a cop-out.”

“Oh, for sure,” he says, making you grin. “So, can I pay you back?”

“You really don’t have to,” you chuckle, lifting the wet clothes from the washer and turning to cross over to the dryers.

“It’s only fair,” he insists, eyes following you, making you a little more proactive in making sure he doesn’t get an eyeful of your bras and underwear in your laundry. His eyes are on your face but still. “How about I pay for your load? I know you already paid for the wash but I can do the dryer.”

No skin off your back. Why not?

“Alright,” you say. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

You pause in your transport as he lifts a baggie of quarters out of the pocket of his sweatpants and quickly counts out twelve.

“It’s —”

“I know,” he says. “But that’s how much you gave me last time, so. Use it next week.”

You can tell he isn’t doing it to make sure he doesn’t owe you, but rather he really is trying to pay back the kindness you’d afforded him. It’s a warming gesture. Here in Gotham City, the citizens are wary at best and downright nasty at worst. You understand why. They are bombarded with attacks from literal clowns and other terrifying figures who do the things they do just for the fun of it. Then you have the gangs, preying eagerly on the desperate souls of this city, and with a corrupt government that gives little to no shit about its people, there is no shortage of desperation. It’s their fault first and foremost, you think. A government has to take care of its people; they work for them, not the other way around. And the police are equally as useless. 

But not all hope is lost.

No, you think, accepting the quarters from him with a grateful smile. Not all.

You get back to moving your clothes. He gets back to studying the instructions for the powdered detergent. Really, you think. What’s up with that? It’s not a money thing, you think, since living here is a tad more expensive than other parts of the city and anyway, you saw his phone last week — it’s the newly-released WayneTech phone that came out, like, a week ago. It’s on the market for upward of a grand, which is a crazy amount of money to pay for a phone. Your phone — WayneTech, because yes, they do have good tech and you like the interface, you’ll admit that — is several years old. In fact, a present from your parents when you moved here at eighteen to attend Gotham University.

You yourself are a strong proponent of the detergent pods. Don’t need to measure out your own detergent each time you do a wash. Just toss that bad boy in there and boom. That’s it. You have vague memories of your mom using liquid detergent before switching over to the pods, which you still use, naturally. If it ain’t broke and all that. 

It’s both a little difficult to withhold your questions about his changing detergent use, as well as squash down any impulses to inform him about detergent pods’ existence.

But you manage to hold your tongue. If not because he helped to pay your dryer load and next week’s washer load, then because you don’t want to push his limits. Kind as he may be, kind as you want to believe him to be, he is still a strange guy that you do not know. A strange guy who lives somewhere here in this building, too. 

No matter how much his behavior concerning detergent — laundry — mystifies you.

But of course, that only continues to get worse.

The next week, he is using… detergent tablets?

You didn’t even know detergent existed in that form.

This time, you cannot help but stare.

You coincidentally managed to align your times properly, so you have your basket of dirty clothes to be washed and he does, too. 

“What’s with the continued experimentation of laundry detergent?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He looks at you, blinking, before you remember yourself and shake your head. “Sorry, you don’t —”

“No,” he says, a tad sheepish now. “No, it’s fine. I’m, uh…” he trails off, cornflower blue eyes flickering to his basket of clothes, then the tablets in a shifty manner.

Oh, wait…

“You… don’t know how to do laundry?”

“I know how to do laundry,” he says quickly, defensively, then grimaces. “I’m just figuring out the… schematics.”

Something about that, about the determined intensity on his face as he looks at the washer, makes you laugh. Really hard.

“Hey,” he protests.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I just —” it’s cute. In a weird way. In a way that shouldn’t be cute because come on, what guy your age doesn’t know how to do his own laundry? You are suspecting some wealth to his background, in that case. What with the expensive phone he had. Or just a guy who never did his own laundry and had his parents do it. 

But no. Despite that, it — he is cute, looking at you with a sulky expression.

You grin at him. “Genuinely, I’m asking genuinely, but what’s stumping you?”

He eyes you. There’s that familiar Gothamite suspicion. 

“Come on,” you say, unable to kick the grin off your face. “I wanna help. As someone who’s been doing her laundry the same way for the last decade, I can help.”

He sighs, crossing his arms. “I’m just figuring out the detergent, that’s all. I… didn’t use to do my own laundry and now that I’m on my own I’m trying to get it to how Al — the last person who did it did it. Haven’t been able to pin it down.”

“So, that’s why you’ve been experimenting.”

Pink settles high on his cheeks and he gives you a slightly petulant look. It’s ridiculously endearing. God, he’s cute. It’s not fair. 

You rub a hand over your smiling mouth. “Look, my advice? Just use these.”

You reach into your basket to grab the baggie of pods. 

“Hm.” He turns a critical eye over them. You bite your lip to fight off a bigger grin.

“Don’t have to measure anything,” you say, barely managing to keep the laughter out of your voice. “Just toss one — or two, depending on the load — in and you’re gold.”

“Interesting.”

You can’t help the giggle that slips out but he doesn’t seem so sulky about it now, his lips twitching too as he shakes his head at you.

“I’ve seen it at the store, you know,” he says, watching you set it aside and start throwing your clothes inside the washer. “I would’ve gotten there eventually.”

You have to laugh at that. 

“Well,” you say, laughter still in your voice as you set your basket aside and pick up the baggie. “You can try it out now, if you’d like. I thought I’d need to split my clothes into two loads but it fits.”

You glance at the washer, your thick coat taking up a lot of space. 

“Mostly, anyway. So.” You jiggle the bag with the two pods at him. “And I swear they’re straight from the container.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t even thinking you sabotaged them but now I am. Good job.”

“Hey, I have nothing against you! What reason could I have to mess with your clothes?”

“It’s Gotham. No one needs much of a reason to do anything.”

“Okay, Mr. Cynic.”

He chuckles and turns to dump his clothes into the washer, too. You pull out one of the pods and drop it in, then lean forward to change a couple settings for the wash, switching the water from cold to hot. A necessity, these days. God knows the kinds of germs the kids pass onto you. You started working with them last year in September and immediately got your ass kicked by a nasty head cold. You think your ears were clogged for a good three months after that. 

With it now being the start of February, your immune system is, like, juiced up. You’re fairly certain you are resistant to most, if not all, diseases. The CDC wishes it was you. 

You pass off the baggie to him and he pulls out the last pod. You nod approvingly and take out your other baggie from the pocket of your hoodie, counting out the quarters and slotting them in until the machine beeps at you. You press start and it whirs on. 

Next to you, Detergent Boy does the same.

Hm. You should get his name.

Just so you don’t have to call him that in your head. Yep. Not at all because you would very much like the name of a cute guy… And certainly not because you’re starting to think you do need to make a friend other than Ms. C and your coworkers… Your brother says it doesn’t count if it’s a person from work. And the kids don’t, either. Whatever. Spoilsport. 

You had friends in college but most of them left the city. High-tailed it for Metropolis or some other city that didn’t continue to break records when it came to crime and corruption. Which is fine. You get it. Sort of. 

“So, since you’ve apparently been checking out my detergent use —”

“Nooo, it sounds weird when you say it like that. I just noticed while we were talking, okay. Not to mention you kept staring at the instructions like they were the Rosetta Stone or something.”

He flushes and seems to decide to drop that topic so that he doesn’t have to respond or acknowledge those words. You grin. 

“Anyway,” he presses, rolling his eyes at the look on your face. “I think we should probably introduce ourselves.”

“We should, should we?” 

A voice in your head that sounds like your brother mutters, As if you aren’t dying to know his name.

You promptly tell it to shut up.

“Just so I know who to blame if my clothes get messed up. Or if the washer explodes.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re funny!”

He grins at you. It’s a nice look on his stupidly pretty face. “I’m Tim. Tim Drake.”

Oh. 

A lot of things make sense, suddenly.

But you shove that realization aside in favor of telling him your name. “Nice to officially meet you, Tim Drake.”

He echoes your greeting with your full name and you have to ignore the way the butterflies in your belly go a little crazy at hearing the syllables of your name on his tongue. 

Tim picks up his empty basket and so do you, the two of you wordlessly making for the exit.

“So, can I ask if you just moved here?”

He holds the door open for you. You nod in thanks and step out. 

He shakes his head in response to your previous question. “I’ve been here a while. Just haven’t, ah, been doing my laundry here.”

“You mean someone else was doing your laundry,” you say, unable to stop yourself from poking fun at him. A side effect of spending forty plus hours with preteens every week, you’re sure. 

He groans as you two come up to the elevator; he presses the button to go up. The laundry room is on the ground floor, towards the back of the building. Not in the basement or something, thankfully. That would just be the cherry on top of all of this.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” you say, shooting him a small grin.

“Really? ‘Cause it kind of feels like you are.”

Ding. The doors open. You two step inside. On the panel on his side, he presses the button for the fifteenth floor. On your side, you press the button for the fourteenth. 

The doors close.

“I’m not, I swear. I guess if I had some kind of maid —”

“Butler.”

You cannot withhold your snort. He rolls his eyes. 

“Right, right… if I had a butler or something, I wouldn’t do my own laundry, either. Although, it is kind of a hazard, so I’m not sure — oh, I don’t mean like that, shut up,” you say, flushing at the raised eyebrow he gives you. “My clothes are no dirtier than anyone else’s. They’ve just… got a lot of germs.”

It’s Tim’s turn to be cheeky.

“Riiiight. I bet they do.”

“I work with kids, alright,” you whine. “They’re germ monsters, man. It’s not as bad as kindergarteners or something, definitely not, but six graders still aren’t the epitome of health and cleanliness.”

He laughs at your tone. “So, you’re a teacher?”

“Teacher’s aide,” you correct. “Don’t have enough experience for that yet, no matter what PS 125 was trying to tell me when they offered me a job.”

He grimaces. “Their retention rate gets worse every year. I don’t blame them.”

“Well, I blame the city. Stupid government. Where the hell are my taxes going? Not to anything worthwhile, that’s for sure.” You shake your head. “Anyway. What about you?”

Even if he is Tim Drake, adopted son of billionaire Bruce Wayne who owns the burgeoning Wayne Enterprises, a company that rakes in billions but at the very least turns over a decent chunk of it to the city. Even with that, Bruce Wayne has a fortune and you’re certain that extends to his son — his children. Especially since you can vaguely recall some incident where Tim was, like, CEO? Briefly. Very briefly. When you were in your teens, actually. He was, too, so your mom smartly said he was more than likely just a figurehead. No seventeen-year-old should run a company. Not even seventeen-year-old super-rich and equally-as-educated Tim Drake, you think. 

But your attempt at equality goes a little wayside as he coughs, uncomfortable.

“I, uh, am not working right now. Not full-time, anyway. I do some work for WE. IT and R&D.”

You laugh softly at his attempt at overcompensation. “Dude, relax. I’m not judging you. Well. I’m not judging a lot.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly.

You grin. “I just mean it’s nice that you get a choice. It should be like that for all of us.”

“Universal income?”

You point at him. “Tell your dad about it.”

Tim tilts his head thoughtfully. “It was brought up, actually, a couple years ago. The city refused. Said it would make people ‘lazy.’”

“Those bastards.”

He laughs and you decide you very much like making him laugh.

The doors slide open to your floor. 

“See you later, Tim,” you say, giving him a two-fingered salute.

His eyes crinkle. “Later as in when our cycles are done and we have to put them in the dryer?”

“Of course! Oh, wait, I have a question, just to, heh, cover our bases regarding your lack of laundry knowledge —”

“Oh, come on.”

You grin, pausing by the doors, keeping a hand pressed to them so they don’t close on you. “You are using dryer sheets, right?”

“Of course I am.”

A pause.

“Every time you put your clothes in the dryer, right?”

He starts jamming the close doors button, averting his eyes. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

You step out, grinning. “We’ll make a laundry master out of you yet, Tim Drake.”

The last thing you see before the doors close is him smiling. 

Chapter Text

You joked about it but, really, Tim Drake is a quick study. Not that doing your laundry is that hard to begin with — well, if you have no idea where to start, it is, but once you know the basics, it’s all fairly self-explanatory. You get to ask about the fabric softener when you two go back to put your clothes in the dryer and he mutters something about them feeling weird afterward, which you valiantly try not to laugh at. By the way, he sighs at you, you are not successful. 

But after that? Well… that’s kind of it and you step off the elevator at one in the morning with a basket full of warm and freshly-folded clothes, feeling a tad disappointed that it’s all over with. 

But then Tim says, “See you next weekend,” and the feeling disappears quickly. 

Fate, you quickly learn, also seems to be looking out for you. 

The next day at noon, you’re waiting to head downstairs, eyes narrowed on your compact mirror as you roll on a darkly tinted lip balm. The elevator doors open, but you’re distracted with the lip balm, so you don’t notice who else is in there. Not until Tim calls your name, surprising you so much your hand jerks and a light smear of the tinted lip balm shines on your cheek.

He sputters a laugh. “Sorry!”

“This is payback for all my jokes, then, is it,” you say, stepping in and, seeing the button for the ground floor pushed, start digging through your tote bag for the small pack of makeup wipes you usually carry with you.

“It’s not,” Tim says, smiling. “The jokes were a fair tradeoff for you teaching me the ways of laundry.”

You nod sagely. “Indeed.”

He chuckles. “Where are you off to?”

“Grocery shopping,” you say, cleaning off the streak on your cheek, then making sure you didn’t smudge anything else around your lips. “You?”

“Same, actually. Well, just for the detergent. Speaking of, you know, I realized sometime last night I never got the brand from you. They turned out pretty good.”

“Like your butler did it?”

“I never should’ve told you that.”

You laugh, putting away your makeup wipes, the mirror, and the tube of lip balm. 

You realize, then, that Tim is dressed in something other than sweats and a t-shirt — which is an excellent look, definitely, but he’s in his outside clothes, in jeans and a thick jacket much like you are to fight off the early February cold. 

He looks like a model, to be honest. You spy the brand of his jacket. Patagonia. A Patagonia model, then. Jeez. Patagonia’s expensive. But to him, it’s probably nothing. You managed to thrift yourself a slightly worn Columbia parka which has served you well against several years of bitter Gotham winters.

He tucks his hands in his pockets, cornflower blue eyes trained on the red numbers that tick by for each floor you pass. His side-profile is disturbingly perfect. So not fair.

“Where do you do your shopping, then, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks, glancing at you and making you look away. 

“Stalking me?”

“That’s why I said if you don’t mind me asking. So, we didn’t have to do that.”

You laugh. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I figure a… mostly high-profile figure like yourself can’t be in the business of being creepy. Reputation and all that. Though I suppose you could pay people off. Or call a hit on them.”

But while the other notable rich families of the city have all kinds of skeletons in the closet, the Wayne’s don’t. Mostly. No whispered rumors of them paying off sexual harassment rumors or other morally reprehensible shit. 

“Oh, please. And what’s this about mostly high-profile figure?” He almost looks offended but you spy a playfulness to him, so it’s more of a mock offense than anything. Like he doesn’t actually care. He probably doesn’t.

But still, you go along, smiling apologetically as you shrug.

“Weeell… it’s not like I recognized your face.”

“Some do.”

“But I did recognize your name. So. Mostly high-profile. See, if you were, say, Lex Luthor —” he wrinkles his nose in deep disgust and you choke out a laugh “— then yeah, I’d recognize you immediately.”

“Fair enough. And also, please don’t ever compare me to him again.”

“What, you don’t like him?”

“Do you?”

“Fair point, fair point. Anyway,” you chuckle, “I’m going to ShopRite.”

“The one off Schnapp Ave?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh. Me, too. Are you in the parking garage?”

You snort. “No. I bike. Not great for bulk shopping but what can you do?”

He pauses, seeming to think hard. You raise an eyebrow as the doors open and the two of you step out, heading for the lobby.

“I could — I mean, since we’re going to the same place…” he gestures a little awkwardly; it’s not the request itself that trips him up, you think, it’s something else — probably not trying to come off creepy. “I could give you a ride?”

“A ride, huh?”

Tim spreads his palms. “I’m not trying to kidnap you or something, I swear.”

“But a would-be kidnapper would say that, would he not?”

“I don’t know,” he says, awkwardness easing out for vague amusement. “I think a would-be kidnapper would be, well, better at this whole thing. Like not taking you out from the main entrance.”

“Think about that a lot, do you?”

“Text a friend where you’re going,” he says, smiling. “And let me give you a ride so you can bulk up on your groceries without worrying about getting it back here.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

But of course you’re going to say yes. You consider yourself a fairly good judge of character.

There is much to be said about Tim Drake.

As mentioned before, the adopted son of billionaire Bruce Wayne; his parents — you shamelessly looked it up last night — used to own Drake Industries, a company that specialized in medical equipment and supplies before it eventually closed down. Both of them passed away, his mother first when he was younger, then his father later; Bruce Wayne adopted him in his teens. 

He had a brief stint as figurehead CEO of Wayne Enterprises when he was seventeen, was also apparently engaged to Tamara Fox, the daughter of the current WE CEO, Lucius Fox, and also had an assassination attempt on him. This is followed up with being, like, regularly held hostage for ransom. 

A lot of drama, basically, but not much about him himself. 

You expected — and you’ll admit this — a much haughtier persona than the one you are currently encountering. After all, he could have taken offense at your teasing about the laundry and refused your help. But he let it happen — not hesitating to add his own jokes at his expense, too. 

And here he is now, offering you a free ride and free use of his car’s trunk for your grocery shopping pleasure.

Maybe you are about to be kidnapped. 

But at least it was in the name of bulk shopping.

He scratches his head. “I also have a Costco membership if that sways you?”

You’re practically in love.

“You know the way to a woman’s heart,” you sigh dramatically.

“Free trunk space and Costco?”

“Free trunk space and Costco.”

You text your brother for good measure, though.

It’s not serious. Mostly, it’s you having your fun.

i’m going grocery shopping with tim drake. if i don’t text you back by five, call the cops

WHAT

WHAT???

WHAT!!!!!!!!!!

You just smile and put your phone away. 

You have nothing to worry about. 

Well, you knew that but over the course of the day, as you first hit Costco and buy toilet paper, paper towels, detergent, and other groceries in bulk, then you go to ShopRite to get the rest of the stuff, you realize Tim is actually… a lot of fun.

He has this snark to him that comes out in the most unexpected moments and you would be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t like how it keeps you on your toes.

Plus… it’s fun to grocery shop with someone else. Maybe that sounds weird but… you don’t know. You like the companionship.

(And that, of course, could be the gnarled loneliness inside of you finally being soothed away in the company of a person who doesn’t have to be here with you, yet is.)

The sun is setting when you two get back to the apartments. The parking garage is adjacent to the building and they have little carts people can use to take up their groceries more quickly.

“I mean,” Tim starts, easily lifting the case of water bottles from the trunk and dropping it into the cart. “At the risk of sounding creepy again, I don’t mind helping you take this stuff up.”

“In that case, I owe you.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

“Aw, come on. You let me monopolize your trunk, your Costco membership, and your time.”

“Believe me, I didn’t have anything planned for today. This is a much better use of my time.”

You don’t know how to handle that. Which is why you insist.

“You know the Indian place on Cameron? On me.”

“They do have good biryani,” he muses. “Alright. Why not.”

You manage to haul everything into two carts. He only got the detergent, which he says he’ll just take upstairs with him after.

You dig out your keys on the elevator ride up, the two of you deciding on what to order.

“Just leave the carts near the door,” you say when you get to your apartment. “And take off your shoes, too, please.”

“Sure.”

You unlock the door, belatedly realizing you did not prepare your place for guests but you are assuaged by the reminder that you’d cleaned last night like you always do, so, there’s that. 

Your apartment is an open floor plan, with the kitchen immediately to your left and then the living room to the right. Your bedroom and bathroom are off to the side of that. 

You scan everything quickly as you kick off your shoes. Your coffee table is the only thing not quite suited for visitors, with your laptop and graded papers scattered over it. Right, that reminds you, you need to finish those for this week and get the grades inputted…

“Nice socks.”

“Huh?” You blink, turning and spying an amused look on Tim’s face. Your eyes flicker to your socked feet in the next second, barely remembering you had put on a pair of black socks with a pattern of the Flash’s symbol on them.

You grin proudly, looking back at him. “Thank you. I think he’s pretty cool. Well, I think most of them are cool…”

“League supporters are hard to come by these days.”

You roll your eyes. “I know. But I don’t care for the government’s posturing about what they should and shouldn’t do. They’ve saved the world, like, a bunch of times. They should be grateful.”

“Hard to accept they need the help.”

“Yeah, then they go pouring my tax dollars into the military when it can go literally anywhere else. Jerks.” 

Tim takes off his shoes and sets them aside while you shut the door behind you. He stands up, taking in your apartment with clear curiosity.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say, gesturing to it. By now, more than six months after moving in, you’ve made it your home. Picture frames on the walls, a few choice paintings, some old drawings from when you worked at Gotham Elementary right after graduating. Decorating the TV stand and various surfaces are little figurines and pieces of pottery you’ve made. You do pottery classes twice a month at the rec center in Chinatown. You’ve been doing it since you graduated three years ago. 

His eyes spy your twenty-gallon tank against the wall, behind the couch and beside the bookshelves.

“Reptiles?” he guesses, squinting to get a better look.

You smile, stepping forward and beckoning him with you.

“No, they’re hermit crabs. I needed some pets like me.”

He snorts, then bends forward to peer inside. A thick layer of substrate covers the bottom. You have two ponds of freshwater and saltwater on opposite sides of the tank, a handful of sanitized shells scattered about, moss pits, a little holder suctioned to the glass with a fish net attached to it so the crabs can climb into it, and then various fake plants and pieces of driftwood and hollowed logs. 

“This is their crabitat,” you inform him. You point to a crab with a pink shell mottled with brown, currently climbing the fishnet. “That’s Sid.” Then to another crab with a tan shell speckled with red moving into a hollow log. “That’s Diego.” And finally, a crab with a darker shell, with black spots chilling by a plant. “And that’s Manny.”

You both are bent forward, peering into the crabitat. Tim scrunches up his face and looks at you. “Did you… name them after the characters from Ice Age?”

You grin widely at him. “Yes.”

He laughs. He laughs for a while, actually, enough so that you start to feel a tad embarrassed.

“Hey!”

“No, no, no, I’m not making fun of you,” he quickly says, a little breathless, cornflower blue eyes bright with mirth. “I just… Talk about a blast to the past. I think the last time I saw those movies I was a kid.”

“Well, see how it makes an impact? You remembered their names.”

“True,” he says, chuckling. “Haven’t they come out with a bunch of movies since?”

“Mm, yeah, and they’re okay, except for the most recent one. That one is just a total mess because a handful of the actors didn’t come back for it. And also they tried some new animation and it looks so bad.”

“Kids probably don’t notice that,” he points out teasingly.

“Well, they should pay their respects to the original movies! All my childhood media was enjoyable for me and sometimes for my parents, too, because they always had adult jokes in it. Like in Spongebob. Or the earlier seasons, anyway.”

“I was never allowed to watch that,” he admits.

“Ugh, you aren’t the first person to tell me that. Some of my old college friends said their parents didn’t let them watch it because it would ‘kill their brain cells.’ You know what’s not just killing brain cells but indoctrinating them, too, these days? Paw Patrol.”

Tim lets out another loud laugh. 

“I don’t watch it, either, okay! I just watch Spongebob sometimes and I guess it thinks I’m a child so it plays, you know, commercials geared towards kids and god, the amount of Paw Patrol commercials I get is so annoying.”

“I’m surprised you lean toward it,” he says, the two of you going over to the carts. “Since you’re a teacher’s aide.”

“Well, that’s the good thing about middle schoolers. They’re out there watching TV and movies that they probably shouldn’t be watching, so that’s not what I’m hearing about.”

“I’m not sure I’ve heard the words ‘good’ and ‘middle schoolers’ in a sentence before.”

You snort, then feel bad immediately. Your kids are good. Annoying sometimes, sure, but they’re kids. Everyone is annoying every now and then. Plus…

“I wasn’t too keen about being saddled with the six graders, either,” you admit. “But I’ll tell you what Ms. C — the teacher I help — told me. Maybe the reason middle schoolers are so… not fun to be around is because they can tell their teachers and practically every other adult in their life doesn’t want to be around them, either.”

He tilts his head. “Fair point. But also — puberty.”

“There is also the puberty,” you agree.

Tim chuckles and the two of you get to unpacking the groceries. You tell him he doesn’t have to — seriously — but he simply says he might as well help out. Of course, the process is made doubly longer by the fact that he has no idea where anything goes and you have to point him in the right direction but just like earlier, you don’t mind.

After, he pulls on his shoes, grabs the container of detergent he bought, and tells you he’ll take the carts back downstairs and put his stuff away, then come back. 

You let him go and call in the order to the restaurant, then feed your crabs and collapse onto your couch. Your weekends are usually for resting your abused feet, since during the week, you are moving and standing constantly, but you don’t mind today’s aches, knowing it was accompanied with… one of the best days you’ve ever had in a long while. 

With that, you decide to let your brother know there is no need to call the cops. 

hi i made it unscathed

haha just kidding today was so fun

i went to costco!!! my tp is stocked for Days

Hello????

hello

Don’t do that. What on earth are you doing hanging out with Tim freakin Drake?

I don’t think that’s his middle name. Isn’t it jackson?

You can faintly recall that from when you unashamedly googled him last night.

A knock on your door. You heave yourself from the couch and open it. Tim steps inside. 

“Hey, what’s your middle name?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Jackson. Do you want to know my mom’s maiden name, too? Maybe the street I was born on?”

You grin, going to sit back down. “I don’t know. I mean, if you’re offering.” 

He shakes his head at you, then hesitates. You gesture to the couch. “Make yourself at home, seriously. After today, we’re practically BFFs.”

“Should I be worried about you?”

You wave a hand. “That’s just the crippling loneliness, don’t worry about it.”

“You’re…” He shakes his head again and sits down. You have the TV on, one of the various streaming services you shamelessly leech off your brother for pulled up. The page for Ice Age is there, too, waiting for you to hit play. 

“You said you didn’t have anything else to do and I took that to heart.”

“I can see that,” Tim says dryly, but the quirk of his lips belies the tone. 

You glance back at your phone where your previous text is. You snort. 

“Your middle name really is Jackson?”

“Yes…” he says warily. “Why?”

“You have three first names.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “You’re the worst.”

You giggle and pick up the remote, pressing play. “Sorry!”

“Whatever. I do all this…”

“Hey!”

He grins and glances at the kitchen. “You mind if I grab a green tea?”

“Only if you grab one for me, too.” 

He stands. “I guess. Even though you’re bullying me.”

“I’m sorry, you just make it so easy.”

Tim rolls his eyes good-naturedly at you and crosses to your kitchen, opening the fridge.

“There’s ice in the freezer since they’re not cold yet. And the cups are in the cabinet to the left.”

“Got it, thanks.”

You take a second to watch him shut the fridge, then step to the side to open the cabinet, pulling out two glasses. You’re crazy for thinking it, you know, but you don’t… terribly mind the sight of Tim in your kitchen. You really don’t.

It’s a good thing you two are friends, then.

Wait.

You are friends, right?

“Hey, Tim?”

“Yeah?” 

“Are we friends now?”

Maybe it’s elementary to ask but… communication is important and all that. You would hate to think of you two as friends only to later realize he thinks you two are just… you don’t know, acquaintances? 

He turns, smiling faintly. “And here I thought my offer to let you use my trunk and Costco membership said that clearly.”

“I didn’t want to assume!”

“I don’t just let anyone do those things, you know. Not strangers. Only for friends and strange girls who judge me for not knowing how to do my laundry and make fun of my name.”

“I am buying you dinner.”

“Do you buy dinner for strange guys who don’t know how to do their laundry?”

“No,” you admit. It really does say it, the fact that you even let him inside your place. Let him commandeer your kitchen for green tea, too. 

