Chapter Text
At the end of January, when Tim’s in the middle of his post Christmas disappointment spiral, his parents send him his very own card.
He interprets this as their annual Post-Christmas apology.
They also send an email telling him that they trust him to use it responsibly, and he floats on that praise all the way to a cold day in February, when it lands him right in front of a grocery store.
He'd sat at his fathers office computer earlier that day, scrolling through page after page of how stores are designed, and all the social norms people expect you to follow in them.
The electric door swishes open and a gust of warm air brushes past Tim’s cold cheeks as he steps into the warmth of the store.
Then, standing on the industrial door mat, he freezes.
Just from where he's standing, he can see an old man in a vest inspecting the petals of a rose bouquet, a kid with a bright red shirt walking behind a woman with a cart full of cans, and a teenager rustling through a bin, items inside clinking against each other.
There’s way more people than he thought there’d be.
There's a Valentine’s Day display just ahead, full of heart shaped chocolate boxes and teddy bears, the harsh lights above make the reds stand out starkly.
He hears the footsteps behind him a little too late, and a tall man speaking on the phone nearly bowls him over to get into the store.
Tim stumbles to the side, far enough that the door hisses closed, and watches the man march on unbothered.
His nose is running a bit from the cold, and that's the only reason he sniffs loudly.
The kid in the bright red shirt turns to look at him, face wrinkled in disgust and he ducks his head in embarrassment as she walks past him, towards the checkout with her mother.
He sniffs again once their feet disappear, then closes his eyes and sorts through all the stuff he read earlier in his head.
He can do this, he trails Batman around the city at night for pete's sake. He just needs to find out where the clothing is.
His school shoes squeak on the linoleum floor in a way that makes him wince, but he scampers over to the Valentine’s day display and sticks to it like an island, looking past it to try and find the sign for clothing.
He sees the shirts before the sign, but as he’s about to walk over, something catches his eye.
A mannequin torso sits on the table of the Valentine's Day display, wearing a white shirt with red lettering that states proudly in various mismatched fonts:
I don't need a
Valentine
I’ve got ice cream!
Tim squints.
He’s never had a Valentine. He’s never even had a crush.
It’s sprinkled with red and purple hearts.
It’s actually pretty ugly.
Before he knows it, he’s searching the pile beside it for an extra small, and when he finds it he drapes it over his arm.
Then he continues his quest for a new coat to replace the one he tore on a rusty ladder in Crime Alley.
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In the beginning, he was only curious if the shirt he bought happens to be an isolated case, or if there are more.
Soon enough though, with his legs folded beneath him in the big leather chair at his fathers desk, he types ‘How to spend Valentine’s day alone’ into the search bar of the computer.
By the end of the day, there's list in his pocket:
Chocolate
Flowers?
Rom-com
Craft Paper
Ice Cream
He spends his next grocery trip carefully not thinking about how irresponsible his parents would think he’s being.
++++++++
On the fourteenth of February, for the first time in a long time, there isn't a part of Tim waiting to hear a car pull up to the front of the house, and he’s not aching to hear the thunk of a suitcase being set down on hardwood.
The house is quiet, and he's okay with that.
He holds the last paper heart up to the wall, making sure it's straight before pressing it on. He waits a second to make sure the tape sticks before climbing off the barstool he dragged into the living room.
Stepping back, a flock of hearts cover the wall around the TV.
He nods to the pink mass like a teacher nodding at a good answer, then makes his way to the kitchen.
The counters are a mess of cocoa powder and measuring cups, and it still smells like the salmon he ate for dinner.
But set just beside the mess, a wooden tray sits on a tiny section of pristine countertop. It has a neat brownie tower stacked on top, one of his mothers wine glasses beside it.
He goes to the fridge to grab his pitcher of strawberry lemonade and takes the mint chocolate chip ice cream from the freezer.
Getting everything balanced on the tray feels sort of like a game of Tetris, but it's a game he wins.
He shuffles to the coffee table like he’s treading across black ice in the Bowery, holding everything carefully in front of himself to avoid getting anything on his Valentine’s Day shirt.
The rose bouquet on the table shakes as he sets everything down.
He pours some strawberry lemonade into the wine glass, holding back a laugh as he takes a sip, feeling very much like his mother.
He wraps himself up in three blankets, grabs the remote and flops down on the sofa, nearly spilling his drink all over the bright white cushions.
Tons of people are doing exactly what he is, more or less.
It's not not lonely.
But it's not Christmas either.