Work Text:
The penthouse was quiet.
That was the first thing Tim noticed—the absence. No soft click of chess pieces being rearranged. No low hum of Bianca's AI, Endgame, running probability models. No footsteps. No breathing but his own.
She was in Metropolis.
He was in her apartment.
They were on a break.
Tim exhaled through his nose and ran a hand through his hair. A break he'd suggested, because the long-distance thing was wearing on both of them, because twice a month wasn't enough, because he'd started counting days like some lovesick—
No. He wasn't going to do that.
He was here to pick up a file. A document she'd said he could access from her desk, because even on a break, she still trusted him with her infrastructure. That was something. That had to mean something.
The desk was immaculate. Of course it was. Bianca's workspace was a study in controlled precision—monitor angles, keyboard placement, a single chess piece (white king, slightly worn) serving as a paperweight. Everything had purpose.
Everything except—
Tim stopped.
There was a bag hanging from the side of the desk. A tote bag. Canvas, black and white, slightly crumpled like it had been shoved there and forgotten.
Chess-themed.
The design was striking—not printed, but stitched. A fragmented chessboard pattern across the fabric, the squares breaking apart toward the edges like the board was dissolving into chaos. On one side, embroidered in elegant thread: "Every move is a conversation."
He pulled it out carefully, turning it over.
The stitching was meticulous. Not machine-perfect—there were tiny irregularities, slight variations in tension that suggested human hands. Her hands.
On the reverse side, near the bottom seam, a small label had been sewn in: "A.R.S."
Aster Ross. Her public name.
Tim stared at it for a long moment.
Bianca made bags?
---
Three hours earlier...
[Gotham City. Barbara's clocktower.]
"It's ugly."
"It's not ugly," Stephanie said, holding up her phone. "It's character. There's a difference."
Cassandra tilted her head, studying the photo on the screen. Then she signed: The stitching is uneven. Left side pulls.
"See?" Stephanie pointed at Cass. "She gets it."
Barbara didn't look up from her own phone. She was smiling—a small, private smile that she'd been wearing for approximately six weeks now, ever since she and Dinah had stopped pretending they were just talking.
"The bag is fine," Barbara said distractedly. "Steph, you have terrible taste in accessories, but the bag isn't the problem."
"Then what's the problem?"
"You're asking me to judge your girlfriend's DIY project while I'm trying to figure out if Dinah just sent me a heart emoji or a heart emoji."
Stephanie squinted. "What's the difference?"
"One means 'I'm thinking of you.' The other means—" Barbara paused, re-reading the message. Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Never mind. The bag is fine. Bianca made it?"
"Apparently." Stephanie flopped onto the couch next to Cass, who immediately curled into her side like a cat claiming territory. "She 'tries new things occasionally' but has 'no intention of becoming a fashion designer.' Direct quote."
Cass signed: She prefers chess.
"Exactly. It's just... I don't know." Stephanie traced the embroidery on her own tote—this one yellow, slightly lopsided, made of repurposed curtains. "It's weird to think of The Chess Queen sitting around stitching fabric because she's bored."
Barbara finally looked up. "You think she gets bored?"
"I think anyone who can calculate seventeen moves ahead probably gets extremely bored waiting for the rest of us to catch up."
That got a quiet laugh from Cass. She pressed her face into Stephanie's shoulder, content.
Barbara returned to her phone. The heart emoji situation remained unresolved.
---
Back in Metropolis...
Tim was still holding the bag.
He'd found the second one tucked behind the desk—smaller, a pouch this time, with a single knight embroidered on the front. The stitching was cleaner. Improved. Like she'd practiced.
He remembered something.
A month ago. Video call. Late. Bianca had been sitting in her study, and he'd noticed something in the background—a hoop, thread, fabric. He'd asked about it.
"Something to do with my hands."
That was all she'd said.
At the time, he'd assumed it was related to her surveillance work. Preparing gear, modifying equipment. The kind of tactile maintenance that kept her sharp.
Not this.
Tim sat down in her desk chair. The leather was cool, still faintly scented with whatever perfume she wore—subtle, expensive, barely there unless you were looking for it.
He was looking for it.
They were on a break. He'd suggested it. She'd agreed:"If that's what you need"—in that calm, measured way of hers that made it impossible to tell if she was hurt or relieved or simply calculating.
He missed her.
That was the problem. He missed her all the time, and when they were together, he missed her more because he knew he'd have to leave again. The break was supposed to give him space to figure out whether he could handle the distance.
