Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After going undercover as Morgan Clarke, the first time he had to wear a dress stopped being the last time. There was Shannon Herring, Caroline Hill, and a few others that probably shouldn’t have worked as well as they did. The whole gender thing stopped mattering once it became routine, just faces and names swapped like armor. Nothing more.

The rest of the Bats got used to it years ago. He forgets that not everyone else has.

“Tim,” Bart says, leaning so far over the couch he’s basically suspended upside down in midair, his eyes comically wide like he’s trying to take in the entire disguise at once. “Dude. You can’t just walk in here like that without warning people first. I almost short-circuited.”

Tim pauses in the middle of tightening the clasp of the bracelet that doubles as a scanner, sliding the mechanism closed with two practiced fingers. The metal is cool against his wrist and clicks softly when it locks into place. 

“I did warn you.” Tim points out, barely glancing up. “In the briefing.” 

Bart sputters, pointing at him with a half unwrapped granola bar. “Yeah, but I thought you were joking!”

Cassie snorts without looking up from her spot on the arm of the sofa. She has one leg crossed neatly over the other, her boot swinging in a slow rhythm. “He never jokes about missions, Bart.”

“Okay, but there should’ve been a disclaimer! You look fucking ho–”

Tim doesn’t even lift his head fully, the warning in his voice does the work. “Finish that sentence carefully.”

Bart freezes like someone hit pause on him. “Uh. Nice?”

Cassie’s laugh breaks out instantly, bright and sharp. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, like the joke physically pulled her in. “Talk about understatement of the year. Come on Tim, you have to admit, you look amazing.”

Bart squints at Tim, tilting his head as if studying a museum piece. His brows pinch together in exaggerated seriousness. “You know, if you weren’t so obviously you, I’d totally ask for your number.”

Tim finally looks up. His blink is slow, dull, conveying an exhausted really? condensed into one motion. He briefly calculates whether throttling Bart would legally qualify as community service. “Bart.”

“Yes, fearless leader?” 

“Go run laps.”   

Bart beams. “Already did! Twice. Now I’m invested. So what’s your drag name this time?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Please tell me it’s something classy. Like… Anastasia.”

Tim shakes his head, the corner of his mouth betraying him with a quiet, genuine laugh. “It’s Elena. Elena Florence. Daughter of a Metropolis shipping magnate and who also comes from old Gotham money. You’d know that if you were listening during the briefing.” He lifts a brow. “And if you call me ‘fucking hot’ again, I’m making you redo the surveillance reports for the last three missions.”

Bart slumps dramatically against the couch cushions, limbs splayed like he’s been mortally wounded. “Man, you’re no fun in heels.”

“I’m never fun before a mission.” Tim corrects, bending slightly forward to tighten the heel strap. The leather bites just tight enough that if things go sideways, he can still sprint in three-inch heels without breaking an ankle.

 “You’re just nervous the guy won’t fall for you.” Cassie pushes herself up from the couch and steps around him, fingers threading gently into his long hair to fix the last few strands he missed. 

Tim shoots her a flat look, honesty cracking through the deadpan. “Of course I’m nervous,” he says quietly. “If he doesn’t, the mission’s a bust.”

She studies him up and down, checking for any other imperfections, then gives a grin that’s half mischief, half genuine reassurance. “Relax, Pixie Boots. You’re exactly Vale’s type: dark hair, blue eyes, mysterious, looks like she could ruin your life in one night.”

Bart snorts. “Okay, but seriously–” He starts circling Tim, fast enough that the air shifts but slow enough to be deliberately obnoxious, eyes wide with some unholy mix of awe and disbelief. “You look good. Like, uncomfortably good. Are we sure this guy isn’t gonna propose the second he sees you?”

Tim rolls his eyes and clips his earpiece into place, fitting it snug but hidden. “If he does,” he says evenly, “that just makes my job easier.”

“Hey,” Kon’s voice drifts in from the doorway, “You guys almost ready? I–”

He stops mid-step.

Tim glances up.

Kon stands frozen in the doorway, arms swung halfway like he forgot what he was doing with them. His mouth parts slightly, confusion flickering across his face, then softening into something Tim can’t quite categorize. 

“Wow,” Kon finally says, voice a shade too quiet. “You… really went all in.”

Tim arches a brow, letting his amusement smooth over everything else. “Would you prefer I hadn’t?”

Kon blinks, almost startled, and his hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. His gaze flicks to the floor, then the ceiling, then absolutely anywhere that isn’t Tim. “No, I just—uh—didn’t expect it to work that well.”

For half a second, Tim forgets how to breathe.

It’s stupid. It’s nothing. Just surprise in Kon’s tone, maybe confusion, maybe embarrassment. Still, something airy and weightless curls in Tim’s stomach, too quick and too dangerous, and he shoves it down deep where it belongs.

He looks away first.

Bart, of course, bulldozes straight through the moment. “Yeah, ‘cause if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the target, big guy.”

Kon’s head snaps toward him, scandalized. “Bart–”

Cassie kicks Bart in the shin hard enough to make the couch shake. “Shut up, Bart.”

Bart yelps and folds forward, clutching his leg. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking!”

Tim exhales slowly through his nose, reining in every stray emotion until his voice settles into something even. Controlled. “Okay, everyone remember the plan?”

“Watch duty.” Cassie says instantly, flicking her hair back like she hadn’t just committed mild battery.

“Extract the file.” Bart mutters, still rubbing his leg but grinning like the chaos was worth it.

“Emergency exit.” Kon adds quietly, almost thoughtful. His eyes flick toward Tim again, brief but weighted, like he’s trying to map out a new equation in his head.

Tim nods, crisp and composed, though a muscle in his jaw jumps once before he forces stillness back into it. “And try not to cause an international incident this time.”

Bart’s grin returns, bright and shameless. “No promises.”

Tim’s gaze drifts back to Kon. He’s still watching him, still puzzled, still looking like there’s a piece of the picture he hasn’t quite fit into place. The look is quick, gone as soon as it appears, but it hits hard enough to make Tim’s pulse stumble before he locks everything down again.

“Then we’re set,” he says, sliding fully into mission mode like armor snapping shut. His voice is even and professional. “Let’s do it.”

______________________

The ballroom gleams like money.

Crystal chandeliers hang high on the white ceiling, scattering soft gold light across polished marble floors. Waiters glide through the room with silver trays balanced like extensions of their arms. ​​The air hums with laughter and the faint clink of glassware. The music is low and tasteful, strings quietly echoing throughout the room. 

It’s all very old money, Tim thinks, stepping in like he belongs there.

He lifts a hand in a casual, almost absent gesture, fingers brushing the diamond teardrop earring at his left ear, masking the subtle adjustment he makes to the comm hidden beneath it, and lets his gaze sweep the room.