Your face warms and you look away. “Alright! I’m just making sure, okay…”

“Yes,” he says, and when you glance at him, he’s smiling at you. “We’re friends.”

The butterflies in your belly go a little crazy at that. You have to look away again.

“Cool,” you mutter.

He chuckles and turns back to pour out the drinks.

You split your attention between him and your phone. He doesn’t stand in front of the counter but allows the glasses with the ice to be in plain view. For your sake, you’re sure. 

we’re friends. just discussed it. i made a friend!!!

…….. He’s TIM DRAKE

so?

Jesus christ

Tim returns with a now-cold glass of green tea, ice clattering around inside, and you hit play on the movie. Your dinner arrives shortly after. You were right, of course, in that the very first Ice Age movie is more than a little amusing even for adults. Especially for adults. 

“What other movies do you like, then?” he asks. 

“Hmm. I’m partial to Mamma Mia. I like ABBA. And Meryl Streep and Amanda Seyfried. You know, I almost named the boys, um, Sam, Harry, and Bill.”

He blinks at you.

“You know, the — the guys! The baby daddies!”

A slow shake of the head.

“You’ve never seen Mamma Mia?”

“I’ve seen… The Devil Wears Prada?”

You pause, raising an eyebrow. 2000s dramas don’t seem to fit him but honestly you’ve never actually seen the movie, so maybe it’s different from what you think.

“I’ve never seen that one.”

He gives you a look, saying See? You, too.

“Alright,” you say, grinning. “You have to see Mamma Mia and I have to see The Devil Wears Prada.”

“We could just do it now,” he says, glancing at the TV, where the credits for Ice Age are rolling. The second movie, Ice Age: The Meltdown, is being advertised as the next movie you should watch.

“Which one? I think we should watch Mamma Mia.”

“Well, I think —” he stops as something vibrates. You think it’s your phone initially but then he slips his out of his pocket. It’s already nine. He grimaces. “I think we’ll have to make that decision another time.”

“Hey, no worries. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I should probably be getting ready for bed, too.”

Though, the good thing about Gotham Pointe being a newly-opened and very funded school is that, in a move to distinguish itself from the other schools in the city, school starts at nine instead of seven-thirty. It was a point that they wanted to move the starting time later, in an effort to heed the countless research that kids were better off starting their school days later rather than earlier. It still ends at four like the other ones, too.

But you have to be there at eight. Which is still a better alternative than anything else, of course. 

He types something into his phone, lips pursed, then stands, collecting the trash from dinner and putting it back into the bag. 

“You don’t have to —”

“Least I can do,” he says, tying off the bag, your coffee table now clear of trash. Your laptop and stack of… shit, not graded papers sits in the corner. You still have to do that. Damn. Oh, well. This was too much fun. 

“So,” he starts, lips pursed, thinking quickly as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll take a raincheck. I’m thinking you can host for Mamma Mia and it’s only fair if I host for The Devil Wears Prada?”

“Oh, you mean —?”

“If you’re comfortable with it,” he quickly says. “If not, we can do it here. I just, I don’t know. Want it to be fair so I’m not always hogging your space.”

I don’t mind, you want to say.

You don’t.

Instead, you smile and shrug. “You haven’t kidnapped or killed me yet, so, sure, I’d like that.”

“Well, you see, I need to build trust first.”

“Ohhh, of course, of course. Makes sense.”

He grins at you and picks up the bag. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Yeah. Have a goodnight.” 

You sit up to pull your laptop and the papers to you, picking up your blue glitter pen. The kids tease you about it but you think they secretly like it.

“Oh, wait,” he says, straightening after pulling on his shoes.

“What?”

“Your number,” he says, shaking his head. “I was about to leave when I realized I don’t have your number and you don’t have mine.”

You stand, picking up your phone. “I completely forgot, too. Here.”

You pass off your phone and squash down any hesitancy in him handling it, with the yellowed clear case and a couple cracks in your screen protector. Then you gingerly accept his, sleek and new, the display bright and flowing smoothly as you type in your phone number.

“Please don’t leak my number to the press,” is what he says when he passes his phone back to you.

You laugh. “I promise on my Justice League sock collection.”

“Now, that’s serious.”

You back away, giving him a two-fingered salute like you did last night. “I’d never betray them.”

He smiles, bids you one last goodnight, then steps out. You lock the door behind him. 

Then you step away, staring at it for a moment, a silly grin full of giddiness growing on your lips.

You look back at your phone, then burst out laughing when you see how he did his contact.

First Name: Timothy Jackson

Last Name: Drake

A poke at you for that comment about his name, you’re certain.

Not like it matters, anyway. 

You are far too pleased to have his name in your phone.

Not because he is Timothy Jackson Drake, twenty-three-years-old and one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors, but because he is Tim, your friend who can’t handle spicy foods but eats it, anyway, who likes The Devil Wears Prada, and who has so much more about him that you cannot wait to find out. 

Your friend.

What a thought. 

Chapter Text

You and Tim continue to hang out. 

Through the week, after school lets out, you are often too tired to go and do anything, but this suits Tim fine as the two of you continue to think of movies you like that the other has not seen. 

You make him watch Mamma Mia, which he says is ‘okay’ but you think he likes more than he wants to let on. You do what he wants, too, and terribly dated as it is, The Devil Wears Prada is certainly fun enough. 

Every time you see him, you learn something new about him. His favorite color is blue. He used to play tennis when he was younger but not anymore. He also used to like photography, but he doesn’t do it much these days. Not because he stopped liking it. He doesn’t say that but you can tell. 

You wonder about that, about the things he used to do but no longer does. What does he do now, then? You ask him that, and he says he helps out with WE, with their R&D department, with IT, or wherever they want him. Not always but most of the time. 

He doesn’t talk about his parents and he doesn’t talk about Bruce Wayne or his adopted siblings. He’ll talk about Alfred, the butler (not the cat), who was also the one to do his laundry. 

You don’t mind. You’re more interested in him, in what makes Tim Tim. And on a lighter note, while you admit to having expected him to be a poor cook, he is actually decent. 

“I’m only good at breakfast foods,” he admits to you one evening, having commandeered your kitchen to make breakfast for dinner. “And pasta. I can do pasta. But mostly breakfast.”

Better than most rich boys, you think. 

You tell him about yourself, too. How you came here because tuition at Gotham University is dirt-cheap, largely because of the city in which it resides in, but the programs are still good. Good enough for what you wanted — public education with a small dash of child psychology. You worked at one of the elementary schools for two years before landing a job at Gotham Pointe. 

“Will you ever leave?” he asks one day, the two of you eating ice cream and watching Zathura. His pick today. “Most do.”

You swirl your Oreo ice cream, the ceramic bowl cold against your palm. 

It’s a good question. One your family wonders. 

You got the degree. You got the experience, too. And experience in Gotham is gold everywhere else because if you can withstand the kids here, you can handle them anywhere. 

With the fine print being that Gotham kids are what? Uncontrollable troublesome kids who will inevitably turn into criminals? Inherently evil? Your kids can annoy the hell out of you on a bad day but they’re your kids. They talk to you, they tell you about their lives, about what they like and don’t like, and they listen to your stories, too, and they show you that while others think living in Gotham is like living in some kind of barren wasteland… there is hope. So easily within reach. 

If Gotham was as bad as people tried to make it out to be, no one would be here. 

“I don’t think so,” you eventually say, looking at him with a small smile. “I like my job too much to leave. I like living here, too. And the company isn’t so bad, either.”

Tim smiles when you say that. “I would miss you.”

And what a thing to say. What a thing for you to have the privilege of. That someone, not just your kids or Ms. C, would miss you and your presence. 

Well, you think. You would miss him, too. Maybe more than you would like to admit. 

Friends. 

Still hard to quantify or believe. 

The city starts to ease into something like spring as mid-March creeps on you. Mornings and nights are still frosty but your breath no longer comes out white and you don’t have to watch out for patches of ice. The time in between is even more comfortable, allowing you to be outside mid-day without a jacket. You’re still in a long-sleeve but it’s a win in your book. 

You and Tim keep spending time together. He learns, with the onset of March, that you like baseball and used to play softball when you were a teenager. Semi-seriously, too. 

Gotham has its own major league baseball team, too — the Knights. It shares the name with your football team. 

The baseball team isn’t any good, but that’s fine with you. Tim prefers their football team, which has the best track record out of all of them. 

So, with that, Tim surprises you with tickets to their Opening Day on the last day of March. Well, the tickets are from one of WE’s partners, trying to suck up to him, he says, but it doesn’t matter that much to you since he didn’t technically pay for it. 

However, there is something to be said about the buyer’s wealth. 

“Look, I’m genuinely not trying to be picky or ungrateful but where, exactly, are the seats?”

“It’s not the Diamond Club, relax.”

“Okay, thank god.”

That would be too much. Mostly because of the notoriety around the seats themselves. Plus, with them being right behind home plate, your faces would most likely be caught on TV and that would be… a mess. 

No, the seats are in the second row in front of the Knights’ dugout. Still excellent but not the Diamond Club, thankfully. 

Tim comes dressed in jeans, a forest green long sleeve that meshes well with his pale skin and dark hair, and a nondescript ballcap. 

“Just a precaution,” he tells you. 

But upon arriving at the Knights Stadium up in Otisburg, you book it for the nearest merch stall and grab two black Knights caps — modeled like the iconic LA Dodgers and NY Yankees emblem except with GK — and shove one into his hands while putting yours on backwards. He acquiesces you with a smile and then leads you to concessions, happy to foot the bill, with you happy to let him do it, too. 

(Drinks and food are far too expensive for a team that loses more games than it wins. Seriously.)

But like the universe is looking out for you (and the Knights and all of Gotham, really), the Gotham Knights win their Opening Day match against the New York Mets. The first time they’ve ever won an Opening Day game, actually. 

Even Tim feels some pride, which is why, you think, after the game, he lets you drag him off to take a picture with the Gotham Knights’ mascot, King Arthur. One of his handlers takes the picture with Tim’s phone. 

“Hey,” he says, scrutinizing Tim’s face even as he casually adjusts the bill, pulling it lower over his face. “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”

You panic, because this hasn’t ever happened to you two before, what with how you two mostly spend time inside, but you know you shouldn’t be surprised. Tim is careful to make himself as boring as possible to the tabloids. Even while grocery shopping earlier in February, he had a cap on and made sure to blend in as much as he could. 

So, of course, Tim is the one to get out of it. 

He looks at you, mock confused, and says something equally as befuddling in… Russian? 

You match his look, raising your shoulders, and the handler decides this is not a situation he wants to be in as he shoves the phone into your hands and waves his own, enunciating, “Never mind. Never mind. It’s nothing.”

You and Tim leave them, making sure to look as confused as a pair of Russian tourists with not a lick of English would. It’s only when you are home free of King Arthur and his handler do the two of you break down into a mess of giggles.

“What did you say?” you giggle, nearly stumbling over the curb. 

“I said, My publicist is going to kill me.”

You laugh all the way to his car and then on the ride home, too. 

(“You know Russian?” you ask at one point, finally realizing that. 

“Some,” he says, and you learn he knows a handful of languages like Russian, French, Spanish (the stuffy kind, though). 

It’s cool, though he admits it’s from tutoring he had, so you have to make fun of those rich boy tendencies again.)

It’s one of the best days you have in a while. 

But you find most of your days shape up to be like that. 

Even long ones where the kids refuse to listen to you and lesson plans are thrown way off course. Tim will leave you to it if you need the space but other times, he’ll come over, make breakfast for dinner, and you two will watch some Ice Age and you go to bed in a much better mood. 

And while you and Tim continue to hang out, your brother remains in awe of that fact, too. 

He has some preconceived notions about who, exactly, Tim Drake is but you shut those down quickly. You know why he thinks like that and it would be a lie to say you didn’t think like that, either, but people are so much more different than they portray themselves. Especially ones like him. 

Your brother understands, then, and is happy for you. 

Not without a few well-placed jokes, of course. 

You should steal his debit card info

i’m not stealing his debit card info

Dude he’s a millionaire it’s like his civic duty to society 

Which is fair and you’ve certainly made that joke in regards to… some of the wealthier figures in Gotham before. (You flush thinking about your college friends’ jokes about being Bruce Wayne’s sugar baby. Tim will never find out about that as long as you live, thank you very much.)

Even Tim starts to foot the bill if you get takeout or something. And he says exactly that. 

“It’s my civic duty,” he manages to say to you with a completely straight face. (Which is funny because he’s also apparently not straight, much like you.) 

But it is true that Tim is decidedly well-off. Most of Bruce Wayne’s children are. 

You carefully prod Ms. C and the other teachers and aides about information on them, because the internet can only tell you so much.

They rehash most of the info about Tim you already knew — the drama when he was seventeen with the CEO thing, the engagement thing, and the attempted assassination thing. (So many things.)

Tim is the only middle child, though, out of five.

The eldest of them is Dick Grayson, taken into Bruce Wayne’s care after his parents died. He doesn’t live in Gotham, though. New York, you think, is where he currently resides. Then there is Jason Todd, who is a bit of an odd case, because he ‘died’ when he was fifteen then came back when he was older, but the real story is that Bruce Wayne was, apparently, in so much grief at the thought that he misidentified the body in Ethiopia, meanwhile Jason Todd was still alive but kidnapped. He would be until he escaped and came back to Gotham at nineteen. You have faint memories of that media hellstorm from college but these days, they don’t focus on him much.

Cassandra Wayne, the most shrouded in mystery out of all of them; a cryptic figure that paparazzi only manage to capture every six months. She shows up for the occasional charity gala but most can’t actually find or talk to her. The only trace of her existence is other people saying they saw her. 

After her, there is Tim, and then there is Damian Wayne, the youngest of them. A teenager now and a model student at Gotham Academy. The one that economic magazines and tabloids say will one day take over Wayne Enterprises. Damian is also the only of them not adopted. He is, much to Gotham’s collective shock, Bruce Wayne’s biological son. You idly wonder about his mother, though, since he does have black hair like his father, but the brown tone of his skin and hazel green eyes sets him apart from his father’s obviously white ancestry. 

And well, there is Bruce Wayne, too. 

Starting to go grey, he is less of a playboy these days and more of a fatherly figure. Apparently, he’s on the Parent-Teacher Association for Gotham Academy. It’s an amusing thought. 

(It still doesn’t mean the Gotham populace isn’t drooling about him. If anything, the fatherly vibes seem to do something for, ah, certain cohorts. You did at once think he was attractive — really — but after knowing Tim… it just feels a bit odd.)

You are certain your prods for info go unnoticed. And they do. It is… something else that gets Ms. C’s attention. 

“You seem more happy these days,” she says offhandedly one morning, the two of you preparing the assignments for the day, as well as the tests the kids had taken last week that are now ready to be handed back. 

“I have a new friend,” you decide to say, because it shouldn’t hurt. 

She nods distractedly. “That’s nice. You did seem a bit lonely before.”

Which is funny because she never let on about it. And also because it’s so direct, you don’t know what to say.

“Nothing wrong with it,” she says after a minute. “I like to be alone. But there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, isn’t there?”

“I suppose so.”

“It’s good, then, that you have someone now.”

“He’s just a friend,” you chuckle, scratching your cheek awkwardly. 

“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” she says, finally looking at you, amusement twinkling in her hazel eyes. 

“Right.”

“Well… good for you.”

“Thanks.” You smile at her and mean it. 

It is good for you. 

Really good for you. 

Which is why, you suppose, things take a sharp downturn one Thursday evening. 

Truthfully, you have no idea how you made it back to Rose Oaks. 

Your fingers shake as you try to lock your bike to the rack. It takes you a couple tries to get the lock into place. 

You straighten, your body aching as you do, and you limp through the entrance. The doorman does a double-take at the sight of you. 

“Have a good night,” you mumble to him, going over to the elevators. You press the button. Your eyes catch the shredded skin on your arm, red and raw. You let your hand drop. 

It happened too quickly for you to do anything. 

All you know is you’d been biking down Cameron, the sun setting, others starting to make their way home for the day, then there was a boom that rattled the street and buildings and people panicked, because this is Gotham and any unusual activity is dangerous activity and you don’t stick around to play the hero, and if people start running, you start running, too. Doesn’t matter if you don’t know what’s happening, just do it, because it could be the difference between life and death in a world like this. 

You know all of this. 

But you never stood a chance against the rush. 

You barely managed to scrape yourself off the ground, grab your bike, and break free, trying not to think about how you very well could’ve been stampeded to death and that’s not a very fun or dignifying death at all, is it? But it’s Gotham. Death is not fun or dignifying here. It’s miserable and painful and a cautionary tale to those that live to see the next day, just another addition to the fine print of living in this city. 

Ding. The doors open. You step in. Your legs feel weak. 

“Hold the door!”

Your hand shoots to the panel, holding down the open doors button. Someone rushes in in the next second. 

“Hey, thanks for that —” the polite gratitude is swapped out for frantic concern in the next second, your name wrapped up in it. 

You blink and find Tim in front of you, eyes wide in concern, hands hovering over you, as if afraid to touch you. It confuses you, because it’s not like you’ve ever shied away from him. If anything, you’re horribly, horribly touch-starved. If he let you, you’d be plastered to his side twenty-four-seven. Or, not twenty-four-seven, but you know. When you two are watching a movie or a TV show and he lets you throw your legs over his lap, you have to be really normal about how he rests his hands on your legs. 

(He isn’t even doing anything, it’s just the pressure, the touch, that makes you want to sidle up beside him and never let go.)

Oh. Where did that come from?

He says your name again and you shake your head. 

“What?” 

“You can let the doors close,” he says softly and you turn and realize you are still pressing the button. 

You let it go. 

The doors close. 

You hadn’t pressed your floor, though, so he does it for you. The elevator starts moving in the next second. 

Tim looks carefully at you, concern still clear on his face. 

“What happened?” he asks gently. 

“I… I got knocked off my bike. It — it was an accident. People were just… panicking. There was…” Your chest tightens, until every breath feels like a struggle and why are you so cold? “An… an explosion. I… I don’t know.”

He realizes something. “Off Cameron?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I —?” He gestures to your arm. 

Strange to ask. Unsettling in a way. 

“You… you don’t need to ask.”

He softens at your response and his hand finds your left one, turning your hand up, where your palm is a little scraped up from your spill. Your forearm is worse off, road rash peeling the skin off, exposed and throbbing. 

Tim’s fingers are warm against your cool skin, his hands calloused but still soft. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though you aren’t sure why.

He looks up at you, the look in his eyes… You have to look away, shaking your head. 

“I’m fine,” you say again.

“You’re hurt,” he counters gently. “Let me take care of this. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“It’s old. I don’t… Haven’t used it since I got it a few years ago.”

“Then why don’t we go to my place so we can grab mine?”

“Okay.”

He turns to the panel to press the button for the fifteenth floor. 

The elevator pauses at the fourteenth floor but you two stay on. 

Tim’s hand holds onto yours, gently, avoiding the scraped skin of your palm. He leads you out, to his apartment. His is bigger, better, than yours. But it just feels more empty when you come inside. Alien in a way you don’t like. You’ve spent a lot of time here but you want your apartment, with the crabitat, your fridge with drawings from the kids, your messy coffee table with tests and assignments that need to be graded, your sometimes clumsily-made pottery pieces on display. 

He can tell, you think. Because he lets go of your hand at the door and moves quickly, murmuring for you to give him a second. 

He disappears down the hall. Your feet ache from work and your knee and thigh aches from the road rash you sustained there, too, the material of your slacks torn. Because it’s already April and the days are growing warm, you’re in a short-sleeved blouse, which accounts for the scrapes on your arms. 

More than that, you want nothing more than to lie down and sleep for the next week. 

But no… You have work tomorrow. The thought burns through you, frustration and exhaustion sparking hot in your chest. Your eyes sting and you close them, swallowing down the emotion. 

It’s fine. It’s fine. You can handle it. 

You will. 

Tim returns, then, first aid kit in hand. He pauses for a second, gazing at you, and you turn away first, opening the door. He follows you. 

You take the elevator back down. 

Soon, you’re stepping into your apartment. The light in the crabitat is the only thing on, glowing in the darkness like a lighthouse on the shore guiding you home. Something inside you unwinds. 

Tim turns on the light. You take off your shoes and drop your backpack near the coffee table. 

“Take a shower,” he suggests. “Then I’ll patch you up. I’ll be in here, okay? Want me to feed the boys, too?”

You blink, starting to return to yourself. “I… Yeah. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“What is it today? Fresh or canned?” 

You blink. “How do you…”

Tim cracks a smile. “I’ve seen you do it a bunch of times, the way you alternate. But I’ve also done my own research. I was curious.”

“Right… um, canned today. They had fresh food yesterday.” You pause, starting to feel this strange creeping feeling inside your chest. You don’t like it, so you try to push it away. “Thanks, Tim.”

His face softens. “Of course.”

You head for your bedroom while he heads for the crabitat. 

You pull out a fresh change of clothes, a pair of white linen shorts, heeding your scraped up knee and thigh, then an old high school softball t-shirt. 

You have a door to the bathroom in your room, then another door from the living room. You lock both and turn on the shower. 

Inside, you finally get a look at yourself. Your breathing stutters as you understand why the doorman was concerned, then why Tim was — is — too. Your cream-colored slacks are smudged with dirt and a few tire tracks from your bike when you fell. The fabric at the knee is torn, too, edges turned red from the blood. More fabric at the side of your thigh is torn, skin scraped and raw. Your pale blue blouse is in a similar state. Your arms are scraped up, rubbed raw from the sidewalk. 

You look like a mess. 

Hot humiliation bubbles inside you, along with fresh terror as you replay what happened inside your head. 

Your eyes burn as you strip. Your scrapes burn even more when you step into the shower, the hot water making them throb, and you finally let your tears fall. 

You work to keep your cries silent, though, wary of how noise echoes inside the shower. You don’t want Tim to know. You don’t want him to worry more than he already is. 

It takes a while for you to piece yourself back together, but after washing your hair and body with your familiar smelling shampoo and soap, you manage to do it. Your injuries ache, though, especially when the towel brushes against them as you dry off. 

Soon, you are reluctantly stepping out of your bedroom and into the living room. 

The TV is on, playing season one of Spongebob. Tim, in the kitchen at the stove, turns, smile flitting across his lips. 

“Hey, you’re just in time. I hope you didn’t mind me using the kitchen but I figured you hadn’t eaten dinner yet.”

Something spasms inside your chest. 

You shake your head. 

“Take a seat,” he says. “I’ll bring it over.”

You go to him. 

He doesn’t say anything, ladling tomato soup into a bowl cushioned by a potholder. A grilled cheese sandwich sits on a plate on the counter. You pick up the plate, then take the bowl and a spoon as well. 

“Water?”

You nod and seeing as you no longer have the hands for it, decide to just let him do it and head over to the couch. Your knee protests as you sit down. Your whole body protests, actually. 

Tim brings a glass of water for you, along with a bottle of Tylenol, then sits down. 

“You should eat, too,” you say.

“I can eat after.”

“Tim —”

He says your name. You stop. He grabs the first aid kit. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But you do worry about it. You worry about this, about him making you food, about him putting off his own meal to take care of you, about him taking care of you. 

In that moment, you feel terribly, terribly burdensome. 

He inspects your hands first so you can eat and deems the scrapes not bad enough to cover, then moves to your leg. 

You sip your tomato soup and take bites of the grilled cheese, oddly famished. 

“It’s the adrenaline,” he says. You imagine you must’ve looked confused at your own hunger for him to say something. 

“Huh?”

“The adrenaline,” he says again. “Coming down from it, you get hungry. And tired.”

You have fuzzy memories of your psych classes. That is true. Also probably why you are still cold. 

How does he know that, though?

At your question, he shrugs. “You know how much time I have to myself. I have to do something to occupy it.”

“Maybe you can take up knitting.”

“Nah, I already know how to sew.”

“So, you know how to sew but not do your own laundry?”

He flashes a smile at you. “Exactly.”

You laugh despite yourself. 

His smile softens, then he looks back to your knee, grabbing a piece of gauze. 

“Aren’t you going to disinfect it?”

“Rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide aren’t great for cleaning cuts, actually. It kills the bacteria but it kills the normal cells, too. You need those to heal. Did you wash it well during the shower?”

You nod. 

“So, that works, and we can do something else, too.” 

He pushes up from the couch, heading over to the kitchen, riffling through your cabinets. You turn your eyes back to the TV and take a drink of your water. Your fingers itch to change it to the news, to see what happened, to see if there were casualties. 

But Tim returns before you can grab the remote. 

He has a bowl of soapy water in hand, setting it carefully on the coffee table, then sitting next to you again. 

“This might sting,” he warns, dipping one of the pieces of gauze in the water then gently dabbing the edges of the scrape. 

It does sting but not as bad as the alcohol might’ve. 

“So, how do you know this stuff?” you ask quietly. 

“I was clumsy as a kid.”

You wonder if that clumsiness has much to do with the scars you’ve seen on him. Some on his knuckles, on his arms. He sports fresher ones sometimes. The shadow of a bruise hidden under the hair that falls sharply over his forehead, the occasional cut. He always blames it on his clumsiness and you have no choice but to believe him. What other option is there? He isn’t dating anyone that could be doing that and he hangs out with his friends and siblings sometimes but they wouldn’t do things like that. 

Well. You don’t actually know them. But… still. 

He finishes cleaning the edges of the scrape, then he applies a little bit of Neosporin and tapes gauze over it. He does the same with the one on the side of your thigh. 

Tim works attentively, not even sparing a glance at the TV once. You should know by now, the way he dedicates himself to things like this, how he will listen to you talk about something to do with school or with the crabs or with a movie or TV show. Every iota of his attention and concentration is on you. It flusters you sometimes, to be paid so much attention, but you would be lying if you said you hated it. 

Now, with him turning that familiar concentration to taking care of you… you don’t know. 

He has to have better things to do than doing this. 

“Are you going to work tomorrow?” he asks, gently taping a piece of gauze over the scrape on your arm. 

“Most likely.”

He nods wordlessly in acknowledgement and moves back, leaning forward to collect the used pieces of gauze and trash from the tape. 

You chew at the inside of your cheek. “It’ll be fine. It’s… it’s fine.”

“Just don’t strain yourself,” he says gently. “Did you want a ride? I don’t —”

“No.”

An awkward silence follows your abrupt denial. You don’t miss the flash of hurt on his face. It stabs you right in the heart. You look away. 

“I mean, thank you, Tim, but, um, it’s okay. I’m fine. You don’t have to do that. I get up pretty early in the mornings and… Yeah.”

You stand, your knee — your body, really — protesting but you ignore it, stacking your plate and bowl, then grabbing your empty cup. 

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” you continue, dropping them into the sink. “And I appreciate it, really. Thank you. But you don’t have to do any more. So, if you have… other things to do. You know. Go ahead.”

“I have nothing else to do,” he says, surprising you as he appears by your elbow, throwing away the trash from the gauze and the tape. The look on his face is hard to describe. Caught between some cross of disappointment and determination. A part of you shrinks at it. At the thought of disappointing him. 

“Let me wash it,” he says, stopping you before you can turn on the faucet. “Give your hands a break. Give yourself a break, okay?”

Some part of you wants to fight it. Wants to say he should try that, too. As if you don’t see how tired he looks sometimes, staying up late to do reports for WE. For whatever reason, he’s working more with them. A few weeks ago, he had to fly to New York. Something about R&D. He returned exhausted from the trip. 

But you clamp the impulse. That’s not necessary. It’s not about him. It’s about you. This is… It’s unnecessarily difficult to let yourself be taken care of right now. You have an inkling as to why but the energy needed for that kind of introspection is lost on you. So, you let him take care of the dishes and slink back to the couch, slouching into the cushions, feeling exhaustion tug persistently at you. 

Yawning, you pull the blanket hanging over the back of the couch onto your body. The Tylenol you took before has already kicked in and with your hunger satiated and your pains taken care of for the most part, you are ready to go to sleep for the rest of the night. 

