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Chapter Text

Gotham’s art museum galas were the sort of event Dick Grayson had gotten used to before he could tie his own tie. Smile, pose, charm the investors, and keep Bruce from brooding too obviously in public. Tonight, the diamond bracelets, champagne flutes, and the low hum of wealth and gossip sparkled under the chandelier light. And somewhere in that crowd, like a sleek shadow with a smile, was Selina Kyle.

Dick had spotted her before Bruce did. Of course he did. While he did the research for this gala, Bruce was patrolling the city and taking care of the Riddler’s latest scheme. It took much convincing for him to step out of his cave (literally) and make an appearance as Brucie Wayne. Dick had been watching Bruce’s line of sight all evening, waiting for that telltale shift.

It happened right as Selina laughed across the room, her hand brushing a glass of champagne off a tray. Bruce froze mid-conversation with a board member. Classic.

Dick grinned. Purr-fect.

He timed it with precision. A quick sidestep near the drink table, a polite excuse to a passing waiter, and—oh no!—a graceful stumble that somehow sent a splash of orange juice arcing through the air.

It landed, naturally, right on Selina’s pale silver gown. A dozen or so socialites gasped as Bruce’s head snapped up.

“Oh no, Miss Kyle, I’m so sorry!” Dick exclaimed, his baby blues batting away any suspicion of wrongdoing. His faux innocence and charm slicked his actions as he handed her a napkin. “My fault entirely. I’ll, uh, go get Bruce. He’s great with…” Dick looked down at the stain, “champagne stains.”

Selina blinked, looking from the spreading disaster to Bruce, who was already crossing the floor. She smirked. “Oh, I’m sure he is.”

Bruce’s face was a masterwork of restrained exasperation as he approached them. “Dick.”

“Bruce!” Dick flashed his pearly whites, sunny as ever. “Selina had a bit of an accident. Thought you were the best person to lend a hand.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Selina took the napkin from Dick’s hand and dabbed at the dress. “Maybe I should get going. Unless a certain billionaire would like to offer his help?” She gave Bruce a slow, feline grin.

Bruce sighed through his teeth. “I’ll call over a staff member.”

“Or,” Dick offered cheerfully, “you could take her to one of the parlor rooms and help her out. Or take her to that little boutique you like. You know, the one with the designer who—”

“Dick.”

That was the tone. The ‘stop talking before I ground you despite you being in your mid-twenties’ tone.

Dick just smiled, raised his glass, and drifted away before Bruce could do more than glare. Mission accomplished.

Later, hours after the gala had ended and Gotham had been washed clean under a thin drizzle, Batman couldn’t help the irritation simmering in the back of his throat.

Nightwing landed lightly on a rooftop ahead, the kind of effortless acrobatics that made his joints ache just watching him. “You’re quiet tonight,” the former Robin called over his shoulder. “Too much brooding, even for you.”

“Why did you do it?” Batman asked, landing behind him.

Nightwing turned, eyes wide behind the mask. “Do what?”

“The champagne stunt.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Oh, that. It was an accident.”

“Dick.”

“Fine,” Nightwing sighed, walking to the edge of the roof and looking down at the lights below. “Maybe it wasn’t a completely spontaneous, in-no-way-calculated accident that just happened to give you an excuse to talk to Selina.”

Batman pinched his nose. “Why?”

“Because,” Nightwing said simply, “you looked like you wanted to talk to her and weren’t going to. So I helped.”

Batman stared at him, the rain beading on his cowl. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“I know, B.” Nightwing turned around. “But you’ve been doing this thing lately where you pretend you’re made of concrete. You’re not.”

“Hngh.”

“She makes you smile. You do remember what that feels like, right?”

There was a long silence. The patter of rain and the hum of distant sirens lulled in the background.

The caped crusader finally said, quiet but firm, “You’re not responsible for my personal life, chum.”

“You say that like you have a personal life.”

Batman shot him a look that said you’re pushing it. “You shouldn’t meddle”

Nightwing held up his hands, laughing. “Alright, alright. But I’m not meddling. I’m investing.”

“Investing in what?”