Kon is easy to find, even in a sea of tuxedos and bodyguards. The security uniform fits him well, the crisp white shirt stretching just enough to hint at the muscle beneath, the black tie sitting perfectly centered against his chest. The earpiece hooks behind his ear, giving him a sharper edge, just enough to make him look like the kind of guard you don’t test. He moves with alert precision, scanning the floor with a professionalism that almost hides the warmth beneath it.

Almost.

When their eyes catch across the room, just for a second, Kon gives the faintest nod.

I’m here.

Tim doesn’t know why the reassurance settles in his chest like a steadying hand.

Cassie, by contrast, looks like she was born here. She stands near the balcony, all golden curls and glittering silver, a vision of wealth and effortless confidence. She laughs lightly at something a CEO murmurs, leaning in just enough to seem engaged without giving anything away. Her cover’s one of Vale’s family friends, someone rich, harmless, and charming enough to be underestimated. 

She pulls it off beautifully.

Even across the room, Tim can see conversations orbiting her, people subconsciously drawn to the gravity of her charm. A perfect social distraction. When their eyes meet, she tilts her glass ever so slightly, their agreed-upon signal.

Target’s here.

Magnus Vale. Thirty-nine. Millionaire and collector of other people’s secrets. The kind of man who believes everyone has a price, and that his is the highest. He stands near the grand staircase, surrounded by admirers who laugh half a beat too late and too loud. The type who feeds off his own reflection in their eyes.

Tim breathes out slowly before centering himself. This is what he’s good at: becoming, blending, weaving himself into the shape someone wants to see. He’s done it in interrogation rooms and gala halls alike. It’s all the same game.

He moves through the crowd like smoke, light touches and just enough of a smile to seem unguarded. When Vale glances his way, it’s deliberate, almost testing. A flick of attention meant to hook.

Tim meets it for a heartbeat, then looks away first. 

Never chase the bait when you’ve already set it, his mother used to say.

Instead, he drifts toward the grand piano, a glass of champagne in hand. He sips it delicately and tilts his head slightly, letting the chandelier’s light catch on the ring of diamonds at his throat. Every move is a lure, every detail a calculation.

By the time he looks up again, Vale’s watching him.

Good.

Tim lets their eyes meet just a second too long to make it seem like he hadn’t meant to. Then he smiles, small and knowing, before turning away like he’s already grown bored.

He counts. One... two…

It doesn’t take three.

“Forgive me,” a low, smooth voice says behind him. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Tim turns, slow and practiced, the movement meant to give the impression of surprise without revealing it. Magnus Vale stands there, every inch the polished predator groomed to dominate rooms like this. The kind of man who wears power like it’s been tailored for him: charcoal suit, cufflinks catching the chandelier light, dark hair brushed neatly back from a face built for charm. His smile is easy, inviting, but the eyes do the real work, sharp and assessing, lingering in a way that says Tim has already been measured, appraised, and filed neatly under interesting.

Tim lets his lips curve, just slightly. “No, I don’t believe we have.”

“I’d remember someone as beautiful as you.”

Tim allows a flicker of amusement to play across his face, just enough to look real. “You flatter easily, Mister Vale.” he says, voice teasing but soft. “Do you say that to all your acquaintances at galas?”

Vale chuckles, eyes glinting. “Only the ones worth remembering, Miss...?”

“Florence,” Tim supplies smoothly, extending a hand. “Elena Florence.”

Vale takes it. His touch is light but stiff, the kind of contact meant to imply restraint rather than respect. His lips brush the air just above his knuckles, a performance of etiquette more than a gesture of sincerity.

“A pleasure.” he murmurs into his skin.

“The pleasure’s mutual.”

Their eyes meet again and there’s an almost imperceptible shift, the rhythm of the game falling neatly into place. Vale wants to be intrigued. Tim makes it easy.

“You strike me as someone who doesn’t waste her time.” Vale says, voice low and assessing. “So tell me, what brings you here? Business? Connections? Curiosity?”

Tim tilts his head, letting the chandelier light glance off the diamonds at his throat. His smile is slow, deliberate. “Can’t it be all?” he replies smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue like silk.

Vale’s answering laugh is low and indulgent, exactly what Tim expected. His gaze drags over Tim’s face, down the delicate line of his collarbones, cataloguing. “I think I’d like to get to know you, Miss Florence.”

“Oh?” Tim breathes, pretending to be flattered, voice soft and poised. “Then I suppose we should start properly.”

He glances around, scanning for a server, and right on cue, Bart glides on by, though no one would know beneath the crisp white uniform and perfectly balanced tray. Tim catches his movement without breaking character, setting down his empty glass with practiced ease. He plucks two fresh flutes of champagne from the tray, one for himself and one for Vale, and turns back with a graceful pivot.

“A toast.” he says, offering one glass to Vale, his expression all poised intrigue and soft invitation.

Vale raises a brow, amused as he accepts the drink. “To what?”

Tim lets his smile unfurl slowly, warm at the edges and sharp at the center. “To new acquaintances.”

Their glasses meet with a delicate chime that’s almost swallowed by the drifting strings of the orchestra. 

“New acquaintances,” Vale echoes, raising his glass slightly before taking a measured sip. His eyes never leave Tim’s face. As he lowers the flute, his gaze narrows, the charm momentarily stripped away to reveal something sharper beneath. “Something tells me you’re not as simple as you seem, Miss Florence.”

Tim brings the glass to his lips, taking a sip as though the comment hasn’t affected him at all. He meets Vale’s stare head-on, letting the moment linger until the air tightens delicately between them. “Good,” he murmurs. “Simple is boring.”

Vale’s brow arches, lips quirking into a half-smile. “Is that so?”

Tim’s smile deepens, a slow curve of deliberate mischief. “Oh, absolutely. Life’s too short for predictable conversation. Or predictable company.” His tone curls around the words, low and playful, but at the same time dangerous, “Don’t you agree?”

Vale chuckles softly, eyes glinting with interest. “I might… if I could be certain someone could keep up.”

Tim tilts his head, feigning thought, then lets a hint of a smirk bloom. “I can keep up just fine, though people seem to have a habit of constantly underestimating me. Guess that’s part of the fun.” He lets the words linger in the air, the sound of it teasing and daring at once.

Vale’s smirk widens, his gaze darkening, sharpened by intrigue. “You do like to tempt, don’t you, Miss Florence?”

Tim lifts his chin, letting the chandelier’s glow skim across his cheekbones. His lashes lower just slightly, a practiced gesture of playful deflection. “Whatever are you talking about?” he asks, voice feather-light, perfectly insincere.

Vale steps closer, not enough to break etiquette, but enough that Tim can feel the faint brush of warmth from his body, the underlying scent of his cologne threading through the air. “And here I thought I was the one with the reputation for strategy and foresight.” Vale says softly.