You fight the impulse, though, sparing a glance at the kitchen. 

“Tim.”

“Yeah?”

“You better eat.”

He laughs and your chest warms at the sound. 

“Alright,” he says, tossing a smile over his shoulder at you. “I’ll eat.”

You nod and turn back to the TV, picking up the remote and switching to the local news channel. 

The poised voice of the GNN news anchor replaces the Spongebob theme song. 

Tim pauses in turning on the stove.

“An incident in the Upper West Side tonight, a laundromat off Cameron Avenue went up in flames after a dryer exploded. Miraculously, there were no casualties inside the laundromat, however, the explosion caused much panic on the streets, resulting in at least one person dead from the rush and many others injured. No doubt, people believed it to be some kind of attack, especially with the recent news that the Joker has broken out of Arkham again and police have been unable to track him down —”

You change it back to Spongebob. 

A laundromat. 

Just a laundromat. 

No real danger. No threat of death. 

All this… because of the collective anxiety Gothamites hold. You aren’t holding it against them, you’re just…

Tired. Exhausted. That’s what this city does sometimes.

A lot of the time.

You swallow past the uncomfortable tightness in your throat, close your eyes, and let yourself be whisked to sleep, where things are easier, simpler, and you can just… forget. If only for a little while.

Chapter Text

The next morning, you wake up in your own bed. You have no recollection of getting yourself here on your own, only the faint fuzzy memory of being carried and the sharp, fragrant scent of eucalyptus. 

With that, perhaps you should not be surprised at the knock on your door at seven-thirty on dot, where you find Tim waiting. 

Your body hurts worse today than it did yesterday and the extra strength Tylenol you took has not yet kicked in. Mostly, you’re still tired and achy, eyelids feeling heavier than usual, your clothes oddly restrictive with your slacks stretched a little uncomfortably over the gauze on your knee and thigh, then your forearm as well, as you knew wearing anything other than a long-sleeve would raise questions you are not mentally prepared to answer.

Suffice to say, you are not in a particularly good mood.

Which is why —

“What are you doing here.”

Tim looks up from his phone. He’s… in a suit? Charcoal grey, with a burgundy red button-up underneath. His dark hair has been tamed for the most part, parts of it gelled back, with some hanging over his forehead as usual.

It’s a version of him you aren’t that acquainted with but he still looks… heartbreakingly gorgeous.

“I’m giving you a ride to school,” he says, then offers you a thermos and lunch bag. “And breakfast.”

“I don’t need a ride,” you say, instead of acknowledging that. “I told you yesterday, Tim. What are you even doing up this early?”

“Board meeting,” he responds. “So, I’m already passing by the school on my way to the tower.”

“I can get to school just fine on my own.”

“Can I come in?”

Wordlessly, you step aside. 

He steps in and sets the thermos and lunch bag aside, but doesn’t take off the shiny dress shoes. Seriously, you think you can see your reflection in the shine. God, he looks really good. This sucks.

“I was thinking about it for a while,” he says, gazing steadily at you. 

Since you quite literally already have your shoes on and you keep the area in which shoes are allowed on relatively small, he’s only a foot away from you, allowing you to glimpse a faint scar under his jaw that one could not see unless they were this close, long, dark lashes that frame blue eyes, irises flecked with silver, an emotion you don’t think you’ve seen on him until now, one that makes your heart stutter in your chest and warmth flood your face. And… wait….

“I wanted to leave it alone,” he continues, distracting you. 

Your eyebrows furrow at his words. Leave what alone?

“Because I wasn’t sure,” he goes on. “And if I wasn’t sure, then I wasn’t going to say anything but… I think it’s worth it to try.”

“You’re being vague, Tim,” you say, a little annoyed at the fact. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” he responds. “And what you think of me.”

Something about that makes your insides freeze. The sudden bout of nerves confuses you but it’s not a moment to think about why that may be.

“Meaning?”

“You think you’re burdening me, with everything that happened last night.”

One part of you relaxes, while the other just stiffens further.

“I thought,” he pauses, something in your chest crumpling at the uncertainty on his face, an emotion you’ve never seen, at least not directed at you. It hurts more than you thought it would. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” you say immediately. “We are.”

“Okay,” he says, looking steadier now. “So, then, why won’t you let me take care of you?”

“I can take care of myself,” you respond reflexively.

“I know that. But just because you can doesn’t mean that you have to do it alone. I… Look, I’m not trying to coddle you. It’s just that you seemed averse to anything that had me worrying about you, about me taking care of you when you had just been through something traumatic. You say we’re friends and friends take care of each other, don’t they? So, why won’t you let me?”

Oh. Oh.

“I know what things are like with your family,” he adds, voice gentler. “And I know you must’ve had to prove to them that you could handle living here, that you could take care of yourself. That you’re independent. But that doesn’t mean… it doesn’t mean that you have to do it on your own all the time, not if I’m here, too.”

You feel overexposed, like a bad sunburn, like all your layers have just been peeled away and now the real you, still hurt, still tired, still bleeding from last night, from the years of fielding your parents’ repeated urges to move back home, you are exposed. So terribly seen. 

And you can’t quite acknowledge it, that he is right and you know it, too, you know that’s why things were so weird for you, because up until now, you were chronically lonely, on your own so you had to pick up the slack because you knew no one else was there to do it. 

(But he’s here. But Tim is here and he wants to do it. Why?

You say we’re friends and friends take care of each other, don’t they? So, why won’t you let me?

Maybe it is that easy. Maybe it is that simple. But it’s still so hard to swallow.)

Tim gazes at you intently, like you are the only thing he is seeing in this moment and he is, in a way, and you struggle with it, pulling your eyes from his.

Only to catch the familiar sight of makeup, concealer caked at his forehead, partially hidden under his hair, but easy to pick out for you, just because, well, it’s not that great of a makeup job, and you’re close enough to see it. 

You know exactly what he must have to hide. 

You move of their own accord, raising your hands to his face and his eyes widen as you cup his cheeks, tugging him down a little.

He utters your name, an unknown emotion in his voice that makes your heart leapfrog to your throat and your skin prickle with heat but that’s not your purpose right now. 

His hands fall to your wrists, grasping them loosely, fingers warm, the heat of them palpable even through the material of your button-up. He doesn’t make a move to pull your hands away. Just holds steady there.

“You’re right,” you whisper, the words choking in your throat. “But what about you?”

Your left hand slips from his cheek, his own falling away from your wrist; soft strands of hair brush the back of your fingers as you push it away, then press to the bruise hidden by makeup. 

Flinching, he grabs your hand, pulling it away and saying your name. “It’s not about me right now.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “But it doesn’t make it any less true. I worry about you, too, Tim. But you never… there’s always an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse,” he murmurs. “It’s the truth.”

“Don’t lie to me. Please.” 

“I’m fine. I’m okay. Don’t —” he stops.

“Don’t worry about it?” Your hands fall away from him.

He shakes his head minutely and steps closer to you, until you can smell his cologne, dizzying to your senses. 

“I’m a hypocrite, too,” he admits, his hands reaching up to cup your cheeks, thumb stroking gently over the sensitive skin underneath your eye. “But you have to trust me on this.”

The worst part is… you think you do.

You close your eyes, exhausted, a familiar wet sting surging up your nose. 

“Tim…”

“It’s a two-way street, though. That’s how this works. Even I know that and I’m willing to accept it. I just… We can scale back, if you want, if you don’t want to do that. That’s fine. Just tell me.”

You could still be friends. Just not as close. Not close enough to worry about him, not close enough for him to worry about you. Just friends who hang out occasionally to watch movies and TV shows.

Of course. Of course. You couldn’t have one thing without the other. You knew that. You just didn’t think you would be forced to make a decision so soon. You thought… You don’t know. Stupidly, that you could avoid it. 

It’s selfish, you know. But… it’s hard to give up control. It’s hard to admit you do want someone to help you sometimes. Even harder to admit that it’s Tim you want to do that.

(That it’s just him you want.

Just him.

But that is something for another time.)

You lean forward. He lets you go and your forehead meets his chest, his arms sliding around you. He’s warm, cologne heady to your senses. 

“I’m sorry, Timmy.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Yes, I do. You’re right. I know that. I’m just…”

“It’s hard,” he murmurs. “I know.”

You don’t say anything, just shift closer to him, shameless now, but you don’t care. He holds you tighter in response, setting his chin gently on your head, and you have to pretend that everything in you isn’t turning into a puddle of goo at being held like this. Mostly because, you can’t remember the last time someone held you like this.

His hand is a warm brand between your shoulder blades. “If you want to bike to school, I won’t stop you. But the offer is still on the table. And the food is still for you.”

“I’ll go with you,” you mumble, voice muffled by the material of his suit. 

He hears you nonetheless, relaxing at your words. 

“Probably suck to do it, anyway,” you sigh. “With my knee and stuff. I was just being dumb.”

Tim shrugs slightly. “I’ve done stupider in the name of independence. Don’t sweat it.”

You would love to stay here for a little while longer. Forever, actually, but real life doesn’t allow for those kinds of indulgences, so you pull away reluctantly. 

“We should go,” he says, raising his wrist; the expensive watch there winks at you, glinting under the light. 

You nod and he picks up the thermos and lunch bag while you gather your own belongings. Soon enough, you are in the plush leather of his passenger seat, sipping at the thermos, the coffee there exactly as you like it. Your breakfast is a decent helping of sliced fruit. It’s a real privilege, especially because you know he shops his produce organically. Your breakfast, on most days, is usually a Pop-Tart. Sometimes a small yogurt shake if you’re feeling indulgent.

Everything is still a little… loaded between you, so the car ride is quiet save for the radio, the news host talking about recent activity from the Titans. You run into some traffic halfway there, and warmed from the coffee and hunger thoroughly satiated, you rest your eyes for the most of it, until he’s pulling around the back, where the employee parking is and where there won’t be too many prying eyes. 

“Thanks for the ride.”

“I’ll see you after school? At four?”

“Mmhm. Have, uh, fun with your fellow capitalists.” 

At the tease, at a little bit of familiarity creeping in once more, he grins at you and you grin back.

“Have fun with your middle schoolers.”

“Thank you. I will.” A two-fingered salute and you slip out, taking your things with you.

You’re still achy and tired and your knee is bothering you but… it’s not all bad.

No, not all bad.

Your day is long but the universe looks out for you. The kids cooperate with you and Ms. C for the most part, probably because they have their field trip coming up next week to the Metropolis Zoo (Gotham’s is closed down — something about Poison Ivy). 

But soon enough, school is letting out for the weekend and Ms. C, as usual, disappears as quickly as she can. Weekends are sacred time, she’d once sagely told you. Weekends keep you sane. 

You believe it.

You have to wait, however, since…

“I mean… I could take the subway.”

On the other end of the line, Tim huffs softly, the noise faintly echo-y, signaling he’s in his car connected to the Bluetooth, rather than speaking directly into his phone. “Wouldn’t recommend.”

“Why is that?” you ask, seated at the stairs leading up to the school. Save for the other staff still hanging around in the office, the school is empty of students.

Above you, heavy grey clouds hide away the sun. The sun doesn't set until eight in the evening these days — and will continue to set later and later as you grow closer to summer — but with these clouds, everything is darker, as if the sun has set, despite it only being a quarter until five. 

Lightning forks through the sky ahead of you. A second later, a fearsome rumble of thunder. Rain follows quickly with furious intensity. Not a sprinkle or a drizzle, but a downpour. 

“Oh, shit.”

You stand, going up a few steps to shield yourself completely. 

“Severe weather warning,” Tim tells you, a shade too smug. “But not for just rain and thunder —”

“Hail?”

It comes down quickly, plinking on the metal railings for the stairs, pounding against concrete. You are protected for the most part, but it is loud.

On the other end, he laughs. “Still want to walk to the station?”

Considering the aforementioned station is two blocks away, no, but he doesn’t need to be so smug about it.

You tell him as much. It was just a joke, okay! If you were presented with an option to take the subway or enjoy the comfort of Tim’s expensive car, you would obviously go with the latter. 

A minute later, the very same car pulls up to the curb. 

But there is a considerable amount of distance between you and the curb. Nothing crazy but enough that you think you would be very damp by the time you got to the car. Not to mention the hail, which shouldn’t grievously injure you but would surely be unpleasant.

“Aw, shit,” you mutter, gathering your things.

“I got it,” Tim says, then hangs up. Ahead of you, the driver’s door opens and he steps out, a big black umbrella opening above him. To your surprise, he’s still in his suit. You didn’t think he would be at Wayne Tower for so long. 

He walks briskly to you and you notice the car’s LED headlights still on, catching the falling rain and the hail intermixed with it. It makes sense not to turn it off but…

You creep to the edge of your shade, feeling a few droplets of rain hit your face as he comes up, pausing two stairs down from you. 

It’s silly, you think, for your heart to skip a beat at the sight of Tim holding a hand out for you, smiling faintly, his eyes warm. But you can’t help it or the butterflies that form in your belly. 

“Very chivalrous,” you say. “To come up and fetch me yourself. But this is Gotham. Bit of a risk to leave the car running, don’t you think? What if someone stole it?”

Tim smirks and shrugs. “Guess we’d have to take the subway.”

You laugh. You laugh as you take his hand and he pulls you under the cover of the umbrella, throwing an arm around your shoulders to ensure you are covered, and you’re still giggling as you arrive at the passenger door, sliding in quickly. 

Tim follows in the next moment, unable to avoid the rain and hail as he closes the umbrella and slides in, tossing it to the back. Droplets of rain dampen his hair and face and he wipes it away, smiling faintly as you quell your mirth.

“So,” you say breathlessly as he buckles up and pulls away from the curb. “I didn’t realize you were going to be at the office for so long. That’s not normal, is it?”

You can immediately tell it’s not the right thing to say. Or, rather, it reminds him of something he would rather forget, face pinching slightly before he relaxes. 

The radio is drowned out by the thrum of rain, windshield wipers working overtime to clear your field of vision. With the clouds blotting out the sun and the abrupt darkness, most cars have their headlights and taillights on, red lights smudged by the rainwater gliding down the glass. New Jersey drivers aren’t that great, but Gotham ones are even worse. You count Tim as part of that group, though he… tries to tone it down for you (if only to not give you a heart attack with the shit he does sometimes).

His fingers drum against the steering wheel and he gazes intently at the red taillights of the car in front of you. “Hungry?”

You accept the deflection. Mostly out of guilt. 

“Of course.”

“O’Shaughnessy’s?”

“I could go for a Paddy O’Melt and a Soder.”

“Soder?”

This is an old debate but you give into it easily, to inject some familiar bantering into the atmosphere.

“What’s wrong with Soder?”

“What’s right with Soder?” he shoots back. “Zesti is where it’s at.”

“Zesti sounds like some kind of a seasoning, not a soda.”

“Seasonings are good. Soder just sounds gross.”

“So-der, So-da. It’s very simple, Timothy.”

“Saying it in your teacher voice isn’t going to change my mind.”

You laugh and he does, too. Once you get closer to Rose Oaks, he pulls into the nearest O’Shaughnessy’s. A few minutes later, you have a hot bag of food on your lap and your sodas in the cup holders between you. He parks in the lot, away from the other cars, and shuts off the windshield wipers for the moment, letting rain streak the glass. The hail has stopped by now.

You split up the food. Two double Paddy O’Melts with fries, and a Zesti Cola for him and Soder Cola for you.

It’s quiet for a little while as you two eat, burning your tongues on hot fries and equally hot burgers, then soothing it away with cold Cola. 

You’re still working on your fries when he speaks.

“I don’t go into the office very often,” he says, agreeing with your earlier observation. He crumples up the wrapper for his burger, throwing it back into the bag, then cleans his hands with a napkin. 

You sip your soda and don’t say anything yet. You can tell he isn’t done.

A pensive look forms on his face as he sits back, looking out the rain-blurred windshield. Thunder rumbles loudly, sending vibrations through the ground that you can feel. 

He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Lucius asked me in for some stuff. And since I was there already, he tried to keep me in as long as he could. He knows I prefer telework but being in-office helps with morale.”

You jolt slightly at the casual mention of Wayne Enterprises’ CEO, Lucius Fox. You should be used to it, but you’re really not. A lot of the times, it is hard to compartmentalize the fact that Tim Drake is one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors, someone that a lot of people are dying to be with and talk to; he is the son of Bruce Wayne, the most notorious man in this city. 

But to you, he’s just Tim. 

Tim who argues with you about the merits between a Zesti and a Soder, who admits to liking sci-fi movies but has a weak spot for 2000s dramatic comedies like The Devil Wears Prada and pretty much anything with Anne Hathaway in it, who once accidentally overcooked a hot dog (the prepackaged ones you can only cook by boiling; this one still mystifies you) but can bang out a solid breakfast of french toast with homemade whipped cream, berries, and maple syrup, paired with eggs and bacon all cooked to perfection.

Tim, who likes tennis and is currently trying to sway you to join him for a few friendly matches, who used to be into photography but dropped it as obligations to the real world tugged him elsewhere. Tim, who, when you ask him about college or dream careers, seems, frankly, lost regarding all of that. 

The word regarding his position at WE is that it’s simply a natural course of action. Some thought he might attempt to revive Drake Industries but most predicted he would go with WE. Maybe go to an Ivy League, get a business degree or a economics degree. This course of action was judged, naturally, because of course the son of a billionaire would get a free ride to Harvard or something, and major in something entirely predictable like business or economics. 

Or he would bypass it completely and that’s what ended up happening. In a way. He doesn’t work there full-time. Only when they ask him on for things. And this route is inevitably judged, too, because of course the son of a billionaire gets a high-status position in his adoptive father’s company without the credentials or degrees for it.

You understand.

You do.

But what it looks like to you is that he doesn’t even want to be there. 

“Maybe you should quit.”

Tim blinks, looking surprised at your suggestion. 

You shrug. “I mean, it’s not, like, a full-time job or anything, right? You’re volunteering your time. You don’t have to.”

“I have to do something,” he says. Reflexively, you think. “I have an obligation… I mean, if I can help them, I should. It’s not too much to ask, if I have the capabilities, the time to do it.”

It feels like you’re talking about something else now but you don’t ask. There is a lot to him you don’t know or understand. Abrupt absences, reoccurring tardiness, odd aches and pains. And now this… his work at WE but also… also something else.  

“Tim, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re in a position where you can afford that.”

“It’s not that easy,” he sighs. “It’s… an obligation. Especially with how much time I spent with the company since I was seventeen.”

“So, haven’t you done enough?”

He looks at you, surprised and something else you can’t identify.

“I mean… I don’t know. I feel like you’ve done enough. But also, it doesn’t necessarily have to be about that. You can step back if you want. You can afford it. We talked about this, right? Take advantage of it. Maybe you can take up photography again or something. Maybe you can be my house-friend. Like a house husband but. You know.” You cough as he raises an eyebrow. “Friend.”

“So, basically, I clean and cook for you?”

You grin. “I wouldn’t say no to it.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to move in so badly. You should’ve said something —”

“Oh, shut up. You know what I’m saying. But… seriously. Do what you want to do, Tim.”

“What I wanna do, huh?” he murmurs, looking out the windshield again. The rain is starting to slow. 

“Whatever you want,” you agree softly. “I’ll support you. I’m sure your siblings will. The press will talk but that’s all it is — talk.”

Tim looks back at you, the set of his mouth as soft as his gaze as he looks at you, and your heart squeezes. 

“Thank you.”

You shake your head. “Don’t have to thank me. We’re friends, right?”

He smiles. “Right.”

You look away, your heart feeling like it wants to climb out of you and go to him. If only.

You finish your food and work on sipping at your soda. 

“So, I was wondering something,” you start, changing the subject.

“Yeah?”

“The sixth graders have a field trip next week Friday. We’re going to the zoo.”

He frowns. “Isn’t it closed still?”

You wave a hand. “In Metropolis.” Gotham City’s neighbor across the harbor. You aren’t looking forward to getting a class of sixth graders onto the ferry and into another city but at least you’ll have Ms. C with you.  

“Ah.”

“Yeah. I’m probably gonna be gone for most of the day, though. I was wondering if you could feed the boys breakfast and dinner? I have a spare key somewhere at home. I’ll give it to you. If you can, I mean. If you have something else to do —”

“I don’t,” he says easily. “I can do it.”

“Just don’t do anything weird.”

“And weird entails —?”

“Don’t sneak cameras into my bedroom or steal my underwear.”

“Sounds easy enough to avoid.”

You grin. “Thanks, Timmy. ‘Preciate it.”

“‘Course.” He sends you a smile. “This is part of the whole friend thing, too, you know.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “I know. That’s why I asked.”

He seems privately pleased about that, nodding approvingly, then turning the windshield wipers back on and pulling into reverse.

You will try to do better. You’ll try to let yourself be taken care of. And in return, you know he’ll try to do that, too. 

Maybe he’ll find something he can do. Maybe not. What’s important, you think, is that he’s happy. 

As for your budding feelings, the way your heart skips a beat, the way you get flustered under his attention, the way it gets harder to suppress the yearning for his touch, for his arms around you — the memory of this morning, of being held, is burned into your mind, sure to haunt you and your dreams for weeks to come — you will set it aside. 

You can acknowledge it, that your feelings have started to blur from platonic to something else, but that’s all.

More than anything, you want to keep Tim as a friend. Bringing in less-than-platonic feelings is sure to complicate that and you don’t want to lose him.

You aren’t sure you could handle that.

Not just because he helps soothe the loneliness, but because it’s him.

And that, you think, says more than anything else.

Chapter Text

You get the spare key to Tim. The rest of your weekend is slow, relaxed. He comes over on both Saturday and Sunday and you two do your usual thing.

Each day — and Friday evening — he volunteers to change the dressings on your injuries.

You let him.

It’s easier now, not just because he had already done it the day it happened and because you two talked about it, but because you are starting to see how nice it is to have someone take care of you. Everything between you two is better. More comfortable, more… secure, now that boundaries have been discussed.

He drives you to work for the first couple days of next week, until your knee is good enough for biking again.

You had some reservations about getting back on your bike, not because you hadn’t been on it for a while — though that was a thought — but more because you hadn’t been on it since your accident happened.

You worried it might be uncomfortable for you, but aside from some… renewed fears of falling over, it’s okay. On Wednesday, you get back to it, and by Friday, it’s like nothing ever happened. 

You do have a few unsettling dreams about the incident, mostly the kind where you didn’t walk away from it. But you remind yourself that you did, that it was just an accident at the laundromat that caused everything, and not, you know, the Joker blowing up the block. A freak accident, that’s all. 

Soon enough, it is Friday, and you, Ms. C, and another class of sixth graders alongside your own are on the ferry, crossing Gotham Harbor, heading south for Metropolis.

The field trip hadn’t been for the zoo there initially; it was Gotham’s, then sudden reports of animal cruelty and mistreatment came out and Poison Ivy’s wrath quickly followed, closing down the zoo with her deadly flora and fauna protecting it. The police arrested the staff but they didn’t catch her. No matter, you think. Metropolis’ zoo is probably better. 

But the kids weren’t looking forward to that. Mostly, they were looking forward to being in the same city as Superman, many of them raving about the chance to see him. You personally would be quite fine with not seeing him, since, you know, the only way you could was if you were all in terrible danger and that would be hard to explain to the parents. 

So, naturally, on the day of the trip, you expect the kids to be buzzing about it — about being on the ferry, dark waters gliding beneath the ship, the breeze carrying sprays of saltwater. 

But nope. Not even a peep about Superman. Instead…

“The Titans? What about the Titans?” you ask, puzzled, leaning against the railing. Ms. C on your left and Amir, the aide for the other class, on your right. The teacher for that class, Mr. Chu, promptly became seasick a few minutes into the ride and stepped inside to get away from it. 

Ms. C hums distantly next to you. “Who knows?”

Amir blinks. “You guys didn’t hear?”

She shrugs and turns to look out at the waves, apparently not wanting to know, either.

You do, however. “Hear what?”

They shake their head, pulling out their phone. “It’s been all over the news since yesterday. The Titans announced that one of their core members is stepping down. Well, they were cornered into it, really. Someone got a source and spread the rumor about it, so the Titans had to hold a conference about it.”

“Who was the rumor about?”

“Red Robin.”

Oh, he’s one of Gotham’s. Huh.

“Really? Why?”

They type a few things on their phone, then hand it to you. 

You cup your hand over the speaker to hear what looks to be a press conference, with a primly-dressed woman standing up at a podium. The banner reads: TITANS’ RED ROBIN STEPS DOWN. 

“Oh, here.” Amir leans over to turn on the captions, then turns sharply as someone yells. “Woah, hey, Brianna, don’t do that! No, I don’t care if you can swim, we went over this! You aren’t allowed to jump overboard…”

They step away to continue lecturing the pouting girl standing by the railing.

Your eyes find the captions at the bottom. 

“Red Robin is not retiring. He is simply taking a step back from the team and this is perfectly fine, as the team has many members to fill in for him. As for Gotham City itself, we cannot speak for it, though the Titans would like to emphasize that the city remains well taken care of regardless.”

Amir returns to your side, smoothing a hand down their clothes. 

“So, he’s stepping down,” you say, handing their phone back.

“It’s not surprising, since some of the older members have done the same, like Nightwing. They’re still involved on occasion, but they’re not out there, you know, hero-ing.”

“What about Gotham, then?”

They shrug. “People see Nightwing in New York sometimes. That’s probably what’s gonna happen. But later, I think. With this news, a lot of people are thinking things might get a little crazy around here.”

“Ah. Assuming they can try their luck?”

“Most likely.”

You feel for Red Robin in that moment. It’s not too much to ask for, to return to the other side of his life, only for those plans to be pushed off even longer as those here want to try and take advantage of his absence. 

You couldn’t do it, you think. Live that kind of life, constantly sacrificing yourself. Makes it all the more important to appreciate the ones that do. You’re partial to the League but the Titans are equally as important. Without them, earth would be conquered multiple times over. And that’s just not fun at all.

The rest of the trip goes well. The kids get excited about Superman again when the ferry finally docks in Metropolis. They even get a treat when they glimpse him in the sky, accompanied with the sound of him breaking the sound barrier as he rushes off somewhere. Despite that worrying you a bit — who knows if it’s something simple, like a cat stuck in a tree, or much more dire, like aliens invading — everything is fine. 

All of you are running around making sure no one gets left behind or lost, leaving you exhausted by the time you return to Gotham at five. Then you have to wait even longer to make sure each kid gets picked up. 

You get back to Rose Oaks at seven. Tim had texted you two hours ago letting you know he had fed the boys and told you to come by his place for dinner. 

Not one to say no to free food or being with him, you stop by your place to shower the day away and change into a pair of shorts and an old softball t-shirt, then head to his place. 

 “Starting to think I should just give you a spare,” he says when he pulls the door open, a spatula in his hand, lips quirking when he sees you. 

“Well, you do have mine,” you agree. “Unless you did weird stuff with your unsupervised access to my place.”

“I didn’t install cameras in your bedroom or steal your underwear. Scout’s promise.”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“Not even a little bit,” he says easily and you laugh, stepping inside.

You slip off your slides and leave them by the door. He started to implement that rule a little while after he met you. Said it just makes more sense and makes cleaning easier. You think so, too, but the fact that he did it because of you makes you all warm and fuzzy inside. 

“How was Metropolis?”

“Meh. Metropolis.”

“What, not a fan?”

“The city itself is fine. But their baseball team?”

“The Metropolis Monarchs that continue to beat the Knights without fail every time they play each other?” 

“It’s just perfect,” you grumble. “They don't have a Joker and they always beat us. So not fair.”

Tim chuckles, returning to the kitchen. “So, when and where are they playing each other?”

“Two weeks. Here. Can’t wait to hear all the Monarch fans complaining about having to come here. Pretentious jerks.”

He laughs and resumes his work at the stove. 

The TV plays in the living room. You flop onto the couch with a grunt, glad to be off your feet. 