“Your happiness, B. Someone’s gotta.”

Batman said nothing, turning his gaze back toward the city. They stood like that for a while, watching Gotham breathe. The comm crackled in Nightwing’s ear, and he tapped a hand to it.

“Movement, east quadrant,” he said, frowning. “Small frame, agile, rooftop…” He trailed off midsentence, scanning the skyline until he spotted a familiar silhouette.

A flick of a whip, a glint of silver goggles, the faint sound of laughter carried on the wind. Catwoman.

Batman tensed immediately, ready to move. But before he could, Nightwing put a hand on his arm.

“You know what,” the latter said, tone far too casual, “I think I need to… take care of something.”

Batman turned sharply. “Nightwing—”

But the younger man was already vaulting off the edge of the building with a grin. “Don’t wait up!”

Batman sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose through the cowl again. “He’s twenty-five,” he muttered to no one. “He’s twenty. Five.”

Across the rooftops, Nightwing’s laughter echoed faintly in the rain, just loud enough for Catwoman to turn, smiling in Batman’s direction.

Nightwing caught the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he grappled away.

And for Dick Grayson, that was enough.

Score one for the eldest Robin.

Chapter Text

It started, as these things often did, with Bruce brooding.

Jason had dropped by the Batcave to “borrow” a few EMP grenades and disablers (that’s what he told Alfred, anyways) and found Bruce hunched over the main console with his cowl on the keyboard. He was staring at a news feed of Selina Kyle slipping past security cameras like a black cat through fog.

“Y’know,” Jason said, leaning against Bruce’s chair, “there’s a word for what you’re doing.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “Analyzing criminal patterns?”

“Pining.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose. “Out.”

Jason grinned. “I’m just saying, you could call her. Maybe send a carrier pigeon. You like those, right? Classic, mysterious—”

“Out.”

That was when Jason knew what he had to do.

Not for himself. Not for Bruce. Not even for Gotham.

No, this was about art.

Two nights later, Batman landed on the roof of Gotham National Bank, where a silent alarm had gone off.

Red Hood made sure of that.

The air was sharp and cold. The moon lit up the city’s skyline. And perched on the ledge with a stolen diamond between her fingers was Catwoman.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she purred.

Before Batman could respond, his comm crackled to life with a familiar voice, smug and way too loud.

“And lo and behold! Two star-crossed idiots, atop a world of crime and consequence!” Red Hood came into view from a neighboring rooftop. He pressed a button, and the rooftop lights flickered, then cut out. The soft hum of a security system rose from the walls as metal shutters sealed over every exit with a thunk-thunk-thunk.

Batman immediately went for his wrist comm. “Oracle—” Static.

He tried his gauntlet interface. Locked.

Catwoman tilted her head in a feline-like manner. “New system?”

“Prototype,” Batman muttered. “Waynetech’s automatic lockdown protocol. It shouldn’t trigger unless…”

As he came to a realization, Red Hood’s voice crackled over the comm line once more. “Unless someone remotely activated it, maybe? Just spitballing here.”

“Red Hood.”

“Hey B. Love what you’ve done with the place! Really sets the mood. Very gothic romance meets OSHA compliance.”

Batman pinched his nose through the cowl. “Why aren’t my comms working?”

“Remember when I dropped by the cave to pick up a few EMPs? They ended up being used a lot sooner than I anticipated.”

Catwoman laughed, folding her arms. “You locked us on a roof?”

“Temporarily!” Red Hood flailed about. “Think of it as… emotional exposure therapy. You two are terrible at talking.”

“Red Hood,” Batman growled in his no-nonsense tone, “unlock it.”

“Mmm, see, I would, but I’m on a creative streak. And honestly, I think the city deserves a little poetry.”

“Is he quoting Shakespeare again?” Catwoman asked, exasperation lining her voice.

“Indeed, my feline friend. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth!’ But it does run on WayneTech lockdown software, and I may have borrowed a little help from the inside.”

“You hacked my systems.”

“Borrowed. Big difference. And besides, Oracle signed off on it. Probably. Maybe.”

Batman sighed. “I’m going to dismantle every server you’ve ever touched.”