Tim flicks his gaze upward to meet his, a glimmer of amusement flickering there. “Ah,” he murmurs, letting the sound slip between them like a secret, “but even the sharpest minds enjoy a little challenge. Don’t you?”

Vale’s voice lowers, velvet wrapped around heat, every syllable dipped in civility masking recognition. “Miss Florence, you have a way of making things feel new.”

Tim lets a small smile tug at his lips, indulgent and knowing. He rolls his eyes just enough to appear modest, though the gesture only heightens the effect. “Oh, I do try,” he says lightly. “I find assertion tends to get people every time.” Then, with a soft tilt of his head, he adds, “Or is it me that keeps you intrigued?”

Vale’s smirk deepens into something darker, steadier. “Perhaps both,” he says. “I have a feeling there’s a lot more under that calm exterior than meets the eye.”

Tim steps closer, closing the distance until only a fraction of breath remains between them. His perfume threads through the space, flowery and sweet. The champagne in his glass fizzes softly, almost swallowed by the hush of their proximity. When he speaks, his voice drops into a seductive drawl, smooth as silk and edged with danger.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?”

Tim inclines his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips and before he knows it, they’re in an empty hallway, footsteps echoing softly against marble. The crowd and music of the ballroom vanish behind them, leaving only the faint hum of air conditioning and the occasional clink of glass from distant staff.

Vale reaches for Tim, a confident hand grabbing at his waist, pulling him close. Their lips crash together, sudden and hungry. The taste of champagne and cologne mixes on his tongue and it takes everything in him not to grimace. God, this is vile. When Vale deepens the kiss, Tim lets him for exactly two seconds before pulling back, breath feathering against Vale’s lips.

“Mmm, too public,” Tim murmurs, voice a velvet tease. His fingertips skim Vale’s chest with practiced ease. “My father would kill me if the press got a hold of this.”

Vale’s mouth curls slow and predatory. “My bedroom, perhaps?”

Tim glances toward the grand staircase with the faintest flicker of consideration, then down the side corridor leading into the innermost private rooms. His smile returns, feather-light, perfectly placed. “Lead the way, Mister Vale.”

Vale chuckles, dark and low, leaning in again. His hand brushes over the small of Tim’s back, guiding him forward. The marble floors reflect the amber glow of wall sconces, and every few steps, Tim catches their blurred reflection in the glass. Vale’s tall, predatory frame looms beside him, and himself, the picture of composed confidence.

Vale stops before a heavy oak door near the end of the hall. “I don’t let just anyone in here.” he says, tone thick with implication.

“I’m flattered.” Tim replies, low and warm, keeping his focus on Vale’s eyes until Vale turns toward the security pad. 

Only then does Tim’s gaze drift to the door, noting the intricate lock and faintly glowing keypad. A thin light scans his face before a faint beep confirms the first lock.

“Voice authorization: Magnus Vale.” he says smoothly, and the second lock clicks.

Then, pressing his thumb to a small biometric plate, the third seal disengages with a soft hiss, the sound of luxury-level security. Tim’s pulse picks up, though not for the reason Vale assumes. Got it. Face, voice, fingerprint. All recorded.

Vale gestures him in first, a predator inviting prey into the den. “After you.”

Tim steps inside.

The room is vast. Marble floors slip into view first, cool and reflective under the low light. One wall is made of pure glass, stretching from floor to ceiling, the city skyline glittering beyond it like spilled diamonds. Dim sconces cast everything in a warm, champagne-colored haze. The air smells faintly of musk, leather, and wealth, the scent of a man who hoards secrets and enjoys appearing untouchable.

The door closes behind them with a soft, definitive click.

Vale follows, already reaching. Fingers slide around Tim’s waist again, more urgent this time. “Now,” he breathes near Tim’s ear, “where were we–”

Tim moves.

It happens so fast Vale doesn’t even have time to blink. One moment, Tim’s standing in front of him, all coy smiles and fluttering lashes, and the next, his hand snaps up, deflecting Vale’s reach with a twist of the wrist sharp enough to make tendons strain. 

Vale chokes out a startled squawk but before he can say anything, Tim grabs a fistful of Vale’s styled hair and drives his skull into the doorframe. A sickening thud reverberates through the wood as Vale’s knees buckle, his body folding in on itself like a marionette with its strings clipped, slumping onto the polished marble.

Tim stands over him for a beat, chest rising once, twice. Then he releases a slow breath, letting his composure slide back into place like armor locking into position. He crouches, fingers at Vale’s throat. Pulse steady. Unconscious. Clean hit.

Perfect.

Tim taps a hand to his earpiece. “I’m in.”

Cassie bursts through the line immediately, breathless and relieved, like she’d been holding tension in her bones. “Oh thank god. You had us sweating bullets out here.”

“I’m fine,” Tim mutters, already scanning the room’s layout, eyes sharp and assessing. “Vale’s down. Keep eyes on the hallway. I won’t be long.”

“Copy that,” Bart chirps in, words tumbling over each other, quick and jittery. “How’s Romeo doing? Sleeping beauty or snoring beauty?”

Tim gives a quiet huff, not quite amusement, but close. “Unconscious beauty. Don’t get distracted.”

There’s a brief crackle over the comm, the soft shift of air on the other end. Then Kon’s voice comes through, low and steady, loosening the tight coil in Tim’s chest. “Good luck, Rob. Call me if you need anything. I’m here.”

Tim’s lips twitch faintly, a tiny flicker of warmth. “I know.”

Focus, Drake.

Tim scans the room again. The safe is somewhere hidden in here. Great.

He starts with the obvious. Tim crouches beside the nightstand, sliding open the top drawer with gloved fingers. Smooth mechanics. Inside is a velvet watch box, cufflinks, a silver money clip with gaudy engraved initials. Useless. He shuts it softly, the sound almost lost beneath the hum of the air vent.

Next, the bed. He drops to one knee, scanning the shadowed underside. Dustless. Immaculate. Too clean. He runs a hand along the bedframe, knuckles brushing polished steel. No seams. No false panels. He taps the marble once with his heel. Solid.

He straightens, eyes narrowing slightly as he surveys the walls.

Maybe…

Tim twists the silver band on his wrist. The face flickers from black to electric blue and a three-dimensional blueprint of the room hums to life above his hand, every line precise, every measurement exact down to the millimeter.

He tilts his wrist, frowning. The projection shows 9.4 meters from corner to corner. But the actual room? 9.2. Coincidentally, the perfect size of a standard safe.

Tim’s lips twitch, just barely. “There you are.”

He swipes the hologram away, reducing it to a small, pulsing light by his wrist. Then he moves, tracing a path along the west wall. The bookshelf looks ordinary enough: thick spines, evenly spaced, color-coded, but the geometry doesn’t lie. He glides a hand across the shelf, fingers trailing until one spine clicks slightly out of alignment.