“You can change the channel,” he calls, looking to be flipping something on the stove. At his elbow on the counter is a plate of what looks to be freshly-made chocolate chip pancakes. Your stomach rumbles at the sweet smell wafting over to you. 

You turn your eyes to the flatscreen, where GNN plays. 

You read the news banner at the bottom. GOTHAM CITY LOSES RED ROBIN. Looks like they’re still talking about it. 

“That’s rough,” you comment, leaning back into the cushions.  

“What?”

You relay it to him. 

“I mean, that is sort of what’s happening, isn’t it?” he asks, shutting off the burner and moving the pan aside. 

“I dunno. I guess. I just think it must suck for him.”

“Isn’t it his responsibility?” Tim asks, his back still to you as he pulls two plates from the cabinet. “So, you know. It’s only fair for people to be wondering that. To be upset.”

“I don’t agree. I mean, I don’t know this guy’s life story but he’s sacrificed a lot to do what he has, right? I don’t think it’s too much to ask for us to let him go and return to his life. ‘Cause it’s kinda crazy what people like him do.”

“They have to do it, though. Especially here.”

“Well, that’s the government’s fault. It’s good he and the others step up, believe me, but it’s also not really a sustainable model for the rest of your life, is it?”

He shakes his head. “In a perfect world, we wouldn’t need them. But we do. And now this guy is just leaving.”

You purse your lips, not used to this stubbornness from him. No, that’s not the right way to say it — you know he is stubborn. It’s more like… Tim is compassionate. Empathetic. You’ve always been supportive of the superheroes of your world and he’s agreed with you. But he’s never been like this. Uncompromising in his disapproval. Almost like it’s personal. 

“Come on, Tim. Don’t be like that. I think it’s gonna be fine. Things will be crazy for a little while but when aren’t they? Let Red Robin off the hook. And give him a break. I’m sure he gets enough shit for sharing his name with a restaurant and now this.”

Tim lets out a surprised laugh and you smile, feeling the tension ease. Not just between you over the course of this discussion, but the tension within him, too. You can’t possibly understand what bothers him so much about Red Robin but you don’t think either of you can condemn him. No one can. 

But of course, that is not how the world works and you know this by the heated debate going on between the hosts on the news, some strongly disapproving of Red Robin stepping down, some supportive, and others downright severe about his existence as a vigilante in Gotham in the first place. 

You switch it to one of the many streaming platforms he has, navigating to The Spongebob Squarepants Movie. 

Your phone vibrates with the familiar chime of your email. You groan silently, predicting an email from the school, but when you look at it, it’s from the rec center, from the instructor, Hana, who runs the pottery classes you attend bi-monthly. 

You skim the message. It’s for the class next Friday. Something about… Oh. Bring a friend and you get an extra slot for the kiln and the friend gets one, too. Ohhh, very nice, actually. 

See, you pay for those classes and with that, you get to use their clay and paint, as well as one free slot for the kiln each class. It’s usually enough for you but you won’t say no to two slots. Not at all…

You eye Tim’s back. 

You’ll think about it. 

Inviting him, you mean. 

He knows you do it, having seen some of the figures and pottery you have, usually expressing his admiration for some of the more complicated pieces, like that one bowl you have with a carved squid. 

“You should be an art teacher,” he had said, looking over the bowl with an impressed gaze.  

“It’s just a hobby I picked up when I moved here. Had to get out and stuff and the classes were the best way to do it. I prefer my social studies. I mean, it would be great if I could, like, teach and paint and do otherwise art-related things but I don’t think admin would let me. Not unless I was a full teacher and that won’t be for a while.”

“But not impossible, right?”

“No,” you laugh. “I guess not.”

Ah, you’ll think about it. 

For now, you get up and help Tim assemble your dinner. Then you two settle down for the movie, which he hasn’t seen. You’ve gotten him through the first few seasons of Spongebob — everything until season six is solid; everything after is… okay — but he still hasn’t seen this, which you think is a crime. You have fond memories of this movie from when you were a kid. 

When you finish your food, you set your plate on the table and snuggle back into the cushions. Tim finishes his, then leans forward to do the same, moving them out the way so you both can put your feet up. He leans back, closer to you this time, your arm pressed to his. The contact goes straight to your head, your heart starting to pound. 

To distract yourself, you gesture to the TV and say, “We absolutely need to try and make a Triple Gooberberry Sunrise.”

“You’re insane,” he says, but pauses the movie to pick up his phone and pull up Instacart. “Alright. I have the vanilla ice cream and bananas. What else do we need?”

You huddle closer, leaning your chin against his arm. “We need the candy for the face. And the chocolate. And cherries. Ooh and the cup it’s in. If possible.”

“If possible,” he scoffs, typing quickly. “The only way we’re doing this is if we have all the right tools to create an exact replica.”

“An exact replica? Should probably get another carton of ice cream. Also, I don’t think the laws of nature allow for that. I mean, not totally.”

“Hey, if they can do it underwater, we can do it in real life.”

“I like your attitude, Tim Drake.”

He shoots you a grin that makes everything inside of you heat up and you look back at his phone to try and recover, nudging his shoulder with yours. 

“Do you use your actual name for orders?”

“Nope. And with that said, you mind grabbing it when it gets here?”

“No. But if the driver murders me when I do, I’m haunting you.”

“I want to say the danger involved with our Instacart driver is very low but unfortunately, we do live in Gotham, so the chance isn’t totally off the table.”

“Such is life. Well, you better tip good anyway.”

“Of course,” he says, slightly affronted, mostly because it is known that Tim tips exceedingly well. Stupidly almost. But you say almost because you live in a capitalist hellscape where most food industry workers rely on tips so, there’s no limit there, you think. Especially if you have as much money as he does. 

He places the order, you rewind to a frame with the ice cream on display, then you two try to get a plan of action in order. 

You fetch the groceries when they arrive and Tim takes out the ice cream. You did manage to find a frosted blue ice cream bowl that looks eerily similar to the one in the movie and together, you two shape the body of the Triple Gooberberry Sunrise with spoons. It’s a lot of ice cream and ice cream melts, so despite using spoons to shape it, your fingers are still sticky by the end of it but your lower back aches from all the laughing you two did while sculpting it, having been shooting insults at each other over your abilities to sculpt. 

You shove the ice cream in the freezer in the meantime, then work on the features. You use M&Ms for the eyes and nose, then deconstruct those chunky Twizzler ropes for the smile. Tim works on the banana, cutting one in half for the arms, then another in half for the head. He offers the other half to you, which you take a bite out of, and he then finishes. 

You snap a few toothpicks in half to pin the cherries to the tips of the bananas, then bring out the ice cream again to add the finishing touches. First, though, you need to add the chocolate shell at the top. Like a hat of sorts. 

“Don’t blow it,” he says, watching you pop the lid on the chocolate syrup. 

“I’m not gonna blow it.”

So, naturally, you do blow it. 

And that sounds dramatic, you know, but it’s not. It’s just, you hold the bottle above the top of the mound of ice cream, the face already made with the M&Ms and a single Twizzler rope, and the syrup comes out more syrupy than you expect. So, you squeeze it out and it immediately drips down the face. Like right down the middle, and you both look at it for a second, then each other, and then you’re laughing so hard, you have to hold onto the counter. 

Tim manages to get it together before you, finishing adding the hard shell, though it drips a little more down the sides, then adds the bananas. 

And it looks…

“So stupid,” he laughs, holding onto the counter. “So, so, so stupid.”

You’re still laughing. You can’t stop laughing. But you can’t help but think he looks beautiful like this, cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright, a smile permanently etched onto his lips as his laughter fills the kitchen. 

You can’t help but feel something so big, so full of warmth, ballooning in your chest until you think you might explode with it. That he gave into your wish to make the stupid ice cream in the first place. That he is always willing to indulge you. And the thought chokes you, too much to handle here, so you set those thoughts and feelings aside and look at the stupid ice cream again to get back to where you were, more mirth taking over you. 

You list into him and he catches you, laughing, too. 

You think that despite it looking stupid, the fact that it was made with so much joy makes it taste that much better. 

(Though neither of you can finish it and you two end up in an ice cream coma on the couch, resuming the movie, and it is with great reluctance a few hours later that you peel yourself from his side and go back to your place. 

This time, however, with his spare key and with the surety that he has carved out his own spot in your heart and that no one but him can fill it. 

That that doesn’t matter, anyway, because you want only him.

But with that thought comes the acknowledgment that he most likely doesn’t feel the same and that’s okay. 

You want him in any capacity that you can have him. 

And this is enough. 

It has to be enough.)

Tim is busy the next day, hanging out with friends, which is fine. You don’t mind the alone time. 

You laze around for most of the day. Do some grading you still have but they’re easier assignments you finish quickly, marking them up with your blue glitter pen and making the usual smiley faces and little notes. You take a moment to appreciate the easiness of it. With it being late April, the end of the semester will come up quickly and you’ll have deadlines for final grades. 

But you won’t worry about it yet. 

School lets out in June, then you’re home free for the summer. That’s the nice part of working for the school. Your breaks coincide with theirs, so you get a nice summer. Nice breaks in general.  

At ten-thirty, you prepare your dirty clothes to take them downstairs. You slide your basket to the living room, then step into the kitchen to grab detergent. But when you open the bottom cabinet with your supplies and reach for the tub of detergent, you find it decidedly empty. 

You groan. You completely forget. You had run out of your pods and needed more. You were supposed to do that… yesterday? Probably. But after making sure the kids were picked up then being dogged by hunger and achy feet, it slipped your mind. 

Ah, no matter. Tim should have some. You hope. Speaking of, you should ask to borrow his Costco card again. It’s hard to go back to buying single packs of detergent at the store. Some things just need to be stockpiled. 

(Mostly so situations like these don’t happen.)

You heft your laundry basket to your hip, pull on your sandals, then grab your keys and step out. 

You take the elevator one floor up, finding Tim’s apartment easily. He didn’t respond to your texts about the detergent and you don’t know if his friends are still there, so, despite the new key on your key ring, you knock. 

You only get one in before the door swings open quickly and you jump. At the abruptness of the motion, then at seeing someone you definitely do not know standing there. 

With unruly ginger hair, a freckled face, and an undeniable air of mischief, he grins at you in a way that has you on guard immediately. 

“Hi. Are you Tim’s new teacher friend?”

“Um —”

“Bart! You can’t — oh —” Tim says your name, a little panicked, and he shoves past the guy — Bart? — giving him a look and shooing him away. 

He backs off, only for two others to peek around him. A pretty girl with short, cropped blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes, then an equally pretty guy with short black hair and blue eyes. They look very curious at your appearance and you feel terribly underdressed in a pair of old workout shorts and a ratty shirt from high school. 

“Guys,” Tim hisses. 

They wave at you and, with a fair amount of uncertainty, you wave back. 

Seemingly satisfied with that, the three of them disappear into the living room, hurried, hushed voices reaching your ears. 

“Sorry,” you breathe as soon as they’re out of earshot. “I’m so sorry, Tim —”

He waves his hands, stopping you. “Hey, hey, what are you apologizing for?”

You wince. “Interrupting your time with your friends? It’s just, I ran out of detergent, so I was wondering if I could borrow a pod or two.”

“Of course,” he says immediately. “Give me a sec, alright?” 

You nod and he disappears from the entryway. You hear the sound of a kitchen cabinet closing, then he’s returning, passing you two pods. 

“Let me come with you,” he says, slipping socked feet into a pair of slides. 

“You don’t have to —”

“It’s okay. I haven’t seen you today.” Of course, he says that with the implication that because he hasn’t seen you, he must take this opportunity now, because he —

Missed you?

Well, shit.  

Your face flares with heat at the thought. Your fingers grow sweaty from holding the basket. You try to compose yourself as Tim shuts the door behind him and locks it. 

“Anyway,” he goes on, turning to you, the two of you starting for the elevator. “Bart didn’t say anything weird, right?”

In safer waters, you can relax.

For the most part. 

“He just said something about me being your teacher friend. So, no.”

Tim visibly relaxes, pressing the button to go down as you stop in front of the elevator. 

“Good. He can be… a handful sometimes. The other two you saw were Cassie and Conner.”

“Well, tell them it was nice to meet them. Sort of.”

He exhales a laugh, running a hand through his hair. He’s in a forest green t-shirt and jeans. Simple clothes, by any means, yet devastatingly handsome as usual. Man.

Ding. The doors slide open. A man steps out and you two step in. He presses the button for the ground floor.

“You do yours today?” you ask, wiggling your basket in indication of your question.

“No, I’ve been with the others pretty much all day. I’ll have to do it tomorrow. Or later tonight when they leave. If they ever leave.” He says the last part mock-exasperated, rolling his eyes, but you can spy the fondness tugging at his mouth. 

“Be more grateful,” you tease.

“Say that when you’ve handled them all day,” he shoots back. 

You chuckle, turning to watch the numbers tick by. 

“So,” he starts a minute later, regaining your attention. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About stepping back from WE. I think… you’re right.”

“Yeah? Gonna try, um, wedding photography?”

“I’m not that desperate yet,” he chuckles. “To be honest, I’m not totally sure what I will do. Get back into photography, yeah, maybe some tennis, but only if someone agrees to play with me…”

“I’ll play tennis with you if you play catch with me one of these days.”

“Done,” he says easily. “Anyway, I’m still trying to figure it out and I told Lucius I wasn’t completely out of it. If R&D needs help, I’m happy to, but… no more office visits.”

“Probably for the best. Was your family okay with it?” And by family, you specifically mean Bruce.

“They were okay with it. I think they might’ve expected it,” he admits, a tad sheepish. “In any case, I just wanted to let you know that you were right.”

You shake your head. “All that matters is that you’re happy, Tim. Anything else is —” you wave a hand “— whatever.”

“Well, still,” he says, and his voice is soft, and so is the look in his eyes. “Thanks.”

You smile and look away, cursing the way your heart stutters at the expression on his face being directed at you. 

It’s quiet the rest of the ride down. You start humming Ocean Man when it get too quiet.

His eyes crinkle with a smile when he recognizes it. “I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.” 

“It’s a good song,” you say. “Like the kind of song you play driving down the coast. But, like, the coast coast. Not whatever Gotham’s got going on.”

“Yeah, I don’t think the backdrop of our polluted waters will go with it too much.”

You snicker. 

He holds the laundry door open for you and you nod your gratitude in response, heading for the washers. 

“If you wanna head up, you can,” you tell him, opening a few and inspecting the inside to see which is good enough for you.

He shrugs, hands tucked in his pockets, leaning on the washer next to the one you decide is good. “Like I said. Haven’t seen you today.”

Well. You’ll hardly complain.

“And I was thinking,” he starts, a forced kind of nonchalance in his voice that gets your attention, even as you dump your clothes into the washer.

“That’s never good.”

He rolls his eyes, wry grin tugging at his lips. “Well. I know you expressed some grievances over the Monarchs coming to play the Knights…”

“Yeah?” you ask, eyebrow raising. You toss in the pods, then pull out your phone. They finally fixed the app, so you no longer have to go the old-fashioned way. You still prefer it, but one does get tired of their hands smelling like coins. 

“And,” he goes on, blue eyes twinkling with something that makes warmth spool in your chest like cotton candy. “I thought, since when we went the Knights won their first ever Opening Day match… maybe we should go to this game, too.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” he says, pleased, pulling out his phone and brandishing an email, confirming a purchase of two tickets to the game in two weeks, on Saturday. 

“Tim!”

“Hey, I’m just doing my due diligence in making sure the Knights have a fair shot at beating the Monarchs.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, flabbergasted.

He shrugs, smiling still. “Well, since it was your first ever game for them and they won… doesn’t seem too far-fetched to say you’re their good luck charm.”

“That is not how that works,” you say, and yet, you’re unbearably happy, mostly at the thought of him doing this for you. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve paid for my ticket —”

“No, no, this is my — what do you call it? My civic responsibility to society as the son of a billionaire.”

“That was — a joke…” For the most part. Funny how it’s easier to say that when you don’t know him or his family, but when you do, it’s almost uncomfortable.

But of course, it is not exactly incorrect, either. 

Tim has a lot of money. Bruce Wayne has a lot of money. You do not. 

Your face burns with heat. “Thanks, Timmy. That’s… really nice of you.”

Too nice, maybe. Much too nice. 

“I don’t mind,” he says and it sounds like he means it, too, that soft look in his gaze again. Your stomach swoops like you missed a step going down. 

“Besides,” he adds, the two of you heading for the door again. “I was thinking we could get something to eat beforehand. Something light since I know you said no baseball game is complete without a hot dog… but in that case, you can pay for that.”

“I will pay for that,” you mutter. 

He laughs. “See? Fair’s fair.”

Easy for him to say.

But you’d be lying through your teeth if you said any of this displeased you. 

It’s Tim, after all.

With him, you’re weak, like putty in his hands. He doesn’t know that, you think. Doesn’t know how much he means to you, how much you would do for him. 

But he can’t know. Because knowing that means knowing the depth of your affection, too, and that is a secret you’ll keep locked away until the end of your days.

(Thinking that is dangerous, you know. Because it’s Gotham and nothing is impossible in Gotham and you hardly want to tempt fate.

Doesn’t make it any less true, though.)

Chapter Text

You get a reminder email about your pottery class midway through the next week.

You had forgotten about it entirely, to be honest.

But the reminder brings your previous thought about inviting Tim to the forefront of your mind. 

You still hesitate, though you do not know why. He tends to take the initiative on activities you two do, like the baseball game next week, the thought of which still makes your chest fill with warm fuzzies. 

Maybe it’s because it’s… your thing. He’s seen the stuff you’ve made, sure, but… no one has ever actually gone with you to a class.

(Or maybe, a voice like your brother’s says matter-of-factly in your head, it’s because you think asking him will be too similar to asking him out on a date.)

Maybe. Probably. Most likely. 

But that’s silly. You know that. You’re friends. 

Nothing more. 

(And the thought aches like it usually does, but it assuages some of your nerves, too, at the thought of asking. Because it wouldn’t be misinterpreted. No, not at all.)

You still deliberate, though, probably for too long, but it’s fine because Tim seems distracted, too. News breaks of him stepping away from WE and people have all sorts of thoughts and feelings about it, of course. 

You think they should focus on the new level of craziness unfolding in the city since Red Robin was announced to be stepping down, but whatever. He says he doesn’t care what they think, that he isn’t paying attention, but you think he must be, with how tired he seems sometimes. 

(This is accompanied with some fresh bruises, some new aches and pains, a renewed exhaustion, of course, but bone-deep, like the kind of exhaustion after a long time. But like always, he says he is okay. 

When you ask, he says he’s taking some self-defense classes. More attention from the news surrounding him equals more potential danger. It… makes sense but something about it still doesn’t sit right with you.)

Either way, your flip-flopping ultimately comes to a head on Friday, the day of the class.

Tim drops you off, since heavy rain is forecasted for the day and while you did in fact manage to survive biking to school when it was raining prior to your friendship with him, it doesn’t mean it was, in any way, fun or pleasant. So, you don’t say no.

It’s easier, you find, to accept his kindness, to accept his offers for help. Easier with each day that passes to realize he is simply trying to make your life easier and that it’s not some kind of commentary on your ability to take care of yourself.

He does worry, sometimes, but you think that is inevitable. God knows you worry about him, too. Turnabout is fair play and all that. 

So, this is fine. 

What happens later is not. 

The Joker, who had previously broken out of Arkham Asylum and was unaccounted for by the GCPD and the Bats, finally made his appearance at a bank a mere five blocks away from Gotham Pointe. He promptly held everyone hostage for several hours.

You would later learn it was not for money, but simply because he ‘hadn’t seen Batman around lately.’ 

Whatever. You don’t pretend to understand why people like him do what they do and you don’t want to. The Joker’s been terrorizing this city for nearly as long as Batman’s been working here. Trying to understand why he does what he does is a useless cause. And as far as you’re concerned, there is nothing, nothing, in the world that could justify the things that he has done, the blood that he has spilled. You’ve heard rumblings about his whole ‘one bad day’ thing and you think it’s a load of shit. 

One bad day and you lose it like the Joker? Well, all that means is you have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair. So, you know. Whatever.

Either way, it was a tense situation, one that landed the school in lockdown for the remainder of the school day. 

It is… standard procedure to lock down the school if anything usual is going on near it. But of course, this is Gotham, and something unusual is usually always happening somewhere. So, there are limits, limits as to when, who, what, and why would cause the school to shut down. 

If it’s the Condiment King, nothing will happen. What’s the worst he can do? Stain a couple uniforms?

Of course, this is not to say anyone is eager to let someone like him in close proximity with the kids at all. But if he’s causing trouble at, say, the 7-Eleven a few blocks from here, they aren’t going to lockdown the school.

The school is already thoroughly well-protected with its plexiglass windows that are, in fact, bulletproof and have metal sliding that come down during lockdowns, hidden metal detectors at each entrance that scan those that come in, along with regularly-patrolling security guards, generously paid by WE.

Sounds like a prison, right? Well. They did their best, when building the school, to hide all those things. The public knows but you don’t imagine they know the full extent like you and the staff do. Like that the metal slidings could withstand a bomb, if needed. 

No, that’s not something you broadcast. 

This is all to say that, even with that, you can’t be too careful with certain individuals.

And if it’s the Joker, who, when he is out of Arkham long enough, regularly threatens to blow up the schools in the city… well. That’s all that needs to be said, right?

Five blocks. That’s it. 

It’s tense because not only is he holding so many people hostage, but because the school is only five blocks away. No one wants to give him any ideas. No one wants to risk anything.

So, you, Ms. C, and fourth period end up sitting in the classroom, lights off, doors locked, backs pressed against the walls, for several hours.

The metal slidings on the windows effectively cut out the light. Not that there was much today, the sky overcast with dark clouds just waiting to pour at the right minute. 

You are a little bit worried, by nature, but Ms. C is cool as a cucumber. And the kids are fine, too. Gotham natives, they are not phased by much, which is… sad, in a way, but helpful, you suppose, in times like these.

Standard procedure demands that you do not talk at all but it’s, like, three hours of this, so that doesn’t last very long. They do keep their voices down to whispers, though, giggling softly among each other. 

You don’t do much other than shush a few who get too loud and count the minutes as they pass. Halfway through, some of the kids start to doze off. You don’t blame them. Sitting still and not doing anything at all makes you sleepy, too. 

But ultimately, all of you are fine. The school is untouched by the time the police apprehend the Joker and free the hostages. But you later learn that multiple people had died — shot, by him, of course, in his final moments of freedom before he was taken down. 

It’s a harrowing kind of loss of life that is, unfortunately, common here. Names are memorialized, bodies are buried, a rogue goes to prison, then they break out, and it happens all over again. 

Still, you feel vaguely off-kilter as you and Ms. C send off the kids to their parents, who hold them tight despite their whines about the affection. 

Some kind of emotion rises up in you and you cross your arms, looking away. 

“You should go,” Ms. C says, sounding, for once, present in the moment. 

“Sorry?”

She nods towards the doors. “Get back to class and turn on your phone. I’m sure some people are worried for you.”

“Right,” you say, hesitating, then nodding. “Thanks. I’ll see you on Monday.”

A dip of her head, then her hazel eyes are back on the kids. Police officers stand nearby. Lazing, more like, leaned against patrol cars, smoking cigarettes and exchanging jokes with each other. You roll your eyes when you turn away. They should be more vigilant, but as a general rule, the police are not reliable. And here in Gotham? Simple wastes of space and taxpayer money, you think. 

You get back to the class, grabbing your things from your desk that sits opposite of hers. Another part of the procedure for lockdowns is that phones remain off. There are, of course, exceptions and those are likely self-explanatory, but in most cases, if not in immediate danger, then they need to be off. No need to cause panic and all that.

Turning on your phone reveals several missed calls from your parents and brother. Some from a few hours ago when lockdown started, then from a couple minutes ago. You are… admittedly disappointed to see only a single missed call from Tim, from a few hours ago. 

But at the same time, he is a logical sort of guy. If he called you when the lockdown started and you didn’t pick up, you imagine he must’ve concluded your phone was off and saw no use in calling you again. He was sharp like that. 

Though, now that the Joker was arrested and the hostages were free and it no doubt made the news…

You shake your head. It’s silly to worry over something like that. Especially with what happened today.

You pack your stuff and give your parents a call, soothing their fears. Your brother is with them, too, all of them worried out of their minds. They figured out quickly that Gotham Pointe is only a couple blocks away from the bank. 

“— just scary. I mean, don’t you…” your dad trails off and you understand what he didn’t say. Don’t you want to come back already?

“Working in a school in this country is dangerous as a general rule,” you say gently. “So, it wouldn’t change much, would it?”

“Wouldn’t change much? At least — at least we don’t have the Joker! Or Scarecrow! Or Two-Face or Black Mask or —“

You cut off your dad. “I get it. But… I just… I don’t know.”

“You could get hurt,” your mom says, disapproval clear in her voice.

“I can take care of myself, Mom.”

“Not against people like the Joker,” she responds tightly. 

You sigh heavily, pushing open the doors that lead out to the employee parking lot. Overhead, dark, angry grey clouds hide away the sun. Sharp winds tug at you, warning of the oncoming storm. Already, a few droplets of rain land on your face. Gotham, upset at the loss of life. Or maybe knowing it would happen, with how the sky has been like this since you woke up. And now that it’s happened, she’s ready to let it go. 

“I don’t want to argue about this today, guys. People died. I know. But I’m fine, okay? Let’s just focus on that…” You trail off a little abruptly, your eyes doing a preliminary scan of the parking lot — a habit you’ve picked up since living here — and you jolt to a stop as you spot Tim and his car, with him leaned on the hood, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“How are you getting home?” your brother asks, changing the subject.

“Tim,” you say distractedly — both an answer and an involuntary call to the person in question; his head lifts and even if there is quite some distance between you, your heart clenches at the look on his face. “And he’s here right now. I need to go.”

They sense the urgency in your voice and let you go with warnings to be careful and to tell them when you get back. You agree distractedly, starting for him. He does the same. 

Tim looks… Well, he looks exhausted. The wrinkle between his brows is present as ever but deeper today, accompanied with this… harrowing look in his eyes that makes your heart ache. 

He says your name as he nears you, relief dripping from the vowels, along with something else that makes your throat tighten. You shoulder off your bag, dropping it to the ground just as he tugs you into his arms, holding you so tightly it edges on painful.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. 

So, you wrap your arms around him, too, hugging him back as tightly as you can, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, just presses his face to your hair and takes a deep breath. 

You two stay like that for a while. Long enough for you to think something else must be bothering him. Or maybe not. You don’t know, don’t know how to contextualize what happened today. The school was fine. It was just a precaution. There was a chance the Joker could’ve set his sights on you but the same could be said for any of the other places in the area.

You can’t help but think of Ms. C, too, a Gotham native, someone who’s lived here her whole life; how she was… mostly unbothered throughout everything. Even when the call came from the office, letting her — and you — what was going on. That the danger wasn’t imminent, exactly, but the threat of it was real enough to keep the school in lockdown for the second part of the school day. 

Tim is a Gotham native, too. Born and raised. 

But you suppose that doesn’t have to mean anything. That people have different ways of handling different things. 

You don’t have an issue with it. You don’t. You’re just… worried. About him. 

You constantly worry about him. About how tired he gets sometimes, about the mysterious bruises he sports, about the days where he is subdued and quiet, carrying the burden of something you cannot see or understand. It’s not work, it’s not his family, it’s not his friends, it’s something else. You aren’t stupid. You notice it, you notice every little thing because he is someone you pay attention to, because he means too much to you for you to dismiss the little stuff that picks at you. 

Even if he says it’s nothing. 

Especially because he says it’s nothing.

(Because you know it is a lie.)

“Tim,” you whisper, voice muffed by his shirt. 

He bends further, seeming to curl himself around you, his face dropping to your neck. You hold onto him, shivers racing down your spine at the warm exhale of air against the sensitive skin of your neck, at the faintest brush of warm lips. 