“Love you too, B.”

Once Red Hood muted himself, the silence between Batman and Catwoman was almost… peaceful. The rain slowed to a mist, the city glimmering below them. Batman examined the lock panel, already calculating override sequences.

Catwoman leaned on a vent, watching him work. “You know, for a man who plans everything, you’re weirdly bad at expecting romance.”

He shot her a look. “This isn’t romance. It’s Red Hood.”

“Your son setting the mood, you mean.”

“Hn,” he grunted, making her smile grow.

After a few moments, she said softly, “You could tell him he’s right.”

Batman paused, gloved fingers stilling on the keypad. “About what?”

“That you care. About me.”

He didn’t reply, but his silence was heavy enough to count.

From the next rooftop over, Red Hood peeked through binoculars, grinning like a man watching his favorite telenovela.

“And lo, our tragic heroes learn communication. Riveting stuff.”

In a few hours, the WayneTech shutters finally retracted with a hiss of hydraulics.

Batman didn’t say a word when they did. He just let out a quiet hm that could’ve meant anything from “I’m impressed” to “I’m adopting another Robin.”

Red Hood, however, was already halfway across the city, congratulating himself.

When Batman finally found him, Red Hood was perched on a water tower, legs dangling, reading The Taming of the Shrew under the neon glow of a billboard. His helmet sat beside him as he picked at his domino mask.

Batman landed behind him without a sound. “You used my company’s security system to stage a date.”

The younger one didn't even look up. “Technically, a therapeutic intervention. I’m basically a couples counselor now. Should probably charge you.”

Batman crossed his arms. “You compromised restricted hardware.”

“‘Compromised’ is such a harsh word,” Red Hood said, flipping a page. “I’d go with ‘repurposed creatively.’ You always told me to think outside the box. I just picked a bigger box. With steel shutters.”

The older man stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then: “You could’ve put Selina in danger.”

Red Hood’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, just enough for Batman to notice.

“She’s Catwoman,” he finally said. “You’re Batman. You two are the least endangered people in Gotham.” He shut the book with a soft thwap. “Besides, you needed a push. Everyone can see it. You get all… growly when her name comes up.”

Batman’s tone stayed calm, but his jaw tightened. “This isn’t something you should involve yourself in.”

Red Hood stood, helmet under his arm, the grin returning. It was smaller this time, almost sincere. “Yeah, well, maybe not. But somebody’s gotta make sure the world’s most emotionally constipated man gets out of his own way.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Rain started to fall again.

Then Batman said quietly, “Don’t do that again.”

Red Hood shrugged. “Can’t promise anything.” He fired his grapnel, swinging off into the Gotham fog. “See you at dinner, B!” he called back. “I’ll bring the relationship charts!”

Batman exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course he will.”

And somewhere above the rooftops, Jason’s laughter echoed.

Chapter Text

It started with a pattern.

That’s all. Just a pattern.

Tim noticed it first on patrol: the way Batman moved after seeing Catwoman. Not dramatically, just cleaner. His strikes landed sharper, his movements flowed smoother, and his timing was unnervingly precise. He didn’t brood after missions the way he normally did. And when she was gone, everything dipped again.

Normal people would’ve shrugged and moved on.

Tim Drake did not.

He opened Excel.

By week two, he had charts.

By week four, he had graphs.

By week six, he had a full-blown case study titled “Project Batnip.”

It wasn’t creepy, not really. Okay, maybe it was a little creepy, but someone had to notice this stuff. And if Batman was statistically happier around Selina Kyle, shouldn’t someone be tracking that? For, like… emotional health reasons?

He logged mission outcomes, combat stats, biometrics, communication word counts, and even the average length of silence in the Batmobile. Every single data point was cross-referenced with known Catwoman sightings. He used color coding, trendlines, even little stars for unusual events.

The results were undeniable.

+19% mission efficiency.

+27% fewer injuries.

-1 brooding episode per night.

Tim highlighted that last one in yellow. For emphasis. Love, it turned out, was quantifiable.