He pulls it.

A muted click breaks the silence, followed by the soft mechanical hum of hydraulics. A section of wall glides backward, seamless and smooth, revealing a recessed alcove.

“Found you.” Tim murmurs, pushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

The safe gleams from within the alcove, black titanium edges, sharp as glass. In the center, a circular glass pad glows faintly blue. Fingerprint access only.

“Predictable,” Tim mutters under his breath. “Narcissists always are.”

He glances back toward Vale’s unconscious body sprawled elegantly across the carpet, half in shadow. Tim slips a hand into his clutch, retrieving a slim strip of transparent tape with a thin layer of polymer. He moves efficiently, crouching beside Vale and pressing the strip gently against his index finger. The print lifts perfectly, every ridge and spiral captured like art.

He crosses back to the safe, smooth and silent, pressing the taped fingerprint to the scanner with his own. The blue light scans once, twice, then clicks green. A faint hiss of pressurized air escapes as the door unlocks.

Tim allows himself a small, satisfied smirk. “And they said charm was my best asset.”

He opens it.

Empty.

No file, no drive, not so much as a single forgotten coin. Just a hollow, polished cavity staring back at him with the smug blankness of a magician’s empty hat. The quiet feels accusatory, almost mocking. 

His brow knots. “…You have got to be kidding me.”

He presses a gloved palm to the back of the compartment, sweeping for hidden seams. He runs his fingers along the edges, the cold metal brushing under his touch. Nothing clicks, nothing shifts. He pulls a micro-light from the wristband at his arm and angles the beam into every shadowed corner, scanning for anything: thermal residue, adhesive halo, wiring, even dust displacement.

Clean. Like someone had deliberately scrubbed each speck of evidence out of it.

He exhales, sharp and annoyed. “The safe’s clean. As in empty.” he says into his comm, voice flat, stripped down to its blade-edge.

Bart’s reply sparks through the channel, incredulous and way too loud. “Empty? Dude, he was literally bragging to that banker about his ‘uncrackable system’ twenty minutes ago. Are you sure it’s not one of those double safes? Like, secret safe inside the secret safe?”

Tim squints at the frame again, methodical. “No false hinge, no thermal inconsistencies. It’s empty.”

Kon’s voice comes on next, steady and low, the tone he uses when opening an exit plan in his head. “Then someone beat us to it.”

Yes, that could be an option to consider.

“Or,” Tim murmurs, straightening as the threads begin to weave together in his head, “Vale moved the contents himself.”

He steps back, giving the room a second sweep. The art is arranged to look expensive but impersonal, the glass and chrome designed to reflect wealth, not meaning. The bed is too perfect, too staged, a showroom disguised as a life.

If Vale wanted something truly hidden, he wouldn’t lock it where guests might wander. He’d bury it somewhere unassuming, somewhere that pretended it wasn’t a hiding place.

Tim’s eyes narrow, theories slotting into place. “No. We made a mistake. This room is private, hidden, but he  wouldn’t keep anything important here. This room’s for presentation, not security. If he really wanted to protect something–”

“It’d be in his study.” Cassie finishes, her voice crisp.

“Exactly.” Tim’s voice sharpens with purpose. “Cassie, start making your exit. Don’t draw attention. Bart, stay on floor sweep. If security catches on, I want a thirty-second warning before this entire place shuts down. Kon–”

“Yeah?” The warmth in his voice is quiet but unmistakable.

“Meet me in the bedroom. Bring the decryptor. If my assumptions are right, this bastard will have the same lock on his study. I’ll need to mirror the system before alarms start blaring.”

Kon gives a soft hum of acknowledgment, “On my way.”

Tim drops his hand from the earpiece and turns back toward Vale, who lies perfectly still, sprawled across the polished marble like a rag doll. His expensive suit is rumpled, one cufflink glinting uselessly in the low light. He doesn’t so much as twitch. 

Tim exhales through his nose, the faintest ripple of annoyance crossing his face.

Now, what to do with him.

Chapter Text

Kon’s in position, doing his best impression of a statue. The tailored tux he got specifically for the mission fits him well, too well honestly. The thing’s tailored so close it’s like a second skin, nearly suffocating him. Between that and the discreet earpiece tucked behind his right ear, he looks every inch the part of high-end private security. Three different guests have already asked him where the bathrooms are. He answered all of them in the same flat, clipped voice.

It’s easier than thinking about why he’s actually here.

The ballroom hums around him, soft music drifting from a string quartet, crystal glasses chiming like crystals, champagne pouring in thin, glittering streams. Laughter spills in little bursts, too loud and flat, each note sounding rehearsed like they spent all their free time giggling at themselves in the mirror.

Kon is supposed to be watching for movement, keeping an eye on exits, tracking suspicious glances, and technically, he is doing all of that. But his mind keeps drifting, keeps circling back to him.

Tim Drake.

Or rather, the person Tim is pretending to be tonight.

He still can’t shake the image of him back at Titans Tower, standing there like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just stolen every coherent thought out of Kon’s skull.

Tim’s hair had been the same soft, dark color, but longer tonight, coaxed into smooth, elegant waves that fell down his bare back. And the gown, god, the gown had been a deep wine red, fitted at the waist and flowing like liquid velvet when he moved. Tim had adjusted one of the shoulder straps with a practiced flick of his fingers, completely unbothered, while Kon literally forgot how to breathe for a full, humiliating second.

He’s never been the type to lose his cool, but there’s something about Tim tonight, something different yet at the same time, unmistakably him that hits Kon sideways. The confidence, the composure, the quiet precision in even the angle of his wrist… it’s all familiar, all Tim, just wrapped in a shape that rewires something in Kon’s chest.

And now, standing stiff among actual billionaires and political elites, Kon feels that same jolt again, something tangled between admiration and confusion, pulling tight in his chest. He keeps scanning the crowd like he’s supposed to, eyes tracing the edge of the ballroom, waiting for that flash of recognition.

And then, there.

She—no, he—enters the room, the disguise seamless enough that even Kon has to remind himself who he’s looking at. Tim moves like he was born to glide across marble floors, his posture perfect, his chin raised high, each step elegant but soft. The champagne-gold lighting washes over him, catching on the diamonds at his throat and the subtle shimmer woven into the dress fabric.

Kon’s eyes track him automatically, helplessly, as Tim slips into the current of bodies.

For a second, Tim glances his way. Just a flicker, barely-there eye contact across a sea of glittering strangers and money-drenched elites.

Kon straightens almost imperceptibly, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting. He keeps the mask, keeps the statue-still posture, but he gives the tiniest nod.

I’m here.