Something occurs to you and you stiffen up in his arms. He loosens his grip abruptly, but you hold onto him, pressing closer, the thought, the realization choking you.

“Tim, you weren’t there, right? You weren’t — the bank — Joker —”

He tightens his hold again, in an instant. But it takes him a second to answer. A horrible, horrible second, full of anticipation.

“No,” he finally mumbles, practically shaping the words into your skin with how close he is, how his face is tucked into your neck; heat swallows you whole, the touch of him overwhelming, distracting, with the fragrant scent of eucalyptus. It takes concerted effort to focus on his words and if he notices how you lean more of your weight onto him, your knees a little weak, he doesn’t say anything.

Not about that, anyhow, not as he continues speaking in the next second. 

“No, I wasn’t. I was at home. I was… You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, reaching up to slide your fingers into his hair, giving into an impulse, a want, a desire, that has plagued you so frequently; the wish to sink your fingers into the soft strands of hair. To see if they are as soft as they look. 

Now, your fingers gliding along silky-soft strands of dark hair, you find they are.

He shivers. He must be cold. With the storm on the horizon, temperatures are lower than usual and the increasingly sharp winds don’t help. 

You ignore your own shiver that wants to break out at the feel of a sharp exhale of breath on your neck. 

“Come on,” you murmur, fingers reluctantly sliding away from his hair and to his shoulder, rubbing small circles there. “Let’s get to the car, okay?”

Tim moves back slowly, almost reluctantly, but he doesn’t unwind his arms from your waist, keeping your bodies close as he looks down at you. The blue in his eyes is more stormy than calm, turmoil obvious. Over what, you aren’t certain.

His brows furrow sharply again. You can’t help yourself. 

Strands of hair brush the backs of your fingers, fingertips lightly skimming his forehead as your thumb finds the wrinkle between his brows. It smooths out instantly under your touch. The look in his eyes makes your stomach swoop like you missed a step. 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reaching up to take your hand in his. Then he’s — leaning —

It takes considerable effort to keep your breathing measured as he leans his forehead against yours. 

More than anything else, though, it feels… terribly vulnerable. Mostly for him.

Nothing more is said. 

Not when he finally pulls back and leans down to pick up your bag, not when the two of you slide into the car, just as the skies open up and the rain pours, lightning arcing through the sky, earth-shaking rumbles of thunder following after. 

Traffic is congested around the bank, leaving you to take the long way round, though that still takes a while, with all the traffic of those leaving work and the general chaos of the area. 

Tim is quiet throughout most of it. 

He has the local radio on, though a few taps of his finger to the expensive touchscreen display switches it to satellite, to GNN.

“— confirmation that six people died at the bank, shot and killed by the Joker right before Red Robin was able to apprehend him. Two of those who died were, sadly, children. Police believe there were no connections between the victims and the Joker.”

You swallow. You hadn’t heard anything about two of the victims being kids…

Rain drums on the windshield. Tim white-knuckles the steering wheel, jaw set, staring ahead, his gaze darker than before.

You switch it back to the local station. He doesn’t stop you.

And after another moment of hesitation, you reach for him, brushing your fingers over his right hand clenched around the wheel. His knuckles sport a few scars, which you can feel, raised, bumpy skin, scars silvery compared to the pale of his skin. 

After a second, his fingers unclench from the steering wheel and you loop yours through his, pulling it into your lap. Your other hand covers his, thumb stroking back and forth. 

The car rolls to a stop at a red light. He takes a deep breath. He still doesn’t look at you, but you catch the deepening of the furrow between his brows, the twitch of the muscles around his mouth until his lips part, like he is about to speak. But in the next moment, he thinks better of it. 

You can’t deny your curiosity but you know better than to pry. 

Neither of you speak, or move, until you arrive at Rose Oaks. 

Protected from the pouring rain and sharp winds in the parking garage, it is quiet after he shuts off the car. 

You hold onto his hand, squeezing it, your other hand pausing in the ministrations of stroking the back of his hand. 

“So,” you start. “It’s… maybe a little in bad taste but I have a class tonight…”

He shakes his head minutely. “You should go. The Joker’s off the streets. Not that all the danger is gone but…” he lets out a sharp exhale, glaring out the windshield, a sullen look on his face. “At least he is out of the picture.”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s just that…” 

He finally looks at you, gaze softening. “I can drive you there, if you want.”

You smile faintly at where his head went at your hesitation. “It’s not that. It’s just, for this class, they said we could bring someone with us. I can’t say it’s… totally selfless, mostly because if we take someone, we get an extra slot for the kiln for today’s class and they also get one. But… I think you should come. It’s — it can be therapeutic. And after everything today…”

His eyes lower to your clasped hands, thumb sliding over the back of yours. “I’m not very artistic.”

“Don’t have to be. You don’t have to create an exact replica of the, I dunno, Millennium Falcon —” he smiles, which is what you wanted “— it can just be anything. I mean, honestly, you don’t even have to make anything. They have some pre-made stuff you can paint. Or if you wanna channel your inner six-year-old and mess with the clay, that’s cool, too. Literally no one is going to judge. A lot of people go to the classes for a lot of different reasons.”

He takes a long moment to think about it.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll try it out.”

“It’ll be fun,” you promise. 

You’ll try your best to make it so.

Or at the very least, to get his mind off everything. 

If anything else, you think, no matter about you, you want that. 

You always want to ease his burdens if you can. Even if you don’t know what they are. But right now, in this moment, as he seems so weighed down, it is the strongest you’ve ever felt.

Something like protectiveness. A wish to hide him from the bad of the world. To give him a break, a place to relax.

You don’t know if it’s possible, if it’ll even work, but…

You have to try.

Chapter Text

After making a hearty dinner — tomato soup and grilled cheese like he did when you were hurt — you change out of your work clothes into something you’re more willing to get dirtied and you advise Tim to do the same. 

You have a specific pair of jeans that have several paint stains on them, as well as one streak of dark clay that refuses to leave. The same goes for your shirt, though with less stains and more just ratty and old, something you don’t mind getting dirty. Tim does the same, changing into an older pair of jeans and an old t-shirt from his time in high school. Though the both of you need to don windbreakers for the biting winds and drizzles of rain, you shed them when you enter the class, hanging them up along with your belongings and pulling aprons over your clothes.

Hana, the one who oversees the class, waves at you. “I don’t think we’ll be getting many people, so just help yourselves. You know where everything is and what to do.”

You give her a thumbs up and lead Tim towards the back of the class. A few other people are here but they are already working on their own things, talking softly to each other, voices drowned out by the spin of the wheels.

His eyes take in the class curiously. Several wheels are near you, along with some modeling stands and other desks for glazing and painting. You go over to the shelving unit at the back, where in-progress projects are kept. 

You have a little figurine of a duck that you made for him that needs to be painted and fired again after that. You aren’t sure if you can do it without him suspecting who it’s for, though. It’s a joke gift, really, after talking to one of the science aides about the lethal geese that hang around the Reservoir at Robinson Park and the considerably calmer ducks. It’s a birthday gift, though you’ve been thinking you want to do something else in addition to it, something a little more meaningful. You just haven’t found out what yet.

“So?” you prompt.

“What are you going to do?” 

“Not sure, to be honest. But for you… I think just to be safe, we should start you off with the molding stuff.”

He narrows his eyes slightly at the wheel, then the molding table. 

You smile. “Or, let me guess, you want to try your hand at throwing?”

“It can’t be that hard,” he says. 

This is a not-so-familiar side to him but one you’ve noticed regardless. Tim can be a bit… arrogant. Or at least, come into things assuming he can do it without issue. This, you guess, is a byproduct of the rich boy upbringing, which makes sense. Truthfully, it is not so bad compared to some of the other breeds of rich boy in this city but still. 

“I know you were reading how-to guides while we had dinner —” he opens his mouth to protest but a raise of your brow silences him, a slightly sheepish look coming over his face “— but it really isn’t as easy as it may seem.”

“Well, I have you,” he says, which flusters you — the intended effect, you think, by the small, satisfied smile that tugs at his lips.

“Alright, fine,” you mumble. You don’t try to get him to just sit down and wait for you to collect things, spying the curious look in his eyes, so you let him shadow you as you collect everything you — he — needs to get started.

“I want to make a mug,” he tells you when you ask, since you need to wedge and weigh out the clay. 

“Alright —”

“For you,” he adds, and you jolt. 

“You don’t need to —”

He says your name softly, stopping you. You two are close, with him hovering right near your elbow, body heat palpable in the scant few inches between your bodies. 

“I know I don’t need to,” he says. “But I want to. When are you going to understand?”

“After you make me a wonky mug, maybe,” you say, lips twitching to fight off a grin, face heating again.

Tim smiles, too, the lightest you’ve seen him today, like a weight physically taken off his shoulders — for the most part. 

Your heart skips a beat and you look back at the clay, weighing out a chunk for a mug. 

At the wheel with a bowl of water, towels, and the clay, you walk him through everything. You pull up a stool on his right side, to give you control of the pedal and thus, the speed. You run through sealing the clay to the bat — the actual surface of the wheel that spins — then centering it. After you make a divot in the center with your thumbs, you are ready to push into it, to start creating the walls.

Well, he is ready. Under your watchful eye and careful instructions, of course. And inserted reminders about his stance. 

“Elbows on your thighs.”

“You didn’t do it like that,” he complains but does as you say, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you,” you remind him, grinning. “Okay, come on. We can start making the walls now. Use your index and middle finger to slowly push down.”

Your foot finds the pedal again, the wheel humming as you press it, making it spin once more. 

Tim, hands now covered with wet clay, hesitates.

Your foot eases off. “I promise you, this clay is more scared of you than you are of it.”

“I’m not scared,” he mutters, but you know him. Tim Drake is a perfectionist. There is little that escapes his sharp eyes. You would wager a guess that he doesn’t want to mess up. And how can you mess up if you just… don’t touch the clay anymore?

Yeah, you get it. 

“Think of our ancestors. We’ve been making pottery for thousands of years. They made mistakes, too. Those mistakes are treasured now, you know.”

“But I don’t want to make a mistake. This isn’t for future anthropologists and archaeologists,” he says, a little petulant. “It’s for you.”

Oh, wow.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You clear it. 

“Well, perfection is a false ideal, anyway. The nice thing about things like this is that it’s handmade and that it’s not perfect. So, here.”

You lean forward, inserting yourself into his space (for the sake of this clay, that’s it) and pressing your hands over his. Your hands are covered in wet clay by now but because it’s still wet, it’s not too unpleasant. His hand is warm, too, which is… not what you should be focusing on.

“Like this,” you say, folding your index and middle finger over his, tilting your head sharply to get a good look at the clay. Your foot finds the pedal again and the wheel hums, abiding by your wishes for more speed. 

You instruct his other hand to hold against the outside, to help shape it more. But he hesitates again, so you scoot further into his space, until your knee is pressed to his, your arms brushing, and you can place your left hand over his. 

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I know I’m in your space.”

“I don’t mind,” he says quietly, breath ghosting over your ear and you have to suppress a flinch at how close he is. Everything about it makes your pulse jump to unhealthy heights but you force yourself not to let it carry you away. Trembling hands won’t help anyone right now. 

“Alright,” you say, and together, you slowly, slowly pull the walls to dimension. Every motion flows into the next. Two fingers to lower the bottom inside with his left hand. Three on the outside from his right hand. Tim is pliant under your instruction, when ordinarily you might expect some pushback.  

But you can’t do everything.

“Three fingers inside, one thumb outside. Gotta keep going while I grab the sponge.”

He grunts quietly in acknowledgement, seeming to focus more now as he does as you say. Your hands are only away from each other for a short few seconds as you grab the sponge, lightly pressing it to the bottom, pulling excess water to prepare to pull up the walls even further. 

“Here,” you say, and he takes the sponge from you, holding it still against the bottom of the clay. “Good. Keep it there. We’re in the home stretch now.”

He lets out a slow breath. You can feel the exhale against your cheek and resist a wild shiver. His breath smells like spearmint, the gum he’d chewed on the drive here. 

You swallow, staring at his hands, which doesn’t really help your pounding heart, just cause… Tim has really nice hands. Long, slender fingers, surprisingly calloused but still soft, somehow. The knuckle of his left pinky is a tiny bit wonky and he says he accidentally broke it playing football with a friend when he was a teenager and it didn’t heal quite right. 

You should stop thinking about his hands. Too bad that’s kind of a thing with pottery.

“Four fingers inside. Keep your thumb out.”

He says your name. “Help me out a little.”

“You’re doing good.”

“But I can do better if you’re guiding me,” he says, a little beseeching, breath warm against your cheek in a way that has your heart skipping a beat.

Jesus. 

You think you might spontaneously combust. It’s not the weirdest thing to ever happen in Gotham. And no one could blame you, either. Frankly, you’d like for anyone to be in close quarters with Tim Drake when he asks you to do something for him and try to say no. Or retain full function of their brain. Impossible. 

“You’re doing good, way better than I did on my first try throwing a mug, but alright,” you mutter, sliding your left hand over his, forcing you once more into close proximity with him. His right hand holds the sponge as you instructed. 

With his left hand, four fingers press to the inside and a thumb on the outside, helping further lengthen the walls slowly. 

You feel the fingers of his left land part just a little, yours nearly slipping through the gaps, and you knock your knee against his. Doesn’t affect him, either, since, ignoring your earlier reminder, his elbows aren’t sitting there anymore. 

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t need to,” you grumble, face heating. 

You know what he’s thinking about. That stupid scene from that movie from the, like, eighties. You know the one — the one with the… weirdly sensual pottery scene. Hana told you all about it on your first day of class. That that wasn’t how things went and if anyone did want to do it, they could do it in the privacy of their own home. Not, you know, in class with all of you.

And, to be clear, that isn’t what is happening here, either. He knows better than that.

(You think.

Probably.)

“I’m sorry,” he says, in a tone that tells you he is not very sorry at all; it’s teasing, if anything, in a way that makes you want to catapult yourself across the classroom to get a little space between you. 

That is the unbearable part of this.

You kind of want to shove your stools back, put your hands on his cheeks, and kiss him for, you don’t know, a really long time. Forever, maybe. Of course, that’s not biologically possible but it’d probably be a nice way to die and in Gotham, crime capital of the United States and of horrible, miserable deaths, that’s, like, gold, right?

 The thought shrivels something inside of you, reminding you sharply of what did happen today. That six people are dead.

You shove the train of thought away immediately. Now isn’t the time to think about that and you don’t want to set him off, either. This is about him and you would hate for him to notice the shift and start comforting you.

It’s a two-way street, you know that, and it’s fine for you both to be equally comforted but thus far, you haven’t been able to do much for him. You want to, though. He seems to be handling everything that happened today worse than you, for reasons you aren’t sure of, and you want to be there for him. 

Luckily, it seems like he didn’t notice. 

“Have you seen it? Ghost?”

“No, and I am not interested in seeing it,” you say matter-of-factly. “I’d like to keep my experiences with pottery untainted, thank you very much.”

Tim laughs and the sound goes straight to your head. Literally. He’s still close to you, so you feel the warm exhale from his lips, spearmint tickling your nose and making you want to do inappropriate things. To him, preferably. 

Anddd you don’t need to be thinking of that right now. Okay. Alright. You’re chill. You’re cool. 

“Look,” you say. “We’re nearly there. Just a little bit more length…”

He focuses again, actually concentrating on lengthening the walls of the mug now. A minute passes before you nod and pull your hands back. He does the same. Your foot eases off the pedal. 

You grab a ruler, recalling the measurements you two had agreed upon, and measure the height of the walls and the width of the cup itself. It’s bigger than a normal mug, but since he insisted on it being a mug you didn’t have to baby, it’ll have to be high fired to get that durability, which will make the clay shrink. 

Tim waits as you work, seemingly bracing himself.

“Looks good,” you say, pulling it back and setting it to the side, sending him a small smile. It does look good. The walls need to be smoothed with a rib and there’s one part of the rim that looks… a little wonky but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

When Tim scrutinizes it, reaching forward, you gently push his hands away. “It’s fine.”

“But —”

“It’s cute.”

“Not the word I’d use.”

“And supposed to be mine, so, I think I get the final call.”

“You know what you are?”

“The soon-to-be proud owner of this mug?”

He doesn’t expect that and you know he doesn’t expect that because he flushes, pink rising in his cheeks in a… decidedly tempting manner. 

But of course, Tim Drake is not one to let himself be overtaken so easily. 

“No,” he says slowly, leaning forward, into your space, holy hell, you think you might actually spontaneously combust now as he gets close enough for you to see the silver flecked in blue irises, thick dark lashes framing them, the sharp but not unpleasant scent of eucalyptus clouding your senses and, huh, you know, this isn’t very platonic of him, not very platonic at all but the thought of Tim Drake flirting with you is a laughable one —

And naturally, as you think that and promptly freak out internally because it unfortunately makes logical sense, you are an adult, you’ve never been in a relationship but people have flirted with you before, thank you very much — well… Tim takes advantage of your brief moment of shock. So, you don’t see his hand dip into the bowl of water, softening the clay on his fingers and then —

“You’re bossy,” he finishes, eyes twinkling in a way that tells you he doesn’t seem to actually mind and then you’re gasping, jerking away as he smears some of wet clay on your cheek, facade breaking as he grins, the force of it making his eyes crinkle.

“What are you?!” you hiss. “Twelve?!”

You would know. 

He laughs, of course, and you can’t truly be mad at him, no, not at all, even if it’s the kind of messing around that Hana would side-eye you for, but fortunately she has her back to you two, deep in conversation with the few pairs of people who came to class today. 

Absolutely no one is paying attention to you, so, you think it’s only fair that you return the favor and he lets you, well-aware of you dipping your hand back into the water and then smearing an even bigger streak over his cheek. (While you also ignore the feeling of the soft skin, warm to the touch, warmer than usual, his flush having not left quite yet.)

And the fact that he lets you, watching you with a gaze full of affection and a mischievous grin, has the rapidly-unspooling warmth in your chest become too much. Like you are a star about to go supernova. 

But with that comes relief. To see him back to himself, no longer looking so… haunted. You can’t tell the full extent of what you would do to protect it, to protect a small bit of happiness for him to have whenever he needs, but you think it’s a lot. Anything short of murder, maybe.

(Even that depended, though.)

“Here,” you say, shoving the rib into his hand. “Smooth it out. You’re on your own now.”

Tim doesn’t protest, still smiling faintly as he does as you say. You scrunch up the side of your face, feeling the clay on your cheek. 

He does an okay job — not the worst, anyhow — and then you guide him through taking it off the bat and centering it upside down for trimming the bottom. After doing so, you work on pulling the handle just using the molding stand; instead of waiting for it to dry, you apply a little bit of heat, then you apply it to the mug. 

“That’s it?” he asks, going to the sink to wash his hands. 

“That’s it,” you affirm, putting the mug in the shelving unit right beside it. “It needs to be fired once before you can glaze it. Then again after that. You can come in whenever, just tell them you were with me.”

“Are you going to work on anything?” 

You hum thoughtfully, glancing at the clock. You got here at seven and it’s about to be eight. The center doesn’t close until ten but if he has places to be…

“I was just wondering,” he adds, stepping away from the sink to let you take his place, drying his hands on a paper towel. Clay is still smeared on his cheek, grey standing out against the pale skin. “That way I can help. Or watch if you’re tired of my… amateur efforts. Either way. This is… nice.”

You soften considerably at that, glancing down at your hands, watching the clay fall away under the warm water and soap. After everything… you think you finally have an idea about what you want to do. 

“You can help me, then. Think I’d like to make a mug as well.”

Tim nods and tears another piece of paper towel, running it briefly under the water, presumably to clean the clay from his cheek. 

You finish washing your hands just as he finishes cleaning the clay off his cheek. Your hands will get dirty again but the clean feel is a nice break before you do. 

You dry your hands, then, still using the damp paper towel, attempt to clean the clay off your cheek. 

Tim snorts quietly. 

“Am I close?”

“No.”

“Aw.” 

He smiles and holds out a hand. You relinquish the paper towel to him and he dampens it under the water, then reaches up to press it to your cheek. 

You resist letting tension take hold of you as his eyes focus on your face. Like always, you are unused to the sharp attention he gives you but part of you is endeared, too, seeing him dedicate himself to the task. Tim doesn’t do things in halves. Only absolutes. It’s not great for your heart.

To distract yourself, your eyes stray to where his streak was once. The skin is clean, but this close, you spot a few leftover flakes of grey clay. 

“There,” Tim says, gently patting your cheek with the dry end of the paper towel.

“You’ve still got some,” you mumble, taking the paper towel from him and switching to a cleaner patch on the damp side, then gently dabbing his cheek. 

“Thanks,” he says, his eyes on your face, the look there making your heart pound out of rhythm. 

You pull back, not as gentle as he was about patting the spot dry — his cheeks are still warmer than usual; the thought of it being because of you is a dizzying one — then toss the towel. 

“Ready?” you ask, fixing your apron.

Tim clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck when you glance at him, his gaze elsewhere. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Right.”

You two spend another hour there throwing the mug. Tim is the one sitting adjacent to you this time, helping in the beginning but seeming to settle as you go on, apparently happy to just watch you do your thing. 

You… try to prod about any preferred glazes or designs, mostly by asking what he thinks would look good, and you get some useful bits of information that you’ll be able to use the next time you come here. Or, well, sometime after that. This mug requires a bit more work than usual. At least for what you have in mind for it. 

But it should be ready by the time July rolls around. 

The sun has set when you two step out. The rain isn’t coming down as hard as earlier but it’s still drizzling, making streets and sidewalks glisten under street lamps and traffic lights. 

In a considerably better mood than earlier, the two of you stop at O’Shaughnessy’s for a shake and fries, then return to Rose Oaks. You keep the food at your place while he heads up to change and you do the same. You check on the boys while you wait for him to return, finding Manny and Diego climbing into the little shelf on the side, while Sid dips in the saltwater pond.

You smile faintly and go back to the couch. On the coffee table, for once clear of schoolwork as you are officially caught up before finals, the bag of fries sits next to the drink carrier, holding two medium chocolate shakes.

Tim returns a few minutes later, letting himself in with the spare key he has, now dressed in sweats and a black t-shirt that stretches flatteringly over his shoulders. 

In the mood for something light and nostalgic, you switch on Ice Age, the two of you relaxing on the couch and eating your dessert. Sleepiness weighs down on you with more time that passes. 

Tim finishes his shake and fries after you, leaning forward to set them on the coffee table. When he sits back, he is closer to you, your arms pressed together. The warmth of his body and the faint scent of eucalyptus lulls you. It doesn’t help that you shut off the lights, the only light coming from the TV, showing the white snowscapes from the movie.

The sound of your name is a surprise but not unwelcome. Especially not from him and how he says it, syllables wrapped in a sleepy kind of warmth. He’s tired, too. You understand. Even if he may have been at his place for most of the day, it must’ve been emotionally draining to deal with everything else.

You lean your head on his shoulder, eyelids heavy with sleep. “Yeah, Timmy?”

His hand finds yours in your lap, slightly calloused fingers gliding against yours, a softer palm following. 

You feel his head lean against yours. “Thank you. For today.”

“Thank you for letting me do it for you.”

Tim squeezes your hand and you think he’ll pull back.

He doesn’t.

Instead, with some movement, you find the blanket thrown over the back of the couch now draped over your laps. 

With his hand in yours, the comforting scent of eucalyptus surrounding you in tandem with his body heat, you surrender too easily to the pull of sleep.

(Later, in the early morning when the sun hasn’t risen but is just about to break the horizon, you stir, not finding yourself in your bed like last time but instead held tightly in his arms, your legs tangled beneath the blanket which isn’t really necessary, with the body heat he emanates. In his sleep, Tim breathes slow and soft, warm exhales of air tickling the skin of your forehead as you two share a pillow. And too sleepy and warm to care, you burrow into his arms, which tighten around you in his sleep, close your eyes, and drift back to off to dreamland.

A few hours later, you’ll wake again, but alone this time, disappointment gnawing at you at the realization. 

At least until the bathroom door opens and Tim steps out, his hair mussed, pillow creases still on his cheek, and he bids you a sleepy smile and asks what you want for breakfast.

And this is when you will realize you are past the point of no return. But you don’t care that the chances of him returning your affections are so laughably low that it actually isn’t funny. You don’t care about any of that. You just care to keep him around. For as long as you possibly can.)

Chapter Text

The first day of the four-day series between the Gotham Knights and the Metropolis Monarchs is soon upon you.

Like usual, Knights fans show up for their team. Even if they suck and have, on average, the worst win-loss record in the entire MLB, well. Gothamites take loyalty seriously. And you get it, anyway. Only you can say they suck miserably. Not the pretentious jerks who came down from Metropolis to jeer at the Knights. 

“They’re just jealous,” you say, sulkily biting into a pretzel, then offering it to Tim wordlessly as your eyes scan the packed stands. To your pleasure, despite the likely outcome of today’s game — and this series, the first one between the two teams finally taking place in Gotham — you see that those dressed in grey and blue, the Knights’ colors, outnumber those in Monarchs colors, which are white and red. 

He takes a bite, then, around a mouthful of pretzel, asks, “Why would they be jealous?”

“Metropolis got passed up to hold the All-Star game this summer. Which makes sense. They held it already a few years ago and Gotham’s never held it.”

“Sure.” Tim sips the absurdly large cup of Zesti, then offers you some. They were out of Soder, to your displeasure and his amusement. Still, you don’t say no, leaning over to wrap your mouth around the straw, your eyes still looking out at the field. With it being May, spring is in full-force and will soon be replaced with summer, though today, tendrils of it are already creeping in, humidity stifling you, along with the beaming heat of the sun. 

You’re in jean shorts and a Knights jersey, unbuttoned with a white camisole underneath, along with the Knights ballcap you bought last time, situated backwards over your hair. Finally, with a beat-up pair of Converse, you have a pair of black crew socks patterned with the Wonder Woman symbol. You are quite fond of her. All the Wonder ladies, really. Strong, beautiful women who can kick your ass to the moon and back — what more can anyone ask for? You’d said the same thing to Tim when he saw your socks and teased you about them. He found that very funny, though you aren’t totally sure why. 

The one in question is dressed in a maroon t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of surprisingly beat-up Vans, finished with the Gotham Knights cap you bought for him the last time you two were here. He wears his properly, though, unlike you, with the bill carefully hiding his face from any prying eyes. The air in the stadium is so charged with tension from the oncoming match, though, you doubt even if he took it off, no one would notice. 

“Bet you twenty the benches clear,” he says.

“That’s not even a question, Drake. Try better.”

“Alright… I say, the benches clear before the fourth inning.”

You squint thoughtfully, then nod. “I say after. You’re on.” 

The benches do clear after the fourth inning. But only in the ninth, both teams showing a, frankly, incredible amount of restraint despite the tense game that had them, shockingly enough, neck-and-neck. 

By the ninth inning, both teams were tied 4-4. But a grounder at the bottom of the inning allowed the player on third base to make it home, effectively breaking the tie. The stadium exploded into noise, the Knights themselves celebrating, too, and one thing led to another and then both teams were spilling onto the field, fists flying. 

Look, you aren’t saying the Monarchs are weaker because they’re from Metropolis. But the truth of the matter is, most of the Knights’ team is made up of Gotham natives and, well, this is Gotham. Can’t go around defenseless, not with the likes of the Joker, Scarecrow, Two-Face and more. More than that, you just think, in general, as being a team often at the bottom of the barrel… they must be holding in a lot of anger. 

And by the blood you two see, that anger is coming out full-force. Not at all helped by the tension among fans, who cheer on their teams, of course, but then…

Tim’s hand tightens around yours warily as a Monarchs and Knights fan start yelling at each other near you.

“I think,” he murmurs, lips near your ear in a way that has your heart stuttering, “we should go before we get our asses kicked.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t protect me?”