Instead, he'd spent three weeks cataloging the things he missed.
The way she moved—silent, deliberate, every step a decision.
The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching—like he was a variable she hadn't fully accounted for, one she was enjoying trying to solve.
The way she'd said his name. Tim. Not Timothy. Not Drake. Tim. Like it mattered.
He looked down at the bag again.
Every move is a conversation.
He pulled out his phone.
---
Bianca (3:47 PM): You're in my chair.
Tim (3:47 PM): How do you know that?
Bianca (3:48 PM): Endgame alerted me when you entered. Also you're texting from my desk. I can hear the keyboard in the background.
Tim (3:48 PM): That's terrifying.
Bianca (3:48 PM): I'm aware.
Tim hesitated. Then he took a photo of the tote bag and sent it.
Bianca (3:49 PM): Ah.
Tim (3:49 PM): You made this?
Bianca (3:49 PM): Yes.
Tim (3:49 PM): Why?
Bianca (3:50 PM): I was bored.
He laughed. Actually laughed, out loud, alone in her penthouse.
Tim (3:50 PM): You. The Chess Queen. One of the most dangerous minds on the planet. Were bored.
Bianca (3:50 PM): The tournament circuit moves slowly between majors. I had seventy-three hours of downtime. I could either stitch or dismantle a small criminal network. Stitching seemed more restful.
Tim (3:51 PM): You considered dismantling a criminal network for fun.
Bianca (3:51 PM): I considered it. I chose the bag.
Tim (3:51 PM): I don't know if that's reassuring or not.
Bianca (3:51 PM): It's neither. It's just the truth.
He looked at the bag again. The embroidery. The slight imperfections. The careful, deliberate work of someone who didn't do anything without intention.
Tim (3:52 PM): It's really good, Bianca.
Bianca (3:52 PM): It's functional.
Tim (3:52 PM): It's good. You have a skill you're not using.
Bianca (3:52 PM): I have many skills I'm not using. Most of them are illegal.
Tim (3:53 PM): Not helping your case.
Bianca (3:53 PM): I don't have a case. I made a bag because I was bored. It doesn't mean anything.
Tim set the phone down.
He knew her. Knew that every word she said was chosen, placed, moved like a chess piece. When she said it doesn't mean anything, what she meant was: I don't want you to examine this too closely.
He picked the phone back up.
Tim (3:54 PM): Can I keep it?
There was a pause. Longer than her usual response time. He imagined her considering—not the question itself, but the implications. The meaning behind him asking.
Bianca (3:55 PM): It's a bag, Tim. You don't need permission.
Tim (3:55 PM): That's not what I asked.
Another pause.
Bianca (3:56 PM): Yes. You can keep it.
Tim (3:56 PM): Thank you.
Bianca (3:56 PM): Don't thank me. It was gathering dust.
He smiled at the screen. Then, before he could overthink it:
Tim (3:57 PM): I miss you.
He watched the three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Bianca (3:58 PM): I know.
Tim (3:58 PM): That's not the same.
Bianca (3:58 PM): No. It isn't.
Tim (3:59 PM): Can we talk? Not about the break. Just... talk.
Bianca (3:59 PM): I'm with the Batgirls.
Tim (3:59 PM): Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.
Bianca (4:00 PM): You're not interrupting. Stephanie is showing Cassandra her third iteration of a homemade tote bag. Barbara is ignoring both of them to text Dinah. I'm currently the least occupied person in this room.
Tim (4:00 PM): So you are bored.
Bianca (4:00 PM): I didn't say that.
Tim (4:01 PM): You didn't have to.
There was a photo. He opened it.
Bianca, taken from a low angle—probably Stephanie's doing. She was sitting in Barbara's clocktower, legs crossed, a cup of tea in one hand. She wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking slightly to the left, toward something off-frame, and she was almost smiling.
Not the public smile. Not the chess champion smile. Something smaller. Private.
His chest ached.
Tim (4:02 PM): You look good.
Bianca (4:02 PM): I look tired. Stephanie has been discussing fabric tension for forty minutes.
Tim (4:03 PM): You look like you.
Bianca (4:03 PM): That's a more concerning statement than you realize.
Tim (4:03 PM): I know.
He saved the photo. Then he folded the tote bag carefully—the one she'd made, the one with the dissolving chessboard and the embroidered words—and set it on his lap.
Tim (4:04 PM): I'll bring the bag back when I see you.
Bianca (4:04 PM): You don't have to.