Tim’s gaze lingers for a heartbeat or two, just long enough for Kon to catch the faintest glint of recognition. Then Tim looks away again, swallowed by the crowd, all elegant poise and slow, purposeful steps toward his target.

Kon exhales, a tight, controlled breath, forcing the tension out of his jaw and drags his eyes anywhere else because staring at Tim is not part of the mission. But every time he looks away, his focus slips. His mind drifts back unconciously to him. To Tim Drake in that godforsaken dress.

And god help him, it might not just be admiration anymore. There’s something else twisting low in his chest, something sharp and messy and absolutely not part of the mission. Something that feels dangerous and he has no idea what to do with it.

He keeps Tim in his periphery, watching the way Tim tilts his head when approached, offering polite smiles just warm enough to draw interest. The way people lean closer, charmed without realizing it.

Tim’s good at this.

Too good.

And then Vale appears.

Kon spots him before Tim does, tall and tan, an expensive smile already sharpening at the edges. He navigates the crowd in a straight line, eyes tracking Tim like he’s an object to purchase.

Kon goes still.

Vale stops in front of him with a practiced grin, and Tim answers it perfectly. He touches Vale’s sleeve lightly, a gesture of familiarity, of trust. His smile curves just right, eyes softening in that precise way that makes people feel chosen.

It’s beautiful.

It’s practiced.

It’s completely fake.

Kon knows that. He’s memorized every line of Tim’s expression, knows how much of it is calculated, how many layers deep the act goes. But something in him still bristles.

His jaw tightens once more, teeth gritting as Vale leans in too close, fingers brushing lightly against Tim’s wrist. It’s a small touch, nothing by normal standards, but Kon’s pulse spikes anyway. For one dizzy second, his body moves before he thinks, just one step forward, his weight shifting toward intervention.

He catches himself.

Don’t.

His hand flexes once at his side. Tim would kill him and not symbolically or with words. Tim would actually throw him off the balcony and make it look like an accident if Kon blew the mission because he couldn’t get a grip on whatever feeling is shifting around in his chest. Whatever this fiery heat is, simmering under his ribs.

So he just stands there and watches, helpless as Tim flirts with a man more than twice his age who doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as him. And the worst part is how effective it is. Vale is hooked instantly, eyes trailing down Tim when he tips his head back to take a sip.

Another sharp pang shoots through his chest and when Tim laughs, soft and warm and perfect, Kon has to look away. Look anywhere else. The ceiling. The exit. The nearest marble column. Anywhere but the curl of Tim’s mouth or the way his eyes go gentle even when they mean nothing.

He hates it. Hates how sharp it is. How beautiful.

He glances back just in time to see Tim lean in, whispering something too quiet for Kon to parse even with his hearing. Tim’s lips move like the words are silk and Vale drinks it in. Then a hand, large and smooth, is suddenly on the small of Tim’s back, guiding him through the crowd.

Kon’s body surges with instinct, a near-physical urge to shove through every billionaire in the room and rip Tim out of Vale’s orbit.

He nearly moves. Nearly.

But he doesn’t.

He stays exactly where he is, anchored, unmoving, rigid with restraint. Right where the mission needs him to be. Right where Tim told him to be.

He holds still even when Tim disappears fully from view, swallowed by the glittering crowd. Every instinct screams at him to follow. Every logical thought hammers at him not to. Not now. Not like this.

He forces himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

Slow and controlled. 

The crisp collar of his tux suddenly feels too tight, choking him. He reaches up and adjusts it roughly, pretending it’s just the warmth of the packed banquet hall, the press of bodies, the heat of the lights.

But he knows better.

His mind keeps replaying the same snapshot: Vale’s hand on Tim’s waist, the subtle lean of Tim’s body, the way he made it look easy, effortless, as if none of it bothered him.

Kon’s fingers twitch. He wants to punch something. Preferably someone. Preferably Vale.

He tells himself it’s because they’re best friends. Because no one knows Tim the way he does. Because if anyone can keep him safe, it’s Kon.

He remembers late Tower nights, missions that ran too long, cold pizza inhaled at 2 A.M., Tim hunched over the console with dark circles like bruises under his eyes but still analyzing three cases at once. 

He remembers the rare moments Tim let his guard down, the soft laugh when a joke hit just right, the way his eyes widened with sheer incredulity when Kon cracked a tricky security code first. The nights they sat in silence on the roof, city lights sprawled beneath them, talking about nothing and everything, letting the weight of the world settle just enough to breathe.

Kon tells himself it’s protectiveness. That he’s just worried. That he’d do this for any teammate. That’s all this is.

But the words don’t sit right. They feel thin, flimsy, like excuses stretched too tight over something he refuses to look at directly.

Kon exhales hard and scrubs a hand over his face, thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw. “Pull it together, Kent.” he mutters under his breath. “He’s fine. He’s got this.”

He’s Red Robin for fuck’s sake. He can handle himself. 

Except his heart doesn’t seem to buy it. It keeps pounding heavy, like it’s waiting for impact.

Then the comm crackles softly in his ear, and Tim’s voice slides through the static like it’s nothing. “I’m in.”

Kon’s head snaps up so fast his neck almost pops.

Cassie breathes out, audible relief rushing through the channel. “Oh thank god. You had us sweating bullets out here, Tim.”

For a moment Kon doesn’t even speak. He just stares toward the corridor where Tim disappeared, pulse kicking hard in his throat. Relief floods him sharp and sudden, so strong it almost knocks the air out of him. His shoulders drop before he can stop them. 

God. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until that moment loosened him.

“I’m fine,” Tim mutters, brisk and clipped, the way he gets when he’s focused. “Vale’s down. Keep eyes on the hallway. I won’t be long.”

“Copy that,” Bart chirps, jittery with nerves. “How’s Romeo doing? Sleeping beauty or snoring beauty?”

Tim gives a quiet, barely audible huff of amusement. “Unconscious beauty. Don’t get distracted.”

Kon adds his voice without thinking. “Good luck, Rob. Call me if you need help. I’m here.”

A beat. 

Then, soft and certain, “I know.”

Something warm and sharp curls beneath Kon’s ribs at that. 

Knowing Tim is okay, he forces himself to turn back toward the ballroom, resuming his statue posture with his shoulders squared, face blank, and eyes sharp. Every now and then, he catches Bart zipping past with a tray, or Cassie smiling politely at someone Kon’s pretty sure is laundering money. Everything looks normal.

Almost seven minutes later, not that Kon was meticulously counting, Tim’s voice crackles through again, this time edged with irritation.

“The safe’s clean. As in empty.”

Bart sputters. “Empty? Dude, he was literally bragging to that banker about his ‘uncrackable system’ twenty minutes ago. Are you sure it’s not one of those double safes? Like, secret safe inside the secret safe?”