“I don’t assume that you are a person who explicitly needs my protection. But if you ask…”

“Aw, no. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to your pretty face.” Fists start flying. You pull your legs in as someone drops a cup of beer, feeling droplets of it against your skin. “Yeah. I think we should go.”

The two of you leave posthaste, along with a decent amount of people also trying to avoid trouble. 

“So,” Tim starts when the two of you are in the safety of his car, blue eyes twinkling with something like mischief. “Pretty, huh?”

You refuse to be embarrassed. It’s, like, a fact of life. Everyone knows this. The sky is blue, the grass is green, Tim Drake is ridiculously pretty. So pretty he practically reinvents the word every time you see him. God, you like him so much. 

“Yeah,” you sniff, crossing your arms. “So gimme my twenty bucks, pretty boy.”

Tim grins and gives you your twenty bucks and the two of you get the hell out of there. 

(“So, like, would you… want to go to the All-Star game?” he tries to ask you nonchalantly later that night.

“Tim.”

“Maybe I want to go to the All-Star game.”

“You don’t even like baseball.”

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, knowing you caught him out, so, he ends up going for the kind of honesty that makes your breath catch. 

“Well, you do, so.”

You watch TV for a minute, trying to settle the raging feelings inside you.

“Alright… I’ll let you buy us tickets to it if you let me buy tickets to the Knights kickoff game when the season starts.”

“But you don’t like football.”

You give him a look that says Hello? Are you stupid? Because so what? He just said it. You like baseball, so he tolerates it. He likes football — or, well, the Knights — so you’d tolerate it, too.

He doesn’t get that, you think.

That you’d do anything for him.

But he can’t, for obvious reasons.

So, you’ll just have to remind him. 

And he understands, too, laughing. “Alright. Deal.”

You think he agrees so easily because the football season doesn’t start until September and it’s only the middle of May. 

But little does he know, you will in fact be saving up money for the tickets and you will be hunting Reddit forums for tips on seating and ticket dealers, thank you very much.)

(Also, the Knights manage to win the next game, and you say manage, because a handful of them were suspended for fighting, along with a handful from the Monarchs; but you suppose that evens the playing field.

They lose the two after, but no one really cares. It’s nice to be able to win a game. And also a little bit nice to have seen the fight that unfolded between the two.)

The nice thing about teaching social studies is that the state of New Jersey does not require an assessment test for it. The only tests they require, starting from third grade to ninth grade, are for the English Language Arts, Math, and Science — the New Jersey Student Learning Assessments, otherwise shortened to NJSLA and colloquially known as the SLA’s.

The SLA’s are taken in the spring semester, in the second to last week of school in June. While your fellow teacher aides and teachers scramble to prepare reviews and ensure the students are ready, you and Ms. C can, for the most part, kick back and relax. Final grades are due next week but you two have them ready, so you don’t have to stress about it.

Still, it’s not all great as you feel the usual guilt that comes with watching teachers and students alike fret over the tests. It is collectively known that the standardized tests aren’t indicative of anything at all and Gotham Pointe is the kind of school that wanted to move away from measuring knowledge with tests, but they are state mandated and so, unavoidable.

To that end, you and Ms. C agree to not make class stressful for any of the kids in the lead-up to the tests and you think you succeed for the most part. You get roped into proctoring for the eighth graders, who scare you much more than the sixth graders, and you’re pretty sure they could tell, too, so that’s just great… It’s easy work anyhow, if not boring and procedural. 

But soon, the SLA’s are taken and done with and you are about to enter the final week of the semester. 

The weekend calls for highs in the eighties and the familiar cloak of humidity that will only get heavier as you approach the height of the summer. Gotham has brutal winters that dry out your lips terribly and unforgiving summers that make you sweat from every pore you have. 

But with it being only the first weekend of June and spare cloud cover that gives the occasional break from the sun, the weather is pleasant. Pleasant enough for you to decide to brave your allergies and convince Tim to have a picnic at Robinson Park. Cleaned up directly following the earthquake by Lex Luthor and then again recently by Wayne Enterprises, it has become a nice place in the city to visit. As nice as it can get in Gotham, anyway.

The park takes up a fairly sizable swath of central Gotham, east of the Upper East Side and south of Coventry. Not as far as Otisburg, where the Knights Stadium is, which is part of the northernmost area of the city. (Well, the northernmost area is probably, to be accurate, Bristol, the neighborhood where Gotham’s wealthiest reside, but you digress.)

You and Tim occupy a small, quiet area on the south side of the park. A large tree and perfectly-cut shrubs hide you from the prying eyes of others. 

The park is bursting with greenery, a breath of fresh air — literally and figuratively. The healthy trees and shrubs and freshly-cut grass remind you that New Jersey is technically known as ‘the Garden State.’ Hard to remember when you’re downtown Gotham, standing among towering skyscrapers, brightly-lit screens, and smoggy skies, but here, it is a nice reminder. 

You say this idly to Tim as you two eat an early dinner — caprese sandwiches he made, with lemonade brought back from the manor, courtesy of one Alfred Pennyworth, and the freshest strawberries you have ever had the pleasure of looking at and eating. 

He nods at your words, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Ever since No Man’s Land, the park’s thrived. Nothing ever dies.”

“That’s not ominous at all. And… what about No Man’s Land?”

No Man’s Land, the cataclysmic earthquake that struck Gotham City several years ago — like when you were fifteen or something — that caused the death of millions and displaced even more. Though, you might say that is because of the US government’s response. Instead of continuing to fund rescue efforts and help, they abandoned Gotham, turned it into No Man’s Land. No longer part of the United States and those who stayed also exiled. Of course, many didn’t exactly have a choice…

The city has since been rebuilt, with all buildings built stronger — earthquake proofed. When it happened, the only buildings left standing were the ones owned and built by WE because Bruce Wayne specifically called for them to be earthquake-proof. He was also the last to leave, the last to fight in front of Congress. If not for the philanthropic efforts he does around the city, then for that, you have real respect for him. 

Tim shrugs, sipping his lemonade. “Apparently, Poison Ivy camped out here for the entirety of it. She left eventually when the city opened again but since, the park’s been healthy. Even during winter.”

“Huh,” you say. The conclusion is obvious, then, that she might have something to do with it. Well. You’ve heard she’s leaned more morally grey these days. Still wanted by the police and all but… you don’t know. It’s a nice notion, to keep some of the only greenery in the city healthy no matter the season. 

You’ve never frequented Robinson Park before now — again, allergies — but Tim often looks too pale for your liking and now that he isn’t working at WE, you are more inclined to get him out of Rose Oaks. Even at the risk of a stuffy nose and watery eyes that’ll bother you tomorrow. 

You finish your sandwich and lemonade, help yourself to more than a few strawberries, which are a delicious mix of sweet and tangy, then lay down, sprawling out on the blanket. Well. Not totally sprawling out. The sundress you wear doesn't allow for that. Yeah, you are wearing spandex underneath but still. It’s the principle. No one is allowed to get an eyeful under your dress. Other than maybe Tim. Definitely Tim.

The thought makes your face warm and you shove it away, distracting yourself with grabbing a napkin and digging through your tote bag for your makeup bag. 

You dab at your mouth and open your compact mirror, checking for any food that might’ve caught on the darkly-tinted lip balm you’re wearing. Looks fine, though it’s faded towards the center from eating.

Tim sits upright next to you, his body twisted toward you and one hand planted on the blanket as he leans back on it. His eyes are elsewhere as he lifts a strawberry to his lips. Your eye twitches as he bites into it and some of the juice dribbles down his hand and nearly out the corner of his mouth — you say nearly because his tongue darts out, catching the droplets before they can fall, and you’re pretty sure a meteor could hit Gotham right now and you would absolutely be none the wiser.

Doesn’t help when he lifts his hand to his mouth, either, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he catches the trails of strawberry juice. Pink lips move, shaping words, but you don’t notice, because this has to be a new circle of hell or something, you don’t give a shit what Dante thinks, this is the worst. 

With concerted effort, you turn your eyes to your compact mirror and dig for your lip balm. 

Forgetting that he had said something while you were staring at him and wondering why god was so cruel, you jump when his jean-clad knee brushes the outside of your thigh, the texture rough against the softer skin there. 

“Wh-huh?”

You look at him and he’s finally looking at you, the sunlight doing too much for him in the way it sets off his pale skin and his dark hair, his eyes a softer shade of blue than you’ve ever seen, like the sky in Metropolis, considerably less smoggy than Gotham’s. He’s cleaning his hands with a wet wipe — yes, he seriously brought wet wipes because he said ‘eating fruit is serious business’ — lips quirked as he gazes down at you.

“Did you hear me?”

“No. What did you say?”

“I said, do you know what that tree is?” he asks, nodding to the tree next to you, tall in height with faintly yellowed leaves.

You squint. “Should I…?”

“I guess not,” he says. “You’re more into social studies than science.”

You’re also not him, brain stuffed full with the oddest of facts.

No one is like him. But this is thought with a ridiculous amount of fondness, as par the course. There is little he does that annoys you and info-dumping about some odd thing that grabbed his attention is not one of those things.

“So, you know, then?” you ask, lifting the lip balm to your mouth and reapplying it, a tad distracted as you keep an ear out for him.

“It's shagbark hickory. Carya ovata. Look at the trunk.”

You look at the tree trunk. 

“See how the bark is peeling and a little weird? That’s how you can tell.” 

“Kinda creepy, isn’t it?”

He exhales a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

You turn your head, eyes scanning for another tree. You spot one some distance away, a pretty thing with white flowers blooming on the branches, reminding you vaguely of a cherry blossom.

“What about that one?” 

Silence meets your words. Your eyes flicker from the tree back to him. “Tim?”

Instead of looking at the tree you pointed out, he is looking at you. Not just at your face but your —

“Sorry,” he says quietly, lifting a hand to you. “You just have some lip balm right here…”

Just as he finishes speaking, his thumb slowly swipes the underside of your mouth, the slightly calloused pad of his thumb just barely catching the actual skin of your lips in a way that sparks a fire inside of you. 

There is no way for you to save face, you think dimly, and you know that to be utterly true as your eyes then find his thumb as he pulls back. On the pale skin, the smudge of your darkly-tinted lip balm stands out. 

You meet his eyes again in the next second and they seem a shade darker, more like the blue waters of Metropolis Harbor instead of their clear skies. It’s more than that, though, it’s the look in them, the weight of his gaze, like a physical thing, burning straight through you, and the urge to be close to him, to press your lips to his, is monumental, practically religious, like even that wouldn’t be enough, like the only way you might be satisfied is if you two were one, cells and atoms intermingling.

You want so much.

Too much that you can have.

The shriek of laughter from a child shatters the moment and he looks away quickly. Your heart pounds out of your chest, face unbearably hot. For him, too, red rises high in his cheeks, not doing anything to detract from your attraction. Exacerbating it, if anything. 

You raise your eyes to the sky, closing your eyes, trying to calm yourself.

Next to you, Tim clears his throat and suddenly flops down beside you with a grunt, arm brushing yours.

“White flowering dogwood.”

“Huh?” you ask, eyes opening as you glance at him. He’s looking up at the sky, allowing you a view of his sharp jawline, the slope of his nose, and the press of his full, pink lips. God…

“The tree,” he says, voice a little rough. “The one you asked about. It’s white flowering dogwood. Cornus florida. It can be pink, too, but, well, as you can tell, that one is white.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah.”

You loathe the slight awkwardness that falls over you in that following silence. He seems to dislike it as well as he clears his throat. 

“You were right about this,” he says, voice back to normal, soft, soothing tenor, music to your ears. “It’s nice.”

“A little vitamin C does wonders for the mood. And complexion.” You pause. “Your complexion, to be clear —”

“Alright, alright,” he says, faintly amused. “I get it. I’m pale.”

The silence that unfolds in that next moment is considerably lighter, more comfortable. You force yourself to relax, crossing your ankles idly. 

“Any plans for the summer?” he asks after a couple minutes.

“Hmm, no, not really. Probably pick up a few more classes. Might visit my family.”

In the corner of your eye, he nods. “If you get any more of those offers to bring someone, count me in.”

“Yeah?” 

“Well…” he trails off and you turn your head as he moves, a hand digging through his bag. The sound of something crinkling, before he pulls out an object wrapped in wrapping paper, the same kind you use in class for finished products, that way they don’t break.

A grin pulls sharply at your lips as you take it from him. 

“It didn’t turn out so bad,” he says, a smile in his voice, though your eyes are on the mug, which you eagerly unwrap. 

You can’t help your gasp. “Tim…”

The mug the two of you shaped is no longer dull grey clay, soft and malleable, but hard and durable; you still hold it gingerly, smoothing your thumb over the now-smooth surface. Underlaid by a soft shade of blue, the mug is iridescent, glimmering green, blue, yellow, purple, and many more colors, almost like the surface of the water.

“I had to get some help,” he admits. “But I got the hang of it eventually. Despite this little… imperfection —” he reaches out to brush a finger over the lip of the mug, where it’s a bit wonky “— I think it turned out nice.”

“Told you,” you say, your matter-of-fact words belied by the soft wonder in your expression. “Perfection is a false ideal. And boring. This is beautiful, Timmy. Seriously. Thank you.”

“‘Course,” he says softly, a kind of warmth in his voice that makes your heart skip a beat.  

You look at the mug a little longer, taken at how it shines under the sun, then wrap it up again, passing it back to him. He puts it away. 

Warmed at the thought he put into the mug, you two sink into a truly comfortable silence, broken by the laughter of children nearby, the distant and usual wail of sirens, and the chirp of birds.

He hums thoughtfully. 

“What?”

“The birds.”

“Let me guess, you’re an expert in birds, too?” 

“Something like that,” he says softly. “Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

Multiple birds chirp in that following silence. Quick, repetitive.

You scrunch your face up. “Pretty sure I’ve heard this one, like, every morning.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Downy Woodpecker. Very common.”

You hum in acknowledgment, able to pick it out now that he’s put a name to it. The two of you lapse into silence again, a concentrated sort of energy coming from him as he focuses on something.

“Ah,” he murmurs, as another call joins. “Now this is a treat…”

“Share, share.”

“Any guesses?”

“Pigeon.”

He exhales a laugh. “Not even close.”

“Social studies. Not science. Or whatever that area could be classified as. Zoology?”

“Ornithology,” he says, because of course he knows the correct name, his arm brushing yours as he drops it to his side, like yours is. Fingers brush yours. You don’t pull away, allowing your pinky to skim his before his fingers slide against yours, filling the gaps. Your heart stutters as you let yourself bask in the contact, then attempt to focus on the bird call that just joined the Woodpeckers.

It’s not as repetitive or quick as the other one, calmer, in a sense.

“What is it?” you ask, voice unknowingly dropping into a whisper. 

Tim’s voice is just as low when he next speaks. “American Robin. Relatively common, too.”

His thumb rubs over your fingers right after, making your chest tighten with warmth, so all you can do is pinpoint the call of the Robin, that clear string of whistles the only sound in the silence. 

He is quiet for some time after, the both of you listening to the Robins and Woodpeckers sing. But eventually, he picks it up again, easily singling out bird calls and putting names to them.

You two spend several hours there, mostly dozing, but towards seven, you find yourself filled with perhaps too much sun and warmth, so he suggests something cold. You pack up and drop your things off in his car — you grimace at the grass clinging to the blanket and the way the blades of it catch on the material in the trunk but Tim waves a hand at it, unbothered, saying it’s not an issue. For him, with the ability to easily afford car washes and interior cleanings, you believe it. 

He pops by a Wawa’s to gas up while you search for nearby frozen treats but you get distracted by the attendant in the neon vest that quickly comes over to gas up the car. 

“This is why I could never get a car,” you say, watching the attendant punch the premium grade — at Tim’s request — then pull out the nozzle. “We didn’t have this so sometimes my parents made me fill up the car and I hated it. Something about it just makes me nervous. Like I know I’m pressing it for gasoline but I’m like… What if it did a little switchy-switchy and now I’m filling the tank with diesel and now it’s ruined and my dad’s going to kill me.”

Tim looks fondly amused. “So, shouldn’t the act of someone else doing it for you help?”

“No. Not even a little bit. Because yeah, I am nervous, but at least it’s me. We all grow up with different ways of doing this and I dunno. Besides,” you say, craning your neck to watch the attendant stand idly by the gas pump, numbers ticking rapidly as the tank fills up; the price makes you grimace. “This kind of feels like a safety risk, at least here in Gotham. What if they put in diesel?”

“Well, the good thing about that is they’re liable for it. So, I would think that makes it easier.”

You grunt. “I guess. I just think it’s a tricky thing, okay.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Have you found anything?”

“Just some fro-yo places.”

“Fro-yo’s cold.”

“Yeah, but it’s fro-yo. I don’t want discount diet ice cream, I want ice cream. The whole concept of fro-yo is questionable.”

Tim laughs. “Who knew you had such strong opinions on New Jersey’s self-servicing laws and frozen yogurt?”

You flush, because despite the tease, he looks fond, and that’s too much for you after everything today, so you grumble a little bit and turn your eyes back to your phone.

The two of you end up at an ice cream parlor in the Upper East Side. Tim gets mint chocolate chip ice cream, much to your horror. 

“That’s basically toothpaste. You might as well brush your teeth then eat some chocolate.”

“Okay, drama queen. Relax. Maybe if you tried some —” the red spoon waves under your nose as he gets in close and you turn your head, bracing a hand on his chest, though you aren’t trying that hard to push him away. You find yourself noting the muscle there, something you’ve noticed since the two of you slept together on the couch. Tim has a lithe frame but there is no shortage of power, evidenced in the way he can easily carry a large pack of water bottles without losing breath. You can carry it, but even you have your limits for how long, limits he easily surpasses, you suspect.

The car doors unlock as you near it, parallel parked perfectly (and he made it look easy, too, though you won’t give him much credit on the driving front since he’s a little too much for you) in front of the ice cream parlor. Tim had asked if you’d ever driven the scenic route up in Bristol, to which you responded of course you hadn’t. That’s all the way north of the city, off the interconnected islands entirely. Much too far for you, at least with your bike. So, he matter-of-factly said that’s what you two were going to do and maybe if you stuck around long enough, you could see the sunset from there. It sounds awfully romantic but you try not to think about that.

Instead, you redouble your efforts on teasing him as the two of you pause by the car.

“Bleh. I’m not going to ruin my taste buds with that. You should try this.” You scoop out some of your ice cream, lifting it to him. 

“Chocolate chip cookie dough. Revolutionary. You’re really breaking barriers there.”

“It’s classic, Timothy. Do you deny that?”

“Have you even tried mint chocolate chip?” he shoots back, spoon still proffered. “Instead of, you know, jumping on the hating bandwagon.”

“Wow.”

He grins, stepping closer, wiggling the spoon at you. “Try it.”

And the mistake here, of course, is thinking that you have it in you to deny him. At least for something as unserious as this. 

And he can see the moment you give in, grin turning victorious as he lifts the spoon and you, with your face flaring with heat at the action, only just barely realizing it, have no choice but to take it. 

But the sharp minty flavoring combined with the sweetness of the chocolate chips saves it — you — from getting too weird.

Tim laughs, delighted, as you swallow it, face scrunched up in disgust. 

“I almost feel like you picked that one to torment me.”

“Tormenting you is fun,” he agrees, before dropping his spoon back into his cup, then taking your wrist, hand still holding the forgotten spoonful of ice cream, and guiding it to his mouth.

“You don’t deserve the goodness of my ice cream,” you say, forcing a scowl and a light-hearted glare in a desperate attempt to control the tidal wave of fizzling heat that envelops your insides at him doing that. Mostly his gall. Seriously what is up with him…

It seems to work as he releases your wrist, red spoon cleaned from his mouth — that’s going to haunt you while you eat — and he laughs again. 

You punch his chest lightly, grumbling, then go around him, checking the street for any oncoming cars before going to the passenger door. 

Tim slides in a second later, still chuckling as he turns on the car and leaves his cup of ice cream in the cupholder. You bluster about it for a little but eventually agree to help feed him some of it, since the drive might take a while. Along with that, he lets you commandeer his phone and the music, naturally turning on ABBA as he pulls out and starts for the Sprang Bridge that’ll take you to the northernmost island, with Otisburg and the Knights Stadium in the east and Burnley and Park Row to the west. Continuing north, you hit the Kane Bridge that’ll take you off the islands entirely.

Take A Chance On Me plays on the speakers as you dutifully spoon the last bits of Tim’s ice cream into his mouth, then set the cup aside. Traffic slows you down but you don’t mind. You’ve never actually crossed this bridge, you think, in your entire time here. To the west is Amusement Mile and Gotham River, while east shows the rest of the Atlantic, dark waters stretching out into oblivion.

Tim hums the song idly, barely sparing a glance over his shoulder as he moves into the left lane that is going faster than the one you are currently in. Even with his admittedly reckless and impatient driving skills, you are nothing less than smitten as he taps the rhythm to the song on the steering wheel. 

Hiding a smile, you finish your own ice cream and get comfortable. 

It takes a while to finally get off the bridge and onto the two-lane road for Bristol. Considerably higher in elevation, it affords you exactly what he said — a scenic route of Gotham, overlooking the entire island. Even Metropolis, off in the distance. The sun is starting to set, too, washing everything in gold. 

At that, he pulls off the main road to a small gravel-filled area with no other cars and a single path that leads through the woods. 

“I guess this is the time you’re going to finally murder me and dispose of my body?”

“Naturally. But only after we watch the sunset on Spillkin Hill,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning off the car.

“Ah, of course, of course.”

The trail leads to a grassy hill that overlooks the city. Tim brings out the blanket again and you collapse there, a little sweaty and a little out of breath. He offers you a drink from his water bottle, which you gladly accept. 

From here, you can see everything. The Kane Bridge, with bumper-to-bumper traffic, Amusement Mile, rollercoasters arching high into the sky, Knights Stadium, sun glinting off the metal, floodlights on and bright. Up here, away from the true reality of what goes on in the dark, the city looks beautiful washed in the golden light of the sunset.

So does Tim, you think, breath catching in your throat as a breeze ruffles his dark hair and your fingers twitch to run through it, to put it back into order. His skin glows under the light, thick lashes casting shadows over the swell of his cheeks, cornflower blue eyes softened in a way that makes you want to lean in. 

You don’t.

Instead, you look back out, biting at the inside of your cheek. 

You had thought and hoped that your feelings might be short-lived, just a crush, just an infatuation, but what you are learning, since the day you two went to the rec center, since he spent the night, is that it will not be that simple. These feelings, you think, are the kind that stick with you, the ones that will make themselves known every time you spy a flowering dogwood or hear the call of a Robin. 

But that’s fine. Tim has brightened your world, made it that much warmer. You just want him, in any capacity that you can have him.

Even with his odd behavior today and from the last few weeks, behavior that has you second-guessing… Hope is a dangerous thing to have in Gotham City, after all.

But who are you kidding, right? That’s half the reason you stay here. 

And maybe, just maybe, it can finally pay off here.

You’ll have to wait and see. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, you find Tim in your kitchen.

You emerge from the bathroom, having already guessed he was here by the smell of food cooking and from the sound of your TV playing the morning news. Well, late morning news. 

Things settled around the city eventually in the wake of the news about Red Robin. Well, as settled as they can be here in Gotham. But you don’t suspect the Bats are spread too thin. They have, like, a team working here. Batman and Robin, of course, then Black Bat and Signal and Spoiler who doesn’t wear the bat emblem, exactly, but is seen with them frequently enough to be associated with them. This is on top of the few others who also work in the city, like Huntress. So, it’s not like there’s a shortage of vigilantes to go around. 

But the news on the TV is talking about the weather for today, not that. 

“Keep your sunscreen on standby as we have yet another sunny day here in Gotham, with partly-cloudy skies and highs in the eighties. We can expect higher temperatures throughout the week as a heat wave from the south hits us —”

You stop by the boys’ tank, privately pleased to see them having just finished their breakfast, no doubt courtesy of your unexpected guest. 

You glance away from them, to the kitchen, where Tim is currently making eggs, with something else on the counter next to him. Wait, is that a…

“I’m not complaining but… where on earth did that waffle maker come from?”

Tim turns, appearing not at all surprised by your appearance — he’s never spooked, not once, but he does it to you frequently — and shoots you a smile. “Hey, good morning.”

“Morning,” you say, drifting closer to him. You’re both dressed down, with him in sweats and a white t-shirt, and you would bet a decent amount of money that he rolled out of bed, half-heartedly fixed his hair, brushed his teeth, and came down here immediately. You did the same, still in your pajamas, which are a pair of old shorts and a ratty softball shirt from high school. 

It’s not the first time he’s done this but like always, it is terribly domestic and not at all good for your heart.

“So… the waffle maker?” you ask, trying to sneak a piece of buttered toast. 

He gently bats your hand away, looking back at the pan, where eggs sizzle. “You said you like the efficiency of waffles.”

You blink.

That’s… a lot to unpack.

First of all, when did you say that?

You pause, searching your memory.

Your prolonged silence clues Tim into your confusion. He flips the egg. 

“When we were at Waffle House in April and the cook and waitress got into a fight.”

“Oh! And the waitress —”

“Stopped the chair thrown at her single-handedly,” he finishes.

“Right, right…” You did say something to that effect after your food had arrived. And it remains true. But of course, waffles are only efficient if you have a waffle maker and —

“Tim, you didn’t get this for me, right?”

“I just thought waffles would be fun,” he says, vague, specifically a non-answer. 

You scrutinize his side profile. Something about him right now… With a spatula in his left hand, his right hand drumming on his thigh. It’s not like him to give up a nervous tell so easily. Not like him at all. 

Your curiosity is unbidden and difficult to suppress, but you decide to step back anyway and let him come to you in his own time. He’ll have to, if the waffle maker really is for you. 

“Well, you’re not wrong,” you say, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “Now we’ll just have to see if you can beat Waffle House.”

“Probably can’t. My waffles are being made peacefully. Mostly peacefully.”

You laugh and help him finish. Mostly by pulling out the waffle, then pouring batter for the next one, the one for him.

Garnished with homemade whipped cream, the leftover strawberries from yesterday, and maple syrup, with a side of eggs and toast, your breakfast is a hearty one. Or rather, your brunch is, since it’s eleven. 

He’s quiet throughout it, eating his food, but with a distant look in his eyes. You still don’t push. 

“I think you did it,” you say when you finish, leaning back in your chair, belly full, making you want a nap. “You managed to beat Waffle House.”

Tim snorts, pushing around the last bits of his waffle. “High praise.”

“Only for you.”

He looks at you, seeming to come back to himself, face softening at your words and at the warm smile you allow yourself to give him. Not too much but enough, enough to soothe some of his nerves, maybe.

You know it’s worked when he glances down at his plate and sighs. 

Setting down the fork, he stands, crossing over to the living room, leaning down to dig through his bag. 

You sit up, curious, at the sound of paper. 

He unearths a newspaper, coming back over to you hesitantly, with the newspaper held folded in his hands. 

“Tim?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, grimacing at something. 

With a big sigh, he eventually extends it to you. 

You unfold the paper and can’t help the way your eyes widen as you get an eyeful of the front page.

The front page, with a picture of you and Tim smack dab in the middle, specifically… specifically yesterday in front of the ice cream parlor, the two of you smiling at each other in a way that appears a little less than friendly. So, naturally, the headline is about exactly that. TIM DRAKE AND MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND OUT ON THE TOWN. Written by Vicki Vale. Of course. You expect nothing less. 

You scratch your cheek idly. “Huh.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says, the words seeming to burst out of him as he takes his seat again, face wrought with guilt. “I should’ve known they were there. I was careless. Should’ve had the cap or something, I don’t know, but I… I got cocky about it, since we’d gotten away with hanging out in public. The PR team is handling it, I swear.”

Handling it. Setting the record straight. You are not Tim Drake’s girlfriend. What a laughable concept. Well, you’re sure the elites are laughing. Probably the whole city. 

