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Robin slips in through the balcony window.
The city is quieting down as the sun starts its journey over the horizon. Cars are absent from the usually heavy, congested streets. The trains are taking a breather. Storefronts shutter while others prepare to open. It is the Gotham witching hour. The precious three hours where the city releases the breath it’s holding and takes stock of its dead.
For the last ten years, there have been fewer and fewer bodies to count.
Robin peels off his mask and discards his boots at the windowsill. His belt he hangs haphazardly off the back of the sofa. His armaments make a trail from the window to the bathroom.
By the time Tim emerges from the steam, hair damp and a towel wrapped around his waist, Kon has begun making breakfast.
“Morning,” he mumbles, slipping behind him as Kon finishes cutting the tomatoes. “Sleep okay?”
“Slept well,” he whispers, setting the knife down and turning in his arms to press a few kisses to Tim’s forehead. “How’d the nightshift go?”
“Good,” Tim mumbles, pressing in closer to hide from the growing light. Exhaustion tugs at him, urging him to lie down and rest. His thighs twinge from a night of flying across the rooftops of Westend and his arms feel heavy from blocking blows from Two-Face’s gang. “Harvey’s back in Arkham and Harley’s promised to get Ivy to relax.”
“That’s good,” Kon lets him rest, adjusting so Tim’s head is more comfortably resting in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. “You want breakfast?”
Tim shakes his head. He’ll eat when he wakes in seven hours, reheating whatever spread Kon has left him. For now, he wants to just enjoy his lover’s warmth.
Outside of weekends, they have so few overlapping hours: Tim awake at night and Kon gone for most of the day as he attends to his duties and obligations across the bay. Supersonic flight is the only reason they can enjoy these stolen moments as the sun comes and goes. It’s a heavy burden on Conner. Tim isn’t blind to how much effort he puts into ensuring they can co-habitate even though they rarely fall asleep together.
The least Tim can do is lock his knees and force himself to stay awake long enough to enjoy the two hours they can steal away.
“Then why don’t you take a seat,” Kon urges.
Tim can feel the TTK helping into his seat as his knees strain under the weight of carrying his own body. Nothing bad had happened tonight. No bruises or blood. But two A-List rogues had a way of draining the life out of you.
Tim fights the urge to pillow his head in his arms, propping an elbow on the counter to keep his head up. The granite feels cool under his shower-warm skin. The kitchen is filling with light now, golden honeyed and soft, gathering around Kon like it was just waiting for him. It catches in the dark curl of his hair, along the line of his shoulders, turns his skin warm and luminous. Tim watches his hands crack open an egg, aglow with inhuman strength and awecatching finesse, as if those fingers could not crater the moon or level a city, and falls a little more in love.
Kon catches him staring, a soft smile on his lips, “What?”
Tim grins, loopy as his eyes droop. “You’re so pretty.”
Kon snorts, but there’s color creeping onto his cheeks as he runs a warm hand against Tim’s cheek. “You’re exhausted.”
“Yeah,” Tim leans into the touch, lets his eyes closer for just a moment before forcing his eyes open to catch one more glance. “Worth it.”
Kon rolls his eyes, fond and exasperated and perfect. Just perfect.