“No false hinge, no thermal inconsistencies. It’s empty.” Tim replies, curt.

Kon feels his jaw tighten. “Then someone beat us to it.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Or,” Tim says, voice shifting into that razor-focused tone Kon knows means he’s tearing through theories at lightning speed, “Vale moved the contents himself.”

There’s a faint rustle on the comm like Tim is pacing back and forth, thinking. “No. We made a mistake. This room is private, hidden, but he wouldn’t keep anything important here. This room’s for presentation, not security. If he really wanted to protect something–”

“It’d be in his study.” Cassie finishes.

“Exactly.” Tim’s voice snaps into command. “Cassie, start making your exit. Don’t draw attention. Bart, stay on floor sweep. If security catches on, I want a thirty-second warning before this entire place shuts down. Kon–”

“Yeah?” It comes out too fast. Too eager. He feels heat crawl up his neck.

Tim doesn’t mention it. Just keeps going. “Meet me in the bedroom. Bring the decryptor. If my assumptions are right, this bastard will have the same lock on his study. I’ll need to mirror the system before alarms start blaring.”

Kon stands a little straighter. “On my way.”

Kon moves quickly, slipping away from the glittering edge of the ballroom and into the darker spine of the estate. The shift is immediate and jarring, warm gold to cold utility, perfume to floor polish, champagne laughter to the low thrum of generators behind the wall.

Servers in crisp uniforms rush past him, trays balanced like shields, too busy and too stressed to look twice at a man in a tux wandering the service wing.

Good. He doesn’t want to be noticed.

The tux hides more than muscle tonight. In the inner pocket of his jacket, the computer sits folded flat, disguised as nothing more than reinforced padding. Kon palms the shape through the fabric, presses it closer to his sternum before pushing deeper into the corridor.

The moment the ballroom noise finally fades into a distant wash, Kon listens. The sound hits him like a sea of messy and layered noise, nearly overwhelming. Dozens of heartbeats overlap in rhythms, scattered conversations rise and fall, shoes shuffle here and there. He pushes the noise aside, filtering through it all, sifting for the one beat he actually cares about.

Not the guard leaning idly by the archway, foot tapping against the stone. Not the couple arguing softly outside the gallery, voices clipped. Not the bored waiter, pulse so slow it seems measured in minutes, not seconds. None of them are him.

Kon pushes further, narrowing his focus. The world contracts into a thin, sharp thread, vibrating only with what matters. And there it is. A small, steady rhythm he could pick out even in a hurricane.

Tim.

And he’s not on this floor.

Kon straightens, tilting his head, chasing the faint heartbeat upward. It’s muffled beneath the orchestra’s violins, but unmistakable. The pulse rises just a fraction, a subtle lift as if Tim is exerting himself or hauling something heavy.

He starts toward the grand staircase, each step echoing softly, carrying through the corridor. Kon moves deliberately, taking the stairs two at a time, every muscle coiled and ready, senses tuned to the smallest sound that might betray his presence.

At the top, he turns left, walking deeper into the corridor. It’s quiet here except for the soft tap of his own steps. He times his movement perfectly between two patrol loops and eases the bedroom door open with a whisper of effort.

He blinks at the scene before him.

Tim has Vale half-dragged, half-wrestled toward the closet. The man’s wrists are bound with his own tie, Kon realizes, biting back a laugh, and his expensive suit is rumpled and crooked, the silk shirt inside wrinkled in all the wrong ways. Tim’s hands are tucked firmly under Vale’s armpits, shoving the dead weight into the closet like it’s a casual Tuesday chore.

He looks up at the sound of the door, cheeks flushed, breath a little quick, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and smug delight. “Took you long enough, Clone Boy.”

Kon pretends, valiantly, that the nickname doesn’t do something catastrophic to his heart rate.

“Sorry, you know sneaking isn’t my strong suit.” His grin comes easy as he steps forward, one hand already slipping into place, seamlessly taking over Vale’s weight, while the other reaches into his coat, pulling out the computer.

Tim drops the man the instant Kon’s grip closes and Kon barely has the tablet halfway out before Tim plucks it from his hand, already shifting his focus to the screen.

Kon finishes shoving Vale into the closet, swinging the door shut with far more force than necessary. The frame rattles, a loud wooden shudder that echoes through the room.

It feels good.

Kon dusts off his hands, leaning a shoulder against the wall as Tim’s fingers blur over the keyboard. “So,” Kon drawls, “How are you planning on getting Cassie into the study?”

Tim doesn’t look up. “Door’s coded to the same security framework as the bedroom.” His fingers race over the keyboard, the decryptor humming like a heartbeat. “Now that I’ve got the encryption pattern, I can spoof the signal remotely.”

“So… hacking.”

“So effective hacking.” Tim corrects, clipped but undeniably smug. His eyes flick between the decryptor and cascading lines of code, absorbing everything at a pace that shouldn’t be humanly possible.

Kon watches him, admiring the curve of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, the way his fingers blur like they’re dancing over the keys, and something in his chest pulls tight.

“Cassie will have a thirty-second window before the failsafe kicks in.” Tim continues, “That’s more than enough time. Let’s just hope she doesn’t get caught.”

Chapter Text

“The safe’s clean. As in empty.” 

Cassie’s breath catches before the shock even registers. She freezes mid-movement, her champagne glass hovering halfway to her mouth, the sweet fizz brushing her upper lip. Her smile stays plastered in place like a last-minute prop, but her pulse spikes hard.

“Empty?” Bart blurts into the comm, too loud, too Bart. “Dude, he was literally bragging to that banker about his ‘uncrackable system’ twenty minutes ago. Are you sure it’s not one of those double safes? Like, secret safe inside the secret safe?”

Tim’s voice comes back calm but clipped. “No false hinge, no thermal inconsistencies. It’s empty.”

“Then someone beat us to it.” Kon says.

“Or,” Tim adds, his voice tightening with layered irritation, “Vale moved the contents himself.”

There’s a pause, Cassie recognizes it as Tim thinking, “No, we made a mistake. This room is private, hidden, but he wouldn’t keep it here. This room’s for presentation, not security.” Tim is pacing now, she can hear the subtle shift of air, the shift of his breath as his brain races. “If he really wanted to protect something–”

“It’d be in his study.” Cassie murmurs, realization slotting into place with a cold click.

“Exactly.” Tim’s voice sharpens like a knife being honed. “Cassie, start making your exit. Don’t draw attention. Bart, stay on floor sweep. If security catches on, I want a thirty-second warning before this entire place shuts down.”

The command slams through her like a stone dropped into still water.

“Copy.” Cassie sets the untouched champagne on the balustrade, making the motion look casual, a girl simply setting aside her drink to greet a new group. 

“Kon–” Tim continues.

“Yeah?” Kon replies instantly, too fast, too warm.