Your throat tightens uncomfortably and you fold the newspaper and set it down, shaking your head.

Man. What does he have to apologize for? If anything…

“I should apologize,” you chuckle, glancing away from him. “Since you got stuck with me for that. So, don’t worry about it, Timmy. You’re fine.”

Not much about you that is interesting, save for being friends with Tim. Poor Vicki Vale won’t have much to work with, you suspect. Though that will probably be the focus. That you’re just a no-name teacher’s aide, associating with one of the city’s most eligible. 

Whatever. You don’t want to be anyone else.

That, you know, is true.

But Tim appears upset, bothered, by something, lips tugged in a frown, a deep wrinkle between his brows that you itch to smooth away with your fingers. The way he looks at you… almost like he’s hurt.

You shift forward. Why is he —?

Before you can ask, he is already speaking.

“The waffle maker is yours,” he says. “I don’t need it and if I do, I can come and use it here. I don’t mind. But… you’re wrong.”

Okay. That’s… a lot. The waffle maker doesn’t need to be prioritized, though, you don’t think. So…

“Wrong? What do you —?”

His eyes flicker around the kitchen, thinking quickly, before he huffs and leans around the table to take your chair and drag it closer to his. You let out a squeak at the jostling movement but don’t stop him, confused for the most part about what’s going on. 

“Tim?”

He shakes his head, reaching for you, hands sliding to your cheeks. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching in your chest.

“Tim?”

“Stuck with you,” he mutters, disapproval clear in his tone. “With you. That’s… wrong. So wrong it’s not even funny. If anyone is stuck with anyone, it’s me you’re stuck with.”

Wait, is he…

Your heart thuds in your ears, chest ballooning with nervous energy as you struggle to grapple with this conversation. With the way he is looking at you, his expression the softest it has ever been — for you. Directed at you.

Heat rises to your face, making you dizzy.

A thumb absently strokes over your cheek as he studies you. “There is no one else I’d rather it be. Even if it’s inconvenient for you, I’m selfish enough to admit that I don’t want anyone else. I just want…”

“Tim,” you whisper, unable to believe your ears.

“You,” he finishes quietly. “It’s you. I’m sorry.”

You both are wrong, then. 

No one is stuck with anyone. 

And you aren’t going to let him think that way, either.

“I’m not,” you say. “So, kiss me already.”

Tim kisses you.

He kisses you hungrily, a shade too desperate for eleven in the morning, in a way that sparks a fire inside you. But not a spark of creation, it’s the kindling of embers that are always burning, singeing through your veins, and you can’t help but kiss him back just as eagerly. It’d only been yesterday you wanted it desperately and now you have it and more.

The truth, reality forced upon you, for you to bear witness to how soft his lips are, the way he holds your face so gently, how he tastes like strawberries and maple syrup and the wish for more, more than that, takes hold of you violently. You press forward, your fingers sliding into his hair, silky-soft, and he lets out a sharp exhale, shivering in a way that makes you feel something dangerous. 

Astounding how you can have this and still want more.

But you’re starting to think you’ll always want more from him. More, more, more. Like you wouldn’t be satisfied until you two were one, cells and atoms intermingling. It’s a lot. A lot. For you and for him, the enormity of all of it, of what you might ask of him. From him. More than he can give, maybe, but if he feels the same as you do, then you know he’ll give you as much as he can, give everything. 

The necessity of air has you two breaking apart, but he just leans his forehead against yours, warm breath tickling your lips with each breath. 

You’re happy to stay there, eyes closed, catching your breath.

After a minute, he leans forward, lips brushing yours again, but softer this time, less hungry, less desperate, something terribly, terribly tender that has your chest exploding with warmth. You almost can’t believe it, that you’re here right now with Tim Drake cradling your face like you’re made of fine china and kissing you so sweetly, so full of honeyed affection, it clogs the arteries of your heart.

But it would be a good way to die, you think.

Especially here in Gotham.

Maybe you should give it some credit, though.

Tragedy dogs the city constantly but even still, the impossible remains possible and you are all the more grateful for that fact.

You separate again and like before, you just lean your foreheads together, basking in the moment. 

Tim moves first and you suppress a shiver as his lips brush over your cheek.

“I guess we’re both wrong,” he murmurs.

Ah.

Neither of you can say you don’t deserve one another. Even if you feel it, he disagrees. And if he feels it, you disagree, too. And where else should you go with that?

Nowhere good, you think.

You smile. “I guess so.”

“So, then…” he starts, finally pulling away. Your eyes flutter open and your stomach swoops like you missed a step as you see the open affection in his gaze, written all over his face. It makes you feel treasured in a way you can’t quite cope with. Instead you focus on the flush on his cheeks, a tempting rush of blood that makes you want to kiss him again and see how warm the skin feels underneath your lips. 

“Yeah?”

“I know it’s a little backwards,” he goes on, thumb stroking your cheek, the other dropping to the side of your neck. Your hands find themselves on his forearms, muscles and tendons flexing beneath your fingertips. “But I wasn’t anticipating that.”

You nod. “Neither was I.”

Though you should’ve known your luck would run out eventually.

“I guess it doesn’t matter much now, anyway,” he says, then pauses, nervous, bashful energy filling him again. “Unless — I mean, I would like to take you out on an official date but, uh, I get it if that’s maybe too soon to really say —”

“Tim.”

He stops. You smile and it feels horribly honest, full of affection and warmth and with everything else not yet spoken. He softens, but the red in his cheeks darkens again. It pleases you too much.

“If you’re okay with it, then I’m okay with letting the press think we’re together,” you say, squeezing his wrist reassuringly. “Even if I wasn’t certain, it would probably be best to let them keep the rumor, rather than try and say we’re friends. But as it is…” 

As it is, you’ve since realized these feelings aren’t going anywhere and knowing that he reciprocates, that, maybe, he’s felt it for a while, too, it makes you hopeful. This isn’t just something fun to do over the summer, this is you seeing him in your kitchen in the mornings, still in pajamas, and thinking you’d like to always see him like this. This is from a few weeks ago, when you two slept together on the couch and it was the best sleep you’ve ever had and waking up with him still here, still a little sleepy and bleary-eyed, it made you think you wouldn’t mind having this for a really long time. 

For forever, you dare to think. 

“I know,” he says, and you think he really does know. 

He brushes a few strands of hair from your face, touch gentle. 

“So, then, in that case,” he starts, smile warm as he says your name, the syllables that wrap it equally as warm, “will you go out with me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you say, then lean forward to kiss him again.

You aren’t going to get tired of doing that anytime soon.

And by the way he kisses you back eagerly, you know he’s thinking the same.

You both agree to have your date on Friday night. 

But until then, neither of you see any point in changing anything. 

You’ll still drop by after school or he’ll come over. You’ll still watch movies together.

Nothing changes. The core of your routines remain the same.

Well, except for the fact that you two can’t really keep your hands off each other and the entire city now knows you two are dating.

Monday morning, you showed up in class at eight as usual, finding Ms. C. She said nothing much about it, other than, You’re lucky it’s the last week of school. Everyone is going to be unbearable.

Not trying to make you feel bad. A simple fact. A warning, even, and it turned out to be true. The amount of teachers and aides that dropped by the class to talk to you — even if you’d never once spoken to them — was ridiculous.

Most of the kids were giggly about it. A few jokes. A little grossed out. You get that, though. They’re kids. Don’t know any better.

But for your colleagues and the odd parent that manages to corner you? It’s a bit ridiculous the way some of them look down their noses at the thought of you dating him.

Well, Mrs. Hightower who teaches eighth grade science, you’re married and also not in a better position. Like, okay, you… sort of get the icy mothers (and occasional father) who sniff at the thought with their designer clothes and yachts and vacation homes in Monaco; they have money, so they think they are better suited for him. (When that honestly has nothing to do with it, but you’re trying to make a point, so, you know.) But for your fellow aides and teachers? All of you are in the exact same boat.

The life of a more of less public figure is a tricky one. 

And honestly, Tim isn’t even as famous as he could be. Imagine what it must be like for Bruce. 

Yikes.

Every gossip page in Gotham digs their grubby little fingers into your past. 

Naturally, they don’t get much.

Moved here at eighteen for college. Majored in education and minored in psychology. Graduated with honors (that’s probably the only exciting thing for them). Worked at Gotham Elementary in Burnley, then moved to Gotham Pointe. 

That’s it. 

But when they fail to find dirt, the conversation naturally turns to how you aren’t suited for him, how he should be dating the heiress to a massive company rather than some nobody teacher’s aide. 

You try not to let it bother you.

Tim works hard to assure you that he doesn’t care about that. That he never has and never will. You believe him, but with it shoved into your face at every given moment, you think you’re allowed the occasional moment of insecurity.

On Thursday, though, you’re in high spirits. The kids have let the issue go, focusing on some other thing that’s gotten their attention and today is probably the first day that only a few people try to talk to you about everything, allowing you to focus on doing your job. For the most part.

Tim told you to come by his place after school, that way you two could make dinner and spend the evening together. After showering and changing, you catch the elevator to head to the fifteenth floor. 

The doors slide open. You step out, your eyes on your phone, reading a text from your brother, who, alongside your parents, remain a little flabbergasted that you wound up in a relationship with Tim Drake. Though your brother claims he ‘saw it coming.’ Like hell he did. All he ever did was try and convince you to send him Tim’s debit card info. 

The sound of your name.

You blink and look up, meeting the wide, bright blue eyes of a pretty blonde.

Wait, you’ve seen her face before —

“Steph — I mean, um, Stephanie Brown, right?”

One of Tim’s good friends and an old ex-girlfriend. He said they dated when they were teens but broke up and are still good friends. 

She grins, stepping back out of the elevator, apparently having been waiting to take it back down. 

“In the flesh. I’m a little surprised you recognize me but it’s great to finally meet Tim’s mystery girlfriend.” The last part is a tease from the newspaper from last weekend.

You laugh. “Tim has pictures of you and the others around his place. That’s how I knew. And it’s nice to meet you, too.” 

“I was popping in to see about it,” she tells you, not minding the elevator doors that slide shut once more. “Wondering when he’d finally bring you around. He doesn’t like to share.”

You grin, cheeks warming. Her energy is infectious. You can see what might’ve drawn him to her. “It’s my last week of school and we have our date tomorrow. So, probably after the first date. The whole press reveal thing kinda threw a wrench in our plans.”

She grins back. “Well, the way he tells it, that was the thing that kicked your butts into gear, so I guess that’s how it has to go.”

“That… Yeah, that is true,” you say with an embarrassed laugh.

“Aw, it’s okay. It would’ve happened eventually. Tim’s just the type to really, uh, collect evidence and draw up conclusions before he likes to do anything.”

You laugh, because he is like that. 

“Either way,” she says, smiling. “At least you got me out of the way. Meeting all of us can be… a lot.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She snickers. “Guess we’ll see you sometime soon. Maybe around his birthday. Bruce’ll want to have dinner or something with him at the manor and I can join them just so you have another familiar face.”

“That would be great. Really. I appreciate it.”

“You really are as kind as he says,” she says, pouting a little. “Now I’m jealous.”

You laugh, flushing at the compliment — both at what he apparently told her and the fact that she agrees with it so much to the point that she’s jealous. Even if it’s just a tease. But honestly, the way her blue eyes twinkle, you don’t think it is. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, hiking her bag higher over her shoulder. “This homework is calling me to kick its ass.”

Right. Tim told you she was in the grad program for social work at GU. She must be taking summer classes. 

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. You kids don’t do anything crazy, alright?” she says, pointing mock sternly at you as she presses the button for the elevator again. 

You snort. “We’ll do our best.”

She gives you a melodramatic thumbs-up of approval, then steps into the elevator when the doors open. 

The smile on your lips is hard to budge. Steph’s a whole lot of fun, isn’t she? And meeting her now did help some of those budding nerves that rear their head every time you think of the prospect of meeting his family.

But like she said. That might not be until July. Mid to late July, really, since his birthday is on the nineteenth. Speaking of, you need to get back to the rec center to continue working on his gift… Maybe you can do that sometime next week…

Coming up to his door a second later, you unlock it and step inside. 

“Honey, I’m home!” you call out in a sing-song tone, slipping off your slides and locking the door behind you. 

Tim steps out from the kitchen, an expectant look on his face. “You saw Steph on your way here, didn’t you?”

You grin. “Sure did! She’s fun.”

“I wasn’t expecting her today. She wanted to ambush me about you, I think.”

“See when you’ll bring me around? Yeah, she said the same to me.”

He rolls his eyes, exasperated but still fond. “We haven’t even had our first official date. Honestly. They’re all a bunch of gossips, you know? I’m surprised it was just her that ended up coming. I was expecting Cass and Duke, too. Maybe even Alfred. Though he’d come with a much better excuse than ‘I was just on this side of town.’”

You laugh and he shakes his head, extending a hand that you take, not resisting as he ropes you into his embrace. 

“In any case,” he starts, pressing a kiss to your cheek before you sink into the circle of his arms, “how was your day?”

“S’okay. The kids were good.”

“And the teachers?”

You grin into the collar of his t-shirt. “Mostly behaved. They’ve finally grasped some semblance of self-restraint, so, wasn’t too bad.”

He hums, one hand stroking up your back, the other at your hip. You’ve always known Tim was particularly tactile but since everything between you, it’s been turned up a notch. Not that you are complaining. You’re less touch-starved these days, just because of him, but you’ll hardly say no to more of it. 

“How was yours?”

Another hum as he presses his face to your hair. 

“Fine. Lucius asked me to help with some IT stuff and I did that today. Easy work. Cleaned a bit. I sterilized those shells I got for the boys, by the way, and put them in the tank. Don’t know if you saw. Then I saw Steph, as you know. Just started dinner right now.”

“Look at you. All the best qualities of a housewife.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, honey.”

You giggle, though your face warms at the endearment, and he can tell by being so close to you, chuckling softly as he leans down to finally kiss you.

You press closer, sliding your arms around his neck while his lock around your waist. The full press of his lean body against yours makes your head spin. Stupid Tim and his stupid muscles…

You’re posturing, of course.

You’re… happy. Glowing with it, according to one of the kinder parents who ran into you at school. You believe it, mostly because some part of you doesn’t believe this is actually happening. That Tim kissed you breathless on Sunday and told you he wanted you. The other part of you basks in the thought, in the realization, in the fact that you get to come home to this. 

You’re so, so lucky. 

Nothing can beat it.

Absolutely nothing.  

Chapter Text

Obviously, with your newfound happiness, the universe decides to throw a wrench in your plans.

Your plans with Tim, specifically, as in the ones for your date. 

Everything is fine, initially. Despite being a self-proclaimed night owl, Tim has surprised you multiple times this week by letting himself in at a quarter till seven and making you coffee and a quick breakfast and packing you a lunch while you get up and get dressed. Of course, he will then head straight back to his apartment and go back to sleep for several hours and he gets more than a few kisses out of it, so, it’s not a particularly arduous task, you don’t think. 

And it is, of course, a deeply pleasant thing for you because you would never say no to seeing him in the mornings before work. Especially not with how you step out of the bathroom, finished getting dressed, and there he is, dozing at the little table in your kitchen, only lifting his head when you near and you can never stop yourself from running your fingers through his hair, his arms sliding around your waist as he nuzzles his face into your belly and mumbles, “Morning, gorgeous,” voice still raspy with sleep and it takes everything in you not to melt into a puddle right then and there.

It calls forth some admittedly indulgent visions for the future, a future you are starting to find you desperately want. One where you can share a bed with him, where, honestly, you would be happy just being able to wake up and find him there. He doesn’t even need to wake up or do anything — he would simply be there. Then being able to come back home to him after a long day… It’s the kind of future that makes you ache with the desire for it.

But these things take time. You know that. And you’re already privileged enough that you live in the same building. It’s only a couple minutes from his place to yours. Things would be a whole lot tougher if he was in, you don’t know, Coventry.

(Of course, the proximity is the thing that trips you up, the fact that he is close and you can only dream of more.)

Anyway, like you were saying, the first part of your day is fine. The school day, that is. Ms. C just slaps on a G-rated movie for each of the periods. Half the other teachers do the same. You aren’t technically allowed to do this, since showing movies to the kids can be a finicky ordeal with parents and no one, certainly not the school board, wants to be held liable, but you don’t envision that it will come back to bite you in the ass. It’s the last day of school, after all.

And with that, it is a tiny bit emotional, at least for you. But the kids promise to visit. You don’t know if that’ll actually pan out but it’s a sweet thought that tides you over for the rest of the day.

Your date with Tim is set for six-thirty. Dinner first, then a trip to… somewhere. He hasn’t told you. It’s a surprise. 

Before that, you need to hang around after school to help Ms. C pack up the classroom for the summer. After, you feel a little tired from the day’s event, so before you set off for Rose Oaks, you decide it won’t hurt to run over to the Sundollar a block over to grab a quick drink, something to tide you over until dinner. 

Ms. C heads out first and you leave your things in the classroom, deciding just to make the walk. So, you step out with a couple dollars in the pocket of your jeans, as well, of course, with your pepper spray. Dearly beloved, you do not go anywhere without it. You’ve taken a few self-defense course (and Tim’s tested those skills with his own lessons he’s taken; that was fun, even if you did kind of get your ass kicked) and it’s not like you think you could stand a chance against, you don’t know, Darkseid but, like, you have a decent shot against your run-of-the-mill douchebag, right?

Wrong.

And you know that when you get hit on the back of the head, crumple miserably, and before you can gather your wits to even think of putting up a fight, you feel the sharp prick of a needle and you’re out.

(Of course you get kidnapped within one week of dating Tim Drake.

Of freakin’ course.)

Waking up is a pain.

Your senses are muddled and everything feels like syrup. Floaty and weak, your lungs work too slowly for your liking. You’re on the ground, you think, because of how hard it is, as well as a vaguely unpleasant smell.

The back of your head aches fiercely, with a headache accompanying it. Your stomach lurches, nausea enveloping you. You just want to go back to sleep but for now, the tides of unconsciousness abandon you, leaving you to struggle with your too-slow lungs. 

You’d panic if you had the sense to do it but all you can do is go along with it, listening to the sound of gruff voices, sharp and aggressive and too loud. 

A strange sound reaches your ears. It takes you a second to realize it’s you, the sound of your teeth chattering.

Cold. Too cold for June in Gotham. 

You can’t move. Your limbs are filled with lead, weighing you down. Something tight burns at your wrists. 

The voices come in and out of your ears. 

“— gave her too much, you stupid idiot. If she dies, you think we’re gonna get the money?”

“I don’t know… Wouldn’t, uh, wouldn’t they want her body at least?”

You flinch at the sound of skin hitting skin. Or something inside you does, at least. You don’t — can’t — move an inch. 

“She’s more valuable alive! Goddamnit, you had one job —”

“It was freakin’ daylight, man, I don’t work good in the daylight! I don’t know why we couldn’t have waited until —”

“Wait. Did you hear that?”

“You think making shit up is gonna get you three idiots out of this?”

“No, no, no, I heard somethin’, too.”

“Well, did you stooges make sure you weren’t followed?”

“Of course we did! But, man, the sun is still out! It’s risky!”

“It’s Gotham. You think this shit stops just ‘cause the sun is out? What are we, freakin’ vampires? It’s better if anything. The only one they got hanging around in the daylight is that damn glowstick.”

“Signal.”

“Whatever.”

That’s kind of mean, you think distantly. Signal is cool. He’s saved a couple of your kids on their walks home. They were entirely unbothered about the whole thing and you could only ever listen in mild horror as they recounted the stories to you. But at least they were unscathed. No thanks to Signal.

“But the sun’s gonna be setting soon. We still haven’t gotten anything and if Batman and the others come out then…”

“The Bats got bigger things to deal with than some rich boy’s girlfriend.”

“I don’t know…”

“What? Are you backing out? ‘Cause if you’re backing out —”

“Hey, hey, hey, chill! I’m just — I’m just thinking out loud, okay!”

“Well, don’t. We got the girl and I don’t know if you realize what we’re gonna have to do if we don’t get that money —”

Your kidnappers are kind of idiots.

It’s a stray thought amidst a dizzying field of them. Too much all at once. But that rings true in your head. 

Along with the cold petrifying thought that if they don’t get their money, they’re going to kill you.

But it’s gotten very quiet. Too quiet. What —?

The first gunshot makes you flinch. Your limbs finally listen. You can’t stop yourself from curling in. Or as best as you can with your wrists bound to… something. More gunshots ring out, voices yelling now.

If you could just open your eyes, if your lids, which feel so impossibly heavy, could cooperate. But a familiar darkness tugs at you, chest stuttering with each slow breath you take. Too slow, you think, and your heart should be pounding but it’s not, it’s like molasses in your chest. Your chest, that suddenly feels heavy, like something is sitting on you.

The gunshots cut out abruptly, as do the voices. At least, the yelling, you mean. 

Now it’s just… pain. Strangled cries that cut out abruptly, the audible snap of bones breaking, someone… someone sobbing…

Then it’s quiet.

Something wet traces over the bridge over your nose. You’re crying, you realize. 

It’s too much, too difficult to keep awake. You just want to go back to sleep and wake up somewhere else, in your apartment, in Tim’s arms…

But then —

— someone says your name.

Breathes it, syllables wrapped in equal amounts of warmth and pain, underlaid by a sense of panic.

And you — you know this voice.

A soft tenor that haunts your dreams, that whispers cheesy jokes in your ear sometimes, that teases you when he feels particularly cheeky, that calls you sweet things with so much love, sometimes, you think you might burst from it.

It’s the stunning, horrifying, kind of realization that makes your voice work and your lips move.

“Tim?”

What is he… He shouldn’t be here… He’s in danger…

Quiet for a second, a slight tugging at your wrists that burns before the pressure is released, then a hand — a gloved hand, what? — on your cheek. 

“It’s me, honey, I’m right here.”

Your voice fails you this time around and you can only whimper in response, more tears falling. But the air you need does not come. Everything is still like molasses and you’re still frightfully cold.

Arms slide under you, something warm wrapping around you. It helps fight off the chill but your breath gets shorter and shorter with each rise and fall of your chest.

Tim keeps talking, to you, to someone else, someone called… Oracle… and he sounds so panicked, so scared, you want to comfort him, tell him you just need to catch your breath and you’ll be okay. Well, if he could get you home, too, that would be great. 

You barely manage it. Somehow, someway, just the discomforting thought of Tim scared lets your eyes crack open. 

But it’s not Tim holding you in his lap. 

It’s… Red Robin.

Oh.

Oh.

Maybe it’s the realization, maybe it’s the drug still in your system, but in the next moment, darkness falls over you like a blanket and you’re gone.

Your sleep is restless. Filled with sharp jostling movement and murmuring voices.

You surface in and out of consciousness.

Once, laying on something not like the ground, cushioned, but not entirely comfortable, either. Low voices converse near you. 

“— can’t do anything but let it run its course. There is no overdose treatment for GHB. She just needs fluids and rest, as well as constant supervision. I trust you, Tim, will be able to do that.”

“Done.”

“She can stay at the manor —”

“No. She won’t like waking up somewhere she doesn’t know. I’ll take her back to her place.”

“Fine. Spoiler says she’ll watch —”

And then nothing else.

Again, some indeterminate amount of time later, accompanied with a swaying kind of motion, arms wrapped around you.

A sound, like a window sliding open, just as your body meets a much softer surface. A bed.

“Boots off, Spoiler.”

“You’re joking, right — okay, not joking, got it, I’ll just stay here. Unless you want any help with her?”

“I got it.”

“She’s gonna be fine, Tim.”

“I know.”

A sigh. “Alright. Then I’ll be up on the roof.”

Another sound, the window closing, and you’re out.

The next time you surface, you do so for good.

Your body aches, as does your head. Your hand feels oddly cold but the rest of you is warm, tucked beneath blankets with a space heater somewhere —

No, not a space heater.

Another body, not pressed against you, not touching you at all, actually, just beneath the blankets, too. The comforting scent of eucalyptus reaches you. 

You open your eyes, vision blurry. The room is dark, except for the glow of something near you. A sound, the… the click of keys?

You groan as you move, body still weak, with a vague feeling of unwell that you hate.

The clicking stops. 

Your name, hushed.

You shift, squirming a little. Something tugs at your hand and you reach for it instinctively.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s just an IV drip to help flush the drug out. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

An arm slides around your back as you struggle to sit up. Tim helps, the laptop previously in his lap now sitting on the nightstand. Keeping an arm around you, he turns around again and turns something on.

Warm yellow from the lamp there illuminates your bedroom. 

Your eyes flicker to your window, a fuzzy memory of Tim and someone else, but there is nothing and nobody there. Darkness from outside greets you instead.

“Time is it?” you mumble, reaching up to rub the sleep out of your eyes. “What day it is? Saturday?”

You really don’t feel good. 

Not a nauseous kind of feeling, but one close to it, like if you thought of the wrong thing, you’d be hunched over the toilet instantly.

If you could even get to the toilet in time.

But as your vision clears, you glimpse a bedpan on the nightstand nearest to you, along with some other medical supplies, and then the IV line, hooked onto a pole you definitely never owned, and feeding liquid into the IV in your hand.

You don’t like it.

Tim brushes some of your hair out of your face, touch frighteningly gentle, as well as the look on his face. There is something else there, though, a kind of hesitance that he never had before. Almost as if he’s afraid to touch you, afraid to do this for you. 

You don’t understand why, your brain still struggling to boot up. 

“Three. And yes, it’s Saturday.”

“AM?”

He hums. “Want to take off the drip?”

You nod, feeling a bit childish for it, but there is no judgment or annoyance in his face. His face that you continue to study if only because something is niggling at you and because you don’t want to watch him pull out the needle from your skin.

The pricking sensation makes you wince. He murmurs an apology, leaning around you to set it aside and grab a band-aid. Spongebob themed. 

He looks tired. Exhausted, actually, and it doesn’t take a genius to conclude that he was awake previously, maybe this entire time and since it’s early in the morning (or late in the night, depending how you see it) he’s been awake this entire time. Probably the whole night if you hadn’t woken up now.

More than that… A butterfly bandage closes a cut on his forehead, the shadow of a bruise on his cheek. As he covers the prick from the needle with the band-aid, you glimpse his knuckles, red, swollen. 

Red.

Right.

Things come back to you in pieces. Walking to Sundollar. Then nothing. Waking up… wherever you were. The idiots you had for kidnappers. The idiots who were still prepared to kill you if they didn’t get the money — ransom — then something, someone going in there and… kicking ass, to be sure. 

And Tim…

“So, I didn’t hallucinate you as Red Robin.”

He lifts a hand to your face, then pauses suddenly, tired blue eyes flickering elsewhere as he mumbles, “May I? Just need to check your pulse.”

“You don’t need to ask.”

He lets out a deep breath and nods, cold fingers brushing your pulse. You wait, letting him do his thing. 

You barely realize you are out of your other clothes, the restricting material of your blouse and jeans, now dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. The kind you regularly wear. The thought of him doing it isn’t unsettling. Maybe it should be. Maybe it shouldn’t. All you know is, above anything else, you are glad it was him. 

Instead of answering your unspoken question, he asks a few of his own. Your name, where you are, your birthday, that sort of thing. Presumably for the large knot you can feel at the back of your head.

You’re still tired. Exhausted, actually, and you want nothing more than for him to hold you to sleep, but you need answers first.

He rubs his eyes as he sits back and he finally says, “Yes. That… that was me. I didn’t expect…”

You’d sort of put it together. Well, put it together makes it sound like you gave it a lengthy amount of thought. It’s more like your brain heard his voice and assumed. The assumption happened to be entirely correct.

“Sorry.”

He blanches. “What? Why — why are you apologizing?”

“I… don’t know.” You really don’t. Sorry you found him out? Sorry this happened? No matter the reason, it just feels like the right thing to say. 

But the way Tim’s face crumples, pained, makes you think it very much wasn’t.