He wasn’t gonna show anyone. He’s not an idiot. But the chart looked so good—color-coded, labeled, neat little trendlines—it deserved to be seen

So he pinned it to the mission board. Temporarily. For science. It was angled perfectly, the lighting catching the graph lines. Bruce saw it thirty minutes later.

“Tim.”

“Yeah?”

Bruce stood next to his chair, holding a printed copy of Project Batnip like it was evidence in a murder trial. “Explain this.”

“It’s a correlation study,” Tim said. “I noticed that your performance spikes after seeing Selina, so I quantified it.”

“You quantified it?”

“Yeah. With data. I can make a PowerPoint if you want?”

“Tim.”

“Fine, a Prezi.”

It should’ve ended there, but nothing in Tim Drake’s life ever ends where it should. This was science. He was allowed to observe. He was allowed to draw conclusions. He was allowed to have a little fun. And maybe be right, terrifyingly right. And look, it wasn’t like he meant for it to leave the Batcave. He just liked to keep his data backed up. And maybe sometimes his work files blurred with his Wayne Enterprises ones.

Because, in addition to being Robin and part-time sleep-deprived vigilante, Tim Drake was also technically the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Which meant he had, at any given time, about twelve open spreadsheets on his desktop: half about market trends, half about Gotham crime rates, and one (very detailed) about how much Bruce’s serotonin spiked after rooftop flirtations.
And when your company’s cybersecurity team is basically Oracle, “private” files don’t stay private.

Now it was floating around Watchtower with comments like:

“This is… surprisingly thorough.” – Diana.

“I’m not sure if I should be impressed or worried.” – Clark.

“Delete this immediately.” – Bruce.

(There was also a note from Barry that just said “LMAO”.)

Tim might’ve felt bad, maybe even embarrassed, but he was too proud of the formatting. Color-coded trendlines, graphs, and even footnotes? It was perfect. Even Oracle had to admit that.

That night when Red Robin was on patrol, Red Hood swung by.

“Hey, Replacement. Saw your ‘Batnip’ charts. You really printed this?”

“Yes?” Red Robin said, shoving another pen behind his ear. “Science. Statistically significant, peer-reviewed by me.”

Red Hood whistled. “Dude, you’re terrifying.”

“I know.”

The next night, Bruce cornered him in his office.

“You leaked confidential data,” he said.

Tim looked up from his triple-monitor setup in the Wayne Tower office. His tie was loose. He sipped on a can of Monster Energy. Various cups of coffee and cans of energy drinks surrounded him. “I didn’t leak anything. Someone else shared it. I’m a victim of my own brilliance.”

“Tim.”

“Look, statistically, you’re happier when she’s around. And that’s an observation.”

“You’re grounded.”

“I’m the CEO. You can’t ground a CEO.”

“I can fire you.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Then who’s going to finish the fiscal quarter report and fix your satellite uplink?”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.”

Tim shrugged. “Maybe buy Selina dinner? You’d probably save like, two muggings a night if you were less tense.”

“Go to bed.”

“It’s four p.m. though?”

“Exactly.”

Later, Jason found him hunched over the Batcomputer again, caffeinated drink #6 in hand.

“Please tell me you’re not still running numbers on the lovebirds,” Jason said, pulling up a chair.

Tim didn’t look up. “I added a new variable.”

Jason leaned over his shoulder. “‘Heart rate per banter minute’? Dude.”

Tim grinned. His eyes were red-rimmed from no sleep, and he looked about two hours away from ascending into the data plane. “It’s spiking.”

Jason sighed. “You’re a freak, Timbers.”

“So I’ve heard,” Tim said.

He clicked something on the Batcomputer, and a new line appeared on the graph.

Jason leaned in. “What’s that?”

“Projected timeline until B confesses his feelings,” Tim said. “Based on current variables and previous behavioral trends.”

Jason blinked. “You’re betting on B’s love life?”

Tim took a long sip of whatever concoction he was drinking. “No,” he said. “I’m predicting it.”
The graph beeped softly.

“Two weeks,” Tim murmured. “Maybe three, if he gets distracted by crime.”

Jason shook his head. “You need help.”

Tim smirked. “That’s what the caffeine's for.”