Cassie nearly snorts, slipping between a trio of laughing guests. Subtle as a brick that one. She shakes her head faintly, wondering how Tim, the smartest guy she knows, tactical genius, human lie detector, is somehow oblivious to the starry-eyed puppy routine Kon’s been doing all night.

“Meet me in the bedroom.” Tim says, all business. “Bring the decryptor. If my assumptions are right, this bastard will have the same lock on his study. I’ll need to mirror the system before alarms start blaring.”

“On my way.”

She exchanges a few flirty hellos on the way, every friendly interaction a small mask. Internally, her mind runs a complete architectural schematic of Vale’s estate. She remembers seeing the blueprint during their briefing, remembers the study is upstairs, but in a place this size, “upstairs” could mean six different wings.

She glides into the service corridors where the staff travels, unnoticed and unimportant by design. Down here everything feels colder. The marble floor doesn’t gleam, the air smells faintly of cleaning chemicals, and the gilded frames on the walls look less like art and more like portraits of people judging who does and doesn’t belong. It’s the kind of hallway meant to make you move quickly.

She lowers her voice to the comm. “Tim, I’m moving toward what should be the west wing. Which way do I go?”

“Straight down the hall, make a left, second door from the left.” Tim answers, clipped and focused. “I’m getting through the last of his security. You’ll have a thirty-second window when I open it.”

Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to slip inside a fortified study, locate whatever Vale hasn’t already hidden deeper, and get out without leaving a single trace. Yeah, no sweat.

She slips up the back staircase, heels silent on the carpet, and moves into the shadowed upper hall. Ornate sconces cast warm pools of light that somehow make the spaces between them feel darker. She presses herself behind a column to catch her breath.

The comm crackles softly in her ear. Tim’s voice comes through, barely audible, “Thirty seconds, Cassie.”

The word lands in her ear and the countdown starts in her head. Thirty seconds. Not a moment longer. She’s about to move when footsteps click down the hall and she flattens herself against the wall once more, hidden from view. Someone’s coming toward the study. Security, probably. 

If she moves, he’ll see her walk right in. If she takes him out, she'll lose the window Tim is carving open for her.

Fuck.

“Twenty seconds.” Tim murmurs, the tension in his voice wound tight enough to snap.

Her pulse kicks harder. 

“Bart,” she whispers, “I need a distraction.”

Immediately, his voice shoots back, “Copy that.”

She hears the scrape of tray on tile somewhere far off, a stumble of voices. Then, a bright, high crash like a thousand tiny violins being kicked off a shelf. Glass shatters in a crystalline howl that cuts through the manor’s hush. People scream, then gasp. The effect is immediate and deliciously chaotic.

“I am so, so sorry!” Bart narrates over the comm in a theatrical yelp that’s half panic, half showman. “Please everyone remain calm! I will clean this up, do not—oh my god, Mr. Dupree, are you okay? Sir? Sir, please stop stepping on the glass!”

He’s making a scene, loud and fumbling, the very picture of an accident-prone server. His performance is so dramatic she almost snorts. He’s a disaster. A genius disaster.

And it works.

The footsteps down the hall hesitate, the weight of the man’s attention pivoting like a spotlight. Then, one heavy step. Another. His boots hammer away in a steady retreat, each impact rattling faintly through the floorboards. 

“Nice going, Bart.” Tim breathes into her ear, relief slicing through the tension but never quite loosening it. “Ten seconds, Cassie.”

She exhales a sound trapped somewhere between a laugh and a huff, a release of adrenaline she doesn’t have time for. Her shoulder peels off the wall, her body slipping into motion. Cassie’s eyes flick across the hallway, more doors and a too-expensive mirror reflecting the thin line of her silhouette. Every second drags and snaps at once.

“Five.” Tim says, voice tight, clipped.

There. Two doors down, the only door that looks like it would contain something of value.

“Four.”

She surges forward, almost crashing into it with the speed she’s carrying.

“Three.”

Her fingers find the handle. She wrenches it open.

“Two.”

She slides inside, body flattening with practiced efficiency.

“One.”

The door shuts. Silence blooms around her. No alarms. No shouts. The hallway stays still.

She did it.

“Thank fuck.” Cassie whispers, one hand bracing on her thigh, the other rising to her comm. Her pulse drums at the base of her skull. “Alright, now where the hell is this safe?”

“Check hidden compartments.” Tim answers immediately. She can hear him working, typing, pulling data apart. “Our guy seems to love those.”

So Cassie does. She drops to a knee and sweeps a hand beneath the shelves, feeling for something that doesn’t belong. She taps the spine of every book on the shelves, listening for the telltale shift of hollow space. When there’s nothing, she slides her fingers behind the gold-framed paintings lining the wall, ornate and heavy, all of them smugly expensive.

And then she finds it. A landscape of wildflowers, too thickly framed in gold, too deliberately centered. She lifts it free in one smooth motion. Embedded in the wall behind it sits a matte-black safe.

“Found it,” she reports, already brushing dust from her palms. “Any security I should be worried about?”

“None found.” Tim replies, rapid keys clacking faintly behind his voice.

“Roger that, Cap.”

Cassie grips the safe’s handle and pulls. The hinges protest in a low metallic groan before surrendering entirely. Inside rests a single thin file, tucked neatly as if waiting for her. She plucks it out and opens it. Page after page of weapons listings, dates, buyers, and transfers greet her.

Perfect.

“Got it,” she whispers. “I’m moving.”

“Copy,” Kon says. “Floor sweep clear for two minutes. Move fast.”

“Already on it.” Cassie hangs the painting back on its hook with a practiced flick, restoring the room’s illusion of wealth and normalcy.

She slips through the door and ghosts down the hallway. At the foot of the stairs, the servants’ corridor empties into the ballroom’s service entrance, light exploding outward in a cascade of crystal reflections. Cassie straightens and smooths her dress, spine straightening to an elegant poise.

Confidence is a costume too.

Bart is in full waiter mode when she steps back into the glittering chaos. Tray balanced, expression doing the absolute most as he fusses over an irritated guest with theatrical clumsiness.

He gives a polite nod to the guest before turning away, drifting close enough that she can smell the lemon polish on the tray and the faint hint of his own ridiculous cologne. Cassie slides into his orbit as naturally as falling into step with a dance. She deposits the file atop the silver tray with the subtlest flick of her fingers, masking the motion by reaching for a champagne flute.

Bart’s eyes flick down and up again before he gives the slightest grin, melting back into the crowd. 

Cassie moves toward the front doors like a woman late for her waiting carriage, her chin angled, expression serene, and shoulders relaxed. Guests part for her automatically, too wrapped in themselves to notice the extraction happening right under their chandeliers. 