His hands reach for your face. They’re cold. Too cold. You want to take them in your own and warm them up.

“I’m sorry. I’m the one who needs to apologize. The guys were idiots and that’s a good thing but because it was so last-minute, we had no idea, it wasn’t on our radar — my radar. I should’ve known better.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, frowning. “I don’t blame you for any of this, Tim.”

“You know what I do now,” he says quietly. “If only because of that, it is my fault.”

“You didn’t know. And I don’t blame you for that, for being human. Is anyone else blaming you?”

Anyone else being… Batman. The others.

“No,” he sighs.

You nod. “Exactly. No one could’ve known. If anything, I should be thanking you.”

He inhales sharply to protest but your eyes sting suddenly, breath stuttering.

“Stop it,” you say. “I… they were going to… if they didn’t…” You stop, vision blurring with tears and he shakes his head.

“It wouldn’t have happened, I wouldn’t have let it happen.”

But it hits you too hard, too fast, how close you were to death. Truly, this time. 

But one thing remains true.

He saved you.

And you think, as he whispers soft assurances and collects you into his arms, he is doing once again. Holding you together since you can’t do it yourself, patiently picking up the pieces as they fall. 

The topic is dropped for that and he pulls away briefly to shut out the light, then tugs you back into his arms as you two lay down together. 

You’re exhausted by the time your tears stop but you don’t want to give in quite yet. Mostly because the thought of Tim blaming himself bothers you a lot.

“I don’t blame you,” you whisper, sniffling. “Don’t you believe me?”

“I do,” he whispers back after a moment. “I just… I have to do better. I can’t —” his voice catches and he curls himself tighter around you, lips brushing the crown of your head. “I can’t lose you.”

You wonder if it’s your imagination, if it’s the exhaustion, that has you hearing an unspoken I can’t lose anyone else.

His parents, you know of. But surely he has lost others. If not strangers, the ones he couldn’t save, ones closer to him.

You hope you’re wrong. You hope he’s never gone through it. But with how tightly he holds you, the pain in his voice, the fear… you know he has.

Once again, you are hit with the monumental urge to protect him, to shield him from the pains and loss of life. You want it too much for him.

“You saved me,” you say quietly in the next moment. “I’m right here. I don’t blame you for anything. I’m not mad about anything, either. Not that it happened and not the… the Red Robin thing, either.”

Tim is quiet for a long moment. Almost long enough for you to think he’s gone to sleep, but the hand at your back, fingers grasping the material of your shirt, tightens slightly. 

“I was going to tell you,” he says at last. Hesitant. But urging, like he needs you to believe him, like he thinks you won’t.

Even after saying you aren’t mad, he still fears it. 

Your heart aches for him in that moment.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “I understand. It’s… it’s a big secret that you can’t just give out easily. I know that. And I’m not mad. I believe you when you say you would’ve told me eventually. I guess… I guess my earlier apology was about that. That I ended up forcing your hand and I don’t want you to… feel obligated.”

The last part comes out unbidden. You tense. 

Tim takes a slow, measured breath. “Obligated how?”

You almost don’t want to answer.

But he doesn’t deserve that. 

“To stick around. I’ll keep your secret. I swear. No matter what happens.”

Quiet again. You don’t know how to take it.

But finally, he shifts back. “Do you not want to —”

“No! I do, I mean, I want to be with you, it’s just, down the line, I don’t know, or if you think it’s too much work since I’m not like you —”

“It’s because of that that I want you,” he breathes, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. “Exactly that.”

You let out a shuddery breath. “I want you, too. All of you, if I can have that. For as long as you’ll have me.”

One of his hands comes to your cheek, thumb stroking gently there. “Okay. Okay. We don’t have to stop this. I don’t want to. You’ll be in danger because of it, not just because of Tim Drake but Red Robin, too. If I was less selfish…”

The thought aches.

“Be selfish,” you whisper. “Because I don’t care.”

You know it’s true. Reckless, probably, but like you just said — you don’t care. How you feel, what you want… it outweighs everything else. Nothing is going to stop you because of it.

His breath catches and he pulls back, pressing his lips to your cheek. You grasp his wrist, holding on tightly.

Pulling away after a minute, he hugs you closer. You tuck your face into his neck, legs tangling beneath the blanket. 

Tim lets out a slow breath. “I love you.”

Your eyes sting. Your throat tightens painfully. “I love you.”

He shudders, lips pressing to your forehead. 

That’s why.

That’s why you don’t care about the danger. About the possibility of this happening again. You would rather have this than let it go. Anything else that happens because of it… it’s worth it.

It’s worth it.

Maybe one day, he’ll believe it.

But for now, this is enough.

Chapter Text

In the morning, you feel a little bit better.

Still shaky, still weak, the back of your head achy and sensitive with the knot there, but better.

Probably because Tim is there.

Curled around you, breathing slow and deep in his sleep. Relaxed, not weary from the weight of the world for once. Once again, you find yourself thinking you’ll do anything you can to carve out this space for him. Anything.

You two get up eventually, though. 

You have questions, questions about the men, about whether anyone else found out you’d been kidnapped.

To your relief, you find that no, the news did not make it to anyone other than him and the Bats. The men who kidnapped you had preexisting charges, too, so they were taken away. 

It makes sense, you learn. All the times Tim or anyone else got kidnapped for ransom, only occasionally did the news break to the public. But most of the time, no. Because by kidnapping anyone in the family… well, you learn, for one, they’re all vigilantes, and two, it cuts out the middleman because the kidnappers are trying to ransom money from the Waynes, not knowing that the Waynes are, well, vigilantes, so the chances of them getting that money are astoundingly low and the chances of them getting found out by Batman and the others are exponentially higher.

For the most part.

Depending on the skill level.

Your kidnappers, like Tim said, were stupid about it. Risky. They did it in the daytime and they did it in a fairly public area. You learn that Oracle, not another vigilante but a helping hand to them nonetheless, was able to find the CCTV footage of the moment it happened and track everything else. 

You ask if you can send her a fruit basket or something in thanks. He says you don’t have to. You disagree, quite frankly.

He (and the others) may be used to it but the fact remains — Oracle is one of the main reasons you are curled up under your blankets with your boyfriend’s arms around you. He knows you appreciate what she did and you want to make sure she knows, too.

Sensing you refuse to budge on this, faintly amused, he agrees.

You sadly lost your phone, too, but that can be replaced. Your stuff from the school and the bike was taken care of as well.

So, really, nothing has changed in the outside world.

You are glad. You wrestled with it a bit, but… you don’t think you can tell your family about this. Not unless you wanted them to freak the hell out. Tim doesn’t have much of an opinion on it. Just says he’ll support whatever you do.

But you think telling them will reset all the progress you’ve made, for as little as it seems. 

You’ll recover from this, physically, and he says he can get you connected to a therapist who you can be honest with. Someone local he and the others know, or someone employed to the Titans or to the League. 

That’s enough. 

Of course, it’s only the first day, so who really knows, but right now, you don’t want to tell them.

There is, obviously, the other thing you’ve learned.

That is, that Bruce Wayne is Batman, Damian Wayne is Robin, Cassandra Wayne is Black Bat, Duke Thomas is Signal, and Stephanie Brown is Spoiler. Oh, and Dick Grayson is Nightwing. 

It’s the kind of thing that seems hilarious, the thought of it, that is. Like if you’re conspiring on their identities, it’s a joke to say Bruce Wayne is Batman.

Then you think about it a little longer, piecing in the knowledge you’ve gleaned about them from Tim and, oh, yeah, that… that kind of makes a lot of sense. 

It just takes billionaire eccentricity to a whole other level.

But it’s not that easy, isn’t it? Why Bruce Wayne does what he does? The thing that turned Park Row, a previously ‘nice’ neighborhood into one riddled with crime? 

The death of his parents. At the shy age of eight-years-old.

It’s… certainly a way to handle your grief.

You stew about it in the shower. Then after, when Tim is showering. You’re curled up on the couch, Ice Age: Meltdown playing on your TV. You checked on the boys when you stepped out. Tim said he fed them when you two got back last night. You feed them again, their breakfast this time. Then you sit down and try to compartmentalize everything you just learned.

Hopefully you’ll have it handled by the time you meet them.

Almost as if on cue, someone knocks on your door.

You jump at the sound, staring at it, your heart starting to pound faster and faster and faster because you are not expecting anyone and neither is he but what do you have to panic about it’s not like potential kidnappers or killers are going to knock on your door —

You hear your name. “It’s Steph! Don’t worry, Cass and Duke are with me, too! We’ll be quick, promise!”

Relaxing and shoving away other anxious thoughts about whether you’re being tricked, you stand, hesitantly opening the door.

Attackers do not ambush you. 

Instead, you get three apologetic smiles. 

Steph lifts two heavy-looking reusable grocery bags. “I come bearing gifts?”

You give her a small smile. “Thanks. Come on in. Just, if you don’t mind, take your shoes off.”

They agree easily, shuffling in one by one. 

Duke is the tallest of them, lean and muscled, with dark brown skin and short black hair and warm dark brown eyes. Cass is the second tallest, lean and muscled, too, with short black hair, pale skin, and dark eyes. 

Duke extends a hand, shooting you a small smile. “You already heard but I’m Duke. It’s nice to finally meet you. Though the circumstances could probably be better…”

“It’s alright. It’s nice to finally meet you guys, too,” you say, shaking his hand. His hands are calloused in a similar way to Tim’s and when you shake Cassandra’s next — Cass, she tells you, gently but firmly — hers are the same, too. You imagine if you felt Steph’s, they’d be like that as well.

The one in question drops the bags onto the small table in the kitchen. “This is all from Alfred. Meal prepped, so it can just go in the freezer and be taken out when you want it. Have you eaten?”

“Ah, no…” You don’t have much of an appetite. 

“That’s okay,” she says easily. “Maybe in a little while. Do you mind if I put it away?”

“Not at all. Thank you. Please tell Alfred I said thanks, too.”

“We’ll pass on the message,” Duke promises.

You sit back down on the couch and gesture for him and Cass to do the same if they’d like. In the kitchen, Steph hums under her breath, moving gracefully as she puts things away. She’ll have to play Tetris with the contents of your unfortunately small freezer.

“We just wanted to come by and introduce ourselves,” Duke says after a moment. “I have class in a little while, at two. But until then —”

“I’ll be here,” Cass says, nodding. “In the area. The danger is gone but…”

“Can’t be too safe,” Duke finishes. 

You frown. “Am I… gonna have to move?”

“Maybe,” Cass says. “Maybe not. We’ll have to see. We’ll watch around here for a while.”

“If things seem good, most likely not. If not…” Duke trails off and you understand.

Yes, you would have to move.

“Would Tim have to as well?”

Amusement flickers over Cass’s face. “Probably not. But he’ll do it, anyway. Just to stay with you.”

“And it would be safer, too,” Duke adds. “He’s your first line of defense, so to speak. We’re more of the preventives.”

You snort. Something about it is funny to you. 

Duke glances around and his eyes land on your tank. “Oh, hey, he mentioned you had pets.”

“Hermit crabs,” Cass says, looking, too, curious.

“Take a look if you’d like.”

They do, bending to peer inside.

“Wow,” Duke says, appearing fascinated. Cass looks the same. “What are their names?”

You get up. Steph, somehow managing to fit everything in the freezer, joins you, shooting you a smile as all of you come around the tank.

You point out each of them, giving their names. “Manny, Diego, and Sid.”

Duke’s smile turns incredulous. “Wait, are those —”

Steph cackles. “From Ice Age?”

Your cheeks warm and you shrug, smiling, simply gesturing at the TV where the second movie is still playing very lowly. 

Cass’s eyebrows furrow. Duke catches it.

“Cassie, don’t tell me you haven’t seen Ice Age.”

“It was never on the list.”

You can’t help yourself. “Have you seen Mamma Mia?”

“Great movie,” Steph says emphatically, Duke nodding in agreement.

“I just saw it,” Cass tells you. “Tim told me to watch it.”

Steph grins. “I wonder why…”

She and Duke grin pointedly at you. Cass snorts.

You just flush, laughing nervously. “He liked it enough. I’m not sure it’s ‘cause of me entirely…”

“No, it is,” Cass says in a matter-of-fact way that you don’t know how to deal with. 

In the bathroom, the shower shuts off. Tim’ll be out soon.

Steph waves you back to the couch. You go gladly, limbs still shaky and weak. She drags over a chair from the table, while Duke and Cass take one side of the couch and you curl up on the other.

“It’s true,” she says, bringing a leg underneath her. Her socks are mismatched. So are Duke’s. Cass’s, matching, have the Batman symbol patterned on them. 

“He was pretty concerned,” Duke says lightly. “Last night.”

Cass makes a noise of agreement.

Steph huffs a laugh. “Well, not just concerned. More than a little pissed off, too.”

You pause. The fuzzy memory of last night, when he came in, plays in your head.

You wonder… No. Do you want to know that?

“What is it?” Cass asks, head tilted, dark eyes on your face.

“How many… how many guys were there?”

“A fair few outside,” Duke says, glancing at the others. “But inside with you? Five of ‘em.”

“And…”

“It was just him,” Cass informs you, already knowing your next question. “He ran in before any of us could.”

“Totally ignored our basic safety protocols,” Duke interjects. “Most likely this one’s influence.” He jabs a thumb at Cass, who simply smiles and shrugs.

“All we had to do was make sure he didn’t get hit doing it,” she says. “We did. We usually do.”

“Because you like to do the same,” he points out, amused.

“You do it, too.”

“Not as often as you do.”

Another shrug. Another smile. Duke rolls his eyes fondly.

“And all five of those guys are in the hospital,” Steph says next, looking at the TV, almost bored. “In the ICU, I heard. Broken ribs, a few collapsed lungs, shattered bones. He did a number on them. I would, too, if it was my girlfriend in there.”

Duke and Cass look like they agree.

You just nod and murmur your thanks, grabbing the remote and raising the volume.

While the three of them watch the movie, your mind is elsewhere. But before you can get too deep in your thoughts, the bathroom door opens and Tim steps out, hair damp, cheeks flushed, dressed in a new t-shirt and sweats. 

“There he is,” Steph says teasingly. Cass waves. 

Duke grins over at him. “Running up your girl’s water bill right after she gets kidnapped? That’s just messed up.”

You snort. 

Tim grins, too, shrugging. “She owes me.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him. A weak attempt, since he catches it as he nears you, bending down to kiss your head. 

The other three make gagging noises.

He straightens, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling as he wedges himself beside you on the couch. “Alright, children. Thank you.”

You laugh and he smiles, tugging you closer. 

The other thing bothers you a bit, but you push it away as Steph teasingly asks him how he’s going to make up for your missed first date and he tells her to mind her own business. 

You can think about the fact that Tim put five men in the ICU for you later.

Much later. 

For now, you’re just… honestly happy to be alive.

Your rescheduled date comes two weeks later.

There is no rush. Mostly because you are… tetchy about going outside. About walking around. 

After all, you had been unceremoniously snatched while walking outside. There is little anyone, even Tim, can do to alleviate that fear, short of teaching you to fight. Not self-defense, but actual hand-to-hand combat skills.

For you, it’s too much too soon.

Maybe later, you can revisit the issue.

But for now, you slowly get acclimated to it. Tim helps. What with being a vigilante and all. The others hang around, too. 

It’s not always going to be like that, though, and you know that. You’ll handle that, however, another time.

For now, two weeks later on a Saturday, you and Tim have your first date.

It helps take your mind off things. Injects a certain normalcy as you fret about what to wear, what to do, the bundle of nerves in your belly refusing to go away even though you’ve faced far worse circumstances.

But it’s that fact that you are worrying — nervous — over something normal that helps.

And of course, you have nothing to be truly nervous about. 

Tim’s initial plans were dinner and a trip to the botanical gardens. He asks if you want to change them.

You don’t.

For one, like you said, it won’t always be like this. It can’t. 

If there is anyone you want to cross that bridge with, it’s him.

So, that’s what you do. 

He brings his camera and snaps pictures of the blooming flowers and thriving trees. He sneaks a few of you, too, despite your embarrassment at it, but you get him back when he lets you steal it from him and take some pictures of him, too (and make him promise not to delete them or critique your photography skills).

But the highlight of it is the white flowering dogwood tree, white flowers in full bloom, healthy and beautiful, where you stand beneath it and share a kiss and think to yourself that you want this, him, forever.

The revelation follows you to dessert. Compounded, actually, by the thoughts that have niggled at you for the past two weeks, about what he did at the warehouse (that’s where you were found, you learn; you didn’t ask that for a while, it never occurred to you, honestly). 

“You look like you have something on your mind,” he says, scooping mint chocolate chip ice cream into his mouth.

The two of you hang out on the patio outside the ice cream place, in a corner away from the others, leaning against the brick of the building. The sun has already set but he told you that Cass — Black Bat — was just a block away, hanging out. 

You swirl your melting chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Mid-June weather calls for brutal heat and humidity. That’s why you two did this later in the day, to avoid the brunt of it. 

“The others told me what happened,” you say hesitantly.

Tim blinks, confused. “About?”

“Sorry. The, um, warehouse. The… guys.”

That you put all five of them in the ICU.

He composes his expression carefully. Not a blank mask but just as good as one. 

“I see.”

Quiet for a moment. He shifts, tossing his cup and spoon into the trash several feet away. They both make it in perfectly.

 He leans back on the wall, like you, hands tucked into his pockets. A slow breeze ruffles his dark hair. The light from inside the parlor casts shadows over his face. Cornflower blue eyes are intent on your face. 

You easily guess what he must be thinking and in the next second, when he speaks, you know you are right.

“Do I scare you?”

You can’t help it.

You scoff. 

He tilts his head and you turn away, finishing your ice cream, then going over to the trash to toss it. You aren’t him. You couldn’t make that throw. When you were in high school, maybe, but your softball skills are basic these days. Enough for a game of catch. When you finally played a match of tennis with him, you were pitifully bad at it. 

Tim, you are starting to realize, is also pitifully bad at realizing how much you love him.

But you can’t blame him for that. Not with the life he has had.

Tim is frowning as you return to him, leaning your shoulder against the wall with a sigh.

“You don’t scare me, Timmy,” you say quietly. “Nothing about you scares me. I’ve been thinking about it ever since and… I know you’ve scaled it back. I know that. But you’ll always have a responsibility to Gotham. I accept that. I do.”

“But?”

You shrug and smile. “But despite that, the truth is, I’m jealous. Not in a way that I want you to put a complete stop to it, because I don’t. I know this city will need you sometimes. I know the others will need you sometimes. I know that. But I still feel what I feel and believe me, you haven’t made me feel second best or anything, I just… I guess in some horrible roundabout way, the fact that you put all five of those guys in the ICU helps it. A little bit.”

A lot.

You shouldn’t let yourself think this way, because it was horribly, horribly violent, but… you are selfish and it means something to you, what he did. 

What he would do for you.

He understands, then, in an instant. 

Tim straightens from the wall, reaching for you, hands cupping your cheeks. His gaze is a shade darker. Your stomach flutters. 

He brings you close, nose brushing yours, lips only a scant few inches apart. He whispers your name in a way that has your knees weak. 

“If you want a list of things I would do for you, just ask. Because that was just the tip of it. Whatever you want me to do, it’s yours and I would do what I did that day a thousand times over with double — triple — the men. I don’t care.”

Maybe it should scare you.

Maybe it should disgust you.

Maybe you aren’t as good a person as you like to think you are.

You don’t care.

All you know is that the thought pleases you. All you know is… you would do the same for him. 

And you know he knows by the way he kisses you, slow but wanting in a way that has heat searing up your spine, in a way that is decidedly not appropriate for this public space you two are in.

“I love you,” you breathe against his lips.

Tim kisses you harder, taking the breath in your lungs, until it burns, but you don’t care, because he doesn’t ever ask for much and if that’s what he wants, then he can have it. 

He pulls away in the next second, clearly restraining himself, forehead leaned against yours. 

“I love you,” he says and it’s not just a declaration of feelings, it’s a promise, it’s a vow.

It’s one you whole-heartedly believe in.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The red that settles high in Tim’s cheeks tells you he is very much not kidding.

“Timmy.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time, okay!”

You can’t help the laughter that rises out of you, even in spite of the embarrassed groan he lets out, burying his face in his hands.

Your breakfast plates sit stacked to the side. Crepes, courtesy of you. Only the best for the birthday boy, after all.

In between you, the unwrapped figurine of the duck you made, accompanied with what you’re sure will be a core memory of Tim, thoroughly embarrassed, telling you how he once went by ‘Drake.’

No, really.

Drake.

There, you suppose, is the true story behind the few times Steph called him Duckboy. You just thought it was his last name but no. It’s not just that. 

You laugh for a little while at that.

He gets fed up eventually, dragging your chair closer to his and unceremoniously lifting you into his lap, grumbling all the while as he presses his face to your shoulder. 

You press your nose to his hair, trying to hold in your giggles. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just… my god, Tim. Maybe I should change your contact name to Duckie.”

“If you do that, I will never talk to you again.”

“Liar.”

“You stink.”

“I love you.”

He sighs and you can hear a smile. “Unfortunately, I love you, too.”

“Alright,” you say, clearing your throat, throwing an arm around his shoulders and squeezing. “Come on. There’s one more.”

“Is it also going to embarrass me?”

“I don’t imagine you have any embarrassing stories connected to this one. Unless you do. I don’t know. You’re not exactly a normal boyfriend.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, pretending to be put out, lifting his head and reaching for the final box. Bigger, this time.

You help him, since he refuses to pull his arm from around your waist. 

Opening the flaps, just one piece of wrapping paper lays over the top, with more stuffed around the sides. He pulls it away, eyebrows furrowing as he leans forward to get a look inside.

You hold the box steady while he pulls it out; you try to calm your racing heart, nerves rearing their head once more as you gauge his reaction.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. All his grouching about imperfections while making your mug. The one you are currently using, last dregs of OJ still in there, sitting near your plates. Its iridescent glaze winks at you from the light above. 

But perfection isn’t everything. 

That’s what inspired you here. 

The pearly blue glaze, the closest approximation that you got to the color of his eyes, gleams under the light. Along with it, the gold that spiders through the surface.

“This is…”

“Kintsugi. It’s not completely authentic, since I broke it on purpose, but I don’t know. I thought it was close enough to the real thing.”

The awed look on his face makes your chest squeeze. Even more so when he pulls his arm from your waist to grasp the mug with both hands, fingers smoothing over the surface.

He murmurs your name, eyes meeting yours, the warmth there making your breath catch.

“I guess you don’t hate it?” you try to joke, mostly to cover for yourself.

He sets it down carefully. Too carefully. You’ll have to tell him it’s as durable as yours. No need to be gentle. After all, if it does accidentally break, well, then you’d have some authentic kintsugi to show for.

“I love it,” he tells you earnestly, arms sliding around you. “Thank you, honey.”

Ooh. Double-whammy. You kiss him just to try and regain your composure. A girl can only take so much love.

(And by the way he smiles against your lips, you know he can tell.)

An indeterminate amount of time later

“No running, boys! Be careful!”

“Sorry!” come the excited voices of the boys, no doubt already halfway down the hall and doing exactly what you told them not to do.

The rest of your kids file out in a much more calm fashion under your careful eye. 

Well, you don’t blame them. It is Halloween after all. Gotham is only safe enough for it during the day and with it being fall, the days grow shorter and shorter. Not much time left to trick-or-treat.

You bid goodbye to your ninth period, telling them to be safe. They respond affirmatively. 

You easily notice Riley lingering behind. She’s dressed as a ladybug. 

You send her a smile as the last kids step out, halls now bursting at the seams with costumed kids, all of them vying to get out and get home.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

She seems a tad embarrassed about something as she digs through her Spoiler themed backpack. It was the first thing you ever spoke to her about — second week of school, most of your kids had warmed up to you but she remained quiet, though you knew from her assignments she had a lot to say. You complimented it at the end of class and that warmed her up to you pretty quickly. 

This is your first batch of kids on your own after the previous seventh grade social studies teacher retired. You were a little scared. Seventh graders aren’t as easy to sway as six graders, but at the same time, they aren’t quite as impenetrable as the eighth graders can be. And by now, by the end of October, you love your kids dearly and you think they love you, too.

(Though they annoy the hell out of you sometimes.)

“Parker wanted me to give you this.”

“Oh?”

She hands you a folded piece of thick orange cardstock. 

Opening it, you can’t stop the big smile that spreads across your lips.

It’s you, to be sure, with Red Robin. Drawn with all the fine motor skills of a four-year-old but no less of a treasure to you. 

You remember little Parker easily.

Teacher-student conferences were last week. Riley had come accompanied with her father and little brother, four-year-old Parker who was particularly cranky that day. You had managed to turn his mood around by engaging him in conversation about the Batman symbol on his t-shirt. Only after gauging his father’s reaction, of course. Some parents are disapproving of it and would not like the thought of their kids’ teacher being approving of them.

Even if the Bats are technically recognized figures. After all, Batman was one of the founders of the Justice League. It didn’t get more official than that, did it?

In any case, while ascertaining that Batman was his favorite of them, you easily divulged that while Batman is very cool, you prefer Red Robin yourself. He took that to heart. What a cute kid. 

“This is great, Riley.”

She shrugs, scuffing a shoe on the tiled floor. “I think he’s got a crush on you. I tried to tell him you were married but he was not having it.”

You carefully set the drawing on your desk, then send her a conspiratorial wink. “Mr. D won’t mind, I promise.”

She laughs.

“Tell Parker I said thank you very much. It’ll go up on the fridge as soon as I get home.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. D. Thanks for putting up with him last week.”

“No thanks necessary. Get home safe, okay?”

“I will. Bye.” She waves, then steps out, joining the last trickle of students in the hall.

Smiling, you tuck the drawing into your binder of assignments to be graded tonight, then start packing up. Much like the kids want to get home and get their trick-or-treating out of the way before the sun sets, you, too, would like to be in the safety of your shared apartment with your husband before it gets dark. 

Half an hour later, you are there, unlocking the door and stepping in. Dinner is already cooking, by the savory smell that hits you, along with a few pangs of hunger. 

Tim is closer to you, though, at the washer and dryer next to the storage closet. He tosses a smile over his shoulder as he dumps clothes into the washer.

“Hey, honey. How was your day?”

“Excellent. I know you and the others usually have your work cut out for you on Halloween but today was great for me. I even got a gift,” you say, shucking off your flats, then bending down to pull out your binder from your bag. 

Orange cardstock in hand, you pad over to him as he sets aside the laundry basket, reaching for the container of pods. Your arms slide around his waist as he tosses one in, shuts the lid, and starts the cycle. 

The washer and dryer were wedding gifts from Dick, who found your story of how you met far too hilarious. The apartment — penthouse, really — was from Bruce. Paid off in full, furnished, along with the most expensive security system known to man. Seriously, like some Justice League level shit; like, actually Justice League, specialized security systems designed by them for members and for friends of the members (which is Bruce here; Tim could have a place in the League but he is too loyal to the Titans).

He once told you the names of the tech protecting you — Thanagarian, Martian, Apokoliptan, and Kryptonian — and you only recognized half of those. That doesn’t include the other more unnerving kinds of security protocols Bruce and Tim came up with.

But the security isn’t all that. The apartment is also only a mile from the school. 

You drive there now these days, though. Just to be safe. 

You pass him the cardstock. “Remember Parker from the conferences last week? I got this today from Riley after school.”

Tim lets out a delighted laugh as he sees the drawing. “Well, that just has to go on the fridge.”

“We’re in agreement there, Mr. Drake.”

He turns around, arms sliding around you, too, raising an eyebrow as you smile mischievously. 

“I was also told that he has a crush on me.”

He sniffs. “Well, he can get in line.”

You sputter a laugh, partially ruining the kiss as he leans down but he just smiles, too.

“Though, from where I stand, I have much better prospects.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really, Mrs. Drake.”

And that speaks for itself, doesn’t it?