Tim (4:05 PM): I want to. Seeing you, I mean. The bag is incidental.
Bianca (4:05 PM): Incidental.
Tim (4:05 PM): That's a word.
Bianca (4:06 PM): It is.
Tim (4:06 PM): I'll be in Metropolis next week. For the tournament.
Bianca (4:06 PM): I'm aware. I'm playing.
Tim (4:07 PM): I know. I'm coming to watch.
Bianca (4:07 PM): You don't watch chess.
Tim (4:07 PM): I watch you play chess.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Bianca (4:09 PM): Tim.
Tim (4:09 PM): Yeah?
Bianca (4:09 PM): The break was your idea.
Tim (4:10 PM): I know.
Bianca (4:10 PM): Are you ending it?
He stared at the screen.
The question was direct. No chess metaphors. No strategic hedging. Just are you ending it? like she was asking about the weather, except her fingers had taken three seconds longer to type than usual, and three seconds was an eternity for someone who processed information at her speed.
Tim (4:11 PM): I don't know.
Bianca (4:11 PM): Then don't promise me anything.
Tim (4:11 PM): I'm not promising. I'm telling you I'll be there.
Bianca (4:12 PM): That's the same thing.
Tim (4:12 PM): No. Promises are about the future. This is about next week. I can do next week.
Bianca (4:12 PM): Next week is still the future.
Tim (4:13 PM): Then let me have next week.
He watched the dots. Watched them stop. Start again. Stop.
Bianca (4:14 PM): Bring the bag.
Tim (4:14 PM): I thought it was incidental.
Bianca (4:15 PM): It is. But you clearly want it, and I don't want to make another one.
He laughed again.
Tim (4:15 PM): Okay.
Bianca (4:15 PM): Okay.
Tim (4:16 PM): Go back to your friends. Tell Stephanie her bag is fine.
Bianca (4:16 PM): I won't lie to her.
Tim (4:16 PM): Then tell her it has character.
Bianca (4:17 PM): That's worse.
Tim (4:17 PM): Goodnight, Bianca.
Bianca (4:17 PM): It's four in the afternoon.
Tim (4:17 PM): Good afternoon, Bianca.
Bianca (4:18 PM): Good afternoon, Tim.
---
He sat in her chair for a while after that.
The tote bag was folded neatly on his lap, the embroidered chessboard catching the light. Every move is a conversation.
He thought about what she'd said. I don't have a case. I made a bag because I was bored. It doesn't mean anything.
But Bianca didn't do meaningless. Every piece she moved had purpose. Every hour she spent was an investment. If she'd sat down with a needle and thread and stitched a chessboard into existence, it wasn't because she was bored.
It was because she needed something to do with her hands.
Something that wasn't dismantling criminal networks.
Something that wasn't calculating seventeen moves ahead.
Something that was just her, alone, creating something small and quiet and finished.
He stood up, folded the bag one more time, and tucked it into his jacket.
He'd bring it back next week.
And maybe, while he was here, he'd find something to do with his hands.
Something that wasn't counting days.
---
Gotham City. Barbara's clocktower.
[Same time.]
Stephanie squinted at Bianca. "You're smiling."
Bianca looked up from her phone. Her expression was neutral, unreadable, perfectly composed.
"No," she said.
"You are." Stephanie pointed. "Cass, look. She's smiling. The Chess Queen is smiling."
Cassandra tilted her head. Then she signed: Soft. Like Stephanie's bag.
"Hey—"
Bianca stood, smoothing her dress. "I'm leaving."
"You're fleeing," Stephanie corrected.
"I'm departing."
"You're smiling and fleeing. That's a new combination."
Bianca paused at the door. Just for a second. Just long enough for Stephanie to see—her expression hadn't changed, but something in her eyes had. Something warm.
"Your bag," Bianca said quietly. "It's not ugly. It's honest."
Then she was gone.
Stephanie stared at the door.
"What just happened?"
Cass signed: She's happy.
"She didn't look happy."
She doesn't show it. But she is.
Stephanie looked at Barbara, who was still smiling at her phone.
"You too?"
Barbara finally looked up. "Dinah sent two heart emojis. Two."
"I don't know what that means."
Barbara's smile widened. "Neither do I. But I'm going to find out."
Cass pressed her face into Stephanie's shoulder again, content.
Stephanie looked down at her own lopsided tote bag—yellow, uneven, made of repurposed curtains—and decided Bianca was right.
It wasn't ugly.
It was honest.
---