Outside, the night is a clean, refreshing breath against her cheeks. Her heels click down the steps and she breathes out, low, satisfied, and dangerous.

Behind her, the manor’s lights pulse like watchful eyes. In front of her, the rendezvous awaits, a black car idling in the shadow of a tree. She takes one last, long look at the glittering ballroom through the open doors, then turns, unnoticed and perfectly on time.

Chapter Text

“Got it. I’m moving.”

Tim exhales, one of those sharp, controlled breaths that sounds more like a pressure valve finally giving out. The kind he only lets himself take when things start falling into place.

Kon’s hand goes to his earpiece automatically. “Copy. Floor sweep clear for two minutes. Move fast.”

“Already on it.” Cassie’s voice replies, quick and focused, the faintest smile buried beneath the words with a job well done.

The line quiets and Kon glances over to where Tim’s crouched on the ground, fingers flying across the keyboard, the blue light from the computer washing over his face. He’s still wearing that damn wig, dark hair pinned, eyes rimmed with color, bright earrings catching the light. It shouldn’t work. None of this should work. And yet… Tim does. Somehow, against every expectation, he always does.

Kon looks away, swallowing whatever that thought was before it turns into something else.

“Alright,” Tim mutters, breaking the silence. “We’re clean. Scrubbed the last traces of the breach.”

He shuts the computer and winds the cable once around his hand, tucking everything back into the slim black case. 

“Here.” Tim says, offering the case. 

Kon takes it, fingers brushing for a half-second that sends sparks zapping up his arm. He tucks the case into the hidden inner lining of his suit jacket, the kevlar beneath keeping it snug and secure.

Tim pushes up from his crouch, adjusting the fall of his gown with elegance, brushing invisible dust from the skirt. “Let’s get out of here before someone decides to–”

The doorknob clicks. The sound is so small, just metal against metal, but it lands like a gunshot.

Before Kon can even react, Tim moves. He’s suddenly too close, hands on Kon’s shoulders, spinning him around so he’s facing away from the door.

“Look at me.” Tim whispers. It’s quiet but sharp, an order more than a request.

Kon barely gets a breath before Tim’s fingers slide higher, brushing up his neck and settling against the side of his jaw, thumb dragging faintly over his skin. The touch sends fire down his spine as his other hand anchors at the back of Kon’s head, tilting it just enough that, from the doorway, it could be mistaken for a private moment. 

The door swings open behind him, light spilling into the room. He can hear the shift of polished shoes on the floor, the quiet intake of breath from someone startled.

Kon’s ears burn and he jerks his gaze away as if that alone might make the moment less overwhelming. Every nerve hums, his heart hammering so violently he’s half-convinced Tim can hear it. The warmth of Tim’s fingers in his hair, the ghost of his breath brushing his cheek, the faint press of his body against Kon’s. It's disorienting, intoxicating, and sharp all at once.

And then Tim’s voice, smooth and laced with lazy irritation, cuts through the silence, face peeking out to address the person by the door. “Do you mind? Mister Vale is busy at the moment.”

His face feels way too hot and he’s sure he’s blushing like an idiot. If the goal was to sell the moment, Tim’s doing a damn good job. Too good, maybe. Especially when Kon glances down and catches a glimpse of Tim with mussed hair and lipstick smeared just enough to look believable. 

It shouldn’t affect him this much. It shouldn’t. But it does.

From the doorway, there’s a stammered response, voice trembling. “I—I beg your pardon, sir. Ma’am. I didn’t realize–”

“Clearly,” Tim drawls, every syllable dripping with effortless disdain. “It seems like you need a new butler.”

“I-I apologize Mister Vale.” The voice stammers before the door shuts just as quickly.

The lock clicks, then silence.

Tim doesn’t step back right away. His breath fans warm against Kon’s cheek, close enough that Kon can feel the faint tremor of it. His hands are still on him and for a second, Kon forgets that this is supposed to be an act. For one long, disorienting second, all Kon can think about is how close they are and how the air between them feels too charged, too real.

Tim finally exhales, the tension leaving his shoulders in a quiet rush. “That was close.”

Kon swallows hard. Close. Yeah, that’s one word for it. Tim’s hands are still resting on him, one at the back of his neck, the other tangled loosely in his hair. 

Then Tim jerks back, the sudden absence of contact sharp and disorienting. “Oh—sorry,”  he says quietly. “For–” His fingers flutter in a small, awkward motion. “The touching. I didn’t have time to ask, and I shouldn’t have just–”

Kon blinks, the words catching him off guard. He’s apologizing? Of all the things Tim could’ve said, that wasn’t even on the list. “What? No, it’s—uh—it’s fine.” His voice stumbles, brain scrambling in static bursts. “You were… thinking fast. I get it.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, brushing a strand of dark hair from his face. “Would’ve been suspicious if we just froze and, well, y’know…” He gestures vaguely to their current distance, or lack thereof. “It sells the part.”

The casualness of it is almost cruel. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like Tim hadn’t just turned his world inside out for a second.

Kon lets out a shaky laugh, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless. “Oh yeah. I think the butler’s probably traumatized.”

The corner of Tim’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Well, we were laying it on pretty thick.” The tension in his shoulders eases just enough that he almost looks like himself again.

Tim adjusts the fall of the gown again, expression slipping neatly back into mission mode like none of that ever happened. “You should wait a few minutes before leaving. If we walk out too close together, someone might notice.”

Kon nods mutely, voice stuck somewhere behind the hammering of his pulse.

Tim glances toward the door, then back at him. “Meet at the rendezvous point. Bart and Cassie should be there by now.” His hand settles on the handle and he pauses, just long enough for the moment to breathe, then turns, letting a small, unmistakably playful smile curl at the edge of his mouth. “See you in five, Clone Boy.”

And then he’s gone. The click of the door shutting is quiet, but it feels deafening in the silence that follows.

Kon stands frozen for all but three seconds before his knees give out. He collapses into a crouch, hands dragging over his face, trying and failing to shove the memory away. His pulse still hammers rapid and chaotic even though there’s no danger, no fight, just the ghost of Tim’s hands in his hair, the weight of his gaze, and that impossible tilt of his head.

A quiet groan slips out of him. His face is burning. His ears, cheeks, even the back of his neck feels hot like every part of him that Tim touched or even might have touched is glowing. He presses both palms against his cheeks, as if he can cool down the heat or hide from it.

It doesn’t help.

He exhales hard, ragged. If this, whatever this is, keeps up, if Tim keeps being that close, if those fleeting, precise touches keep replaying in his mind, Kon isn’t sure how much longer he can pretend he’s not completely, utterly, irrevocably screwed.

______________________

Tim moves down the hallway, hand briefly brushing a curl from his face, and for a moment the dim overhead lights catch the faintest warmth in his cheeks, fleeting but undeniable.