Archive of Our Own

Tim Drake had a plan for almost everything.

He had a plan for when Superboy decided a locked door was less of an obstacle and more of an invitation to cause structural damage. He had three different plans for when Impulse got bored during stakeouts, two of which involved snacks and one of which involved bribing him with access to the Cave’s television. He had a plan for Wonder Girl getting angry enough to try diplomacy with her fists, a plan for Secret vanishing into the ventilation system, and a plan for Arrowette pretending she was above the rest of them while quietly escalating the situation from a rooftop with a quiver full of specialized arrows.

He also had a plan for Gotham.

That one was more complicated.

Gotham was not Metropolis, which wore its disasters bright and loud. It was not Central City, where crime sometimes arrived with neon streaks and a laugh track. Gotham preferred layers. Gotham gave you a mugging that turned out to be a distraction for an arson that concealed a kidnapping that pointed toward a shipment of stolen technology that somebody at City Hall had already been paid to ignore. Gotham did not have problems. Gotham had ecosystems.

So when Batman told him that a WayneTech transport carrying experimental adaptive-camouflage components had been hit two nights earlier, Tim took the report seriously. When Oracle flagged three smaller thefts across Burnley and the East End involving conductive polymers, compact capacitors, and prototype adhesive fibers, he took that even more seriously. By the time Young Justice arrived in Gotham under the very official excuse of “training exercise, please do not touch anything,” Tim already had maps, suspect lists, patrol routes, and a private suspicion that the thefts were not the work of any of the usual Gotham crews.

The fact that he had to explain all of that to Kon while Kon floated upside down over the Batcomputer was just one of the many trials of leadership.

“So what I’m hearing,” Kon said, “is that somebody stole a bunch of fancy invisibility stuff, and now we get to punch an invisible guy.”

Tim did not look up from the screen. “That is the least helpful summary possible.”

Bart appeared beside Tim’s chair with a blur of red and white and a paper bag that had not existed in the Cave five seconds earlier. “I got dumplings. Gotham has dumplings. Did everyone know Gotham had dumplings? I thought it only had gargoyles and trauma.”

“It has both,” Cassie said, peering over Tim’s other shoulder. “Sometimes at the same time.”

Greta hovered above the floor near the edge of the platform, pale and half-transparent, her hair moving around her face as if touched by water. She had been staring at one of the sites of the theft for several minutes. “Someone else was there.”

Tim paused.

That was the thing about Greta. When she spoke softly, it usually meant she had noticed something everyone else had missed.

“Where?” he asked.

She pointed to the third map, a warehouse near the Sprang River. “Here. Before the police came, the cameras went dark, but one of them caught a shadow on the wall.”

Kon dropped lower, still upside down. “A shadow?”

“A person,” Greta said. “Maybe. They climbed the building.”

Tim pulled up the corrupted surveillance feed again. He had already studied it twice, but Greta’s instincts were worth trusting. The video showed the alley behind the warehouse, rain turning the pavement into black glass, the side of the building shining with old runoff and streetlight. For several seconds, there was nothing. Then something moved across the brick.

Not across the ground.

Across the wall.

Tim leaned closer.

Bart did too, which meant his chin appeared on Tim’s shoulder with no warning. “That’s crash.”

Tim ignored the elbow that nearly hit his jaw. He slowed the footage, dragged the image back frame by frame, and enhanced what little data remained. The figure was hard to make out. Small, fast, and dark against dark brick, with one hand pressed to the wall and both feet somehow finding purchase against a vertical surface slick with rain.

Then, blue-white light flickered under their palm.

The camera died.

Kon whistled. “Okay, invisible wall-crawler who shoots lightning. That’s new.”

Cassie gave Tim a sidelong look. “Please tell me that isn’t one of yours.”

“One of mine?” Tim asked.

“You know. Gotham people. You collect them.”

“I do not collect people.”

“Batman collects people,” Bart said through a dumpling. “You inherited the vibe.”

Tim considered pointing out that Bart had once followed them home from the future and then joined the team on the basis of enthusiasm and questionable supervision. He decided it would waste time.

“I don’t know who this is,” he said instead. “Which means we find them before whoever stole that equipment does.”

Kon righted himself in the air and grinned. “See? Invisible lightning wall-crawler. I knew we were punching somebody.”

“We are investigating,” Tim said.

“Sure,” Kon replied. “With punching.”

The first time Tim saw you in person, you were hanging upside down from the underside of a fire escape, one hand wrapped in a glowing filament and the other pressed over Kon’s mouth.

It was not the entrance he would have predicted.

The mission had gone sideways in the way Young Justice missions often went sideways, which meant it had technically started sideways and then gained speed. The warehouse they had tracked the stolen components to was supposed to be empty. It was not. Inside, a crew of masked men had been assembling something with enough capacitors to fry half a city block, and Tim had barely gotten close enough to identify the device before Impulse accidentally discovered the pressure sensors in the floor.

After that, everything became noise.

Kon went through a catwalk. Cassie threw a crate into a generator. Bart disarmed six men and rearmed one of them by mistake because he thought the weapon had been unloaded. Greta swallowed the room in cold mist long enough for Tim to drag two unconscious workers out of the blast radius. Somewhere in the middle of it, the lights went out, the backup system screamed, and someone Tim could not see dropped from the ceiling, kicked a gun out of a man’s hand, and lit the air with a crackle of blue electricity.

By the time he climbed the emergency stairs to the roof, you were already there.

Kon had clearly tried to follow you. Kon had also clearly underestimated your willingness to web his mouth shut with a strand of pale, shimmering fiber.

“Don’t shout,” you told him.

Kon made an offended sound against the webbing.

Tim stopped at the edge of the roof access door. Rain slid down the outside of his cape and tapped against the lenses of his mask. You turned your head toward him, still upside down, and the first thing he registered was the posture. Calm, balanced, and ready to spring. You were wearing a dark suit with faint silver threading across the shoulders and forearms, a hood shadowing the upper half of your face. Your mask was enough to hide your identity, but your mouth was visible, and it curved when you saw him.

“Robin,” you said. “I was wondering when Gotham was going to send someone shorter.”

Kon’s muffled protest became louder.

Tim resisted the urge to glance at him. “You’re interfering with an active investigation.”

“I’m stopping your loud friend from telling everyone within six blocks where we are.” You looked at Kon, then reached up and patted his cheek with insulting gentleness. “He seems nice, though.”

Kon’s eyes narrowed.

Tim took one step forward. Your body tensed almost imperceptibly. He would have missed it if he had not been trained by Batman to notice the moment before a person chose between fighting and running.

He stopped.

“What do I call you?” he asked.

Your smile softened into something that looked almost surprised, as if you had expected a demand instead of a question. “Silk.”

Kon finally tore the webbing away from his mouth. “That’s a cool name.”

“You ruined the effect,” you told him.

“I’m Superboy. I improve effects by being there.”

“You talk too much to be stealthy.”

“That’s what Robin says.”

Tim did not deny it. He was too busy watching the faint blue pulse still fading beneath your glove. The light had not come from a weapon, unless you had something built into the suit that was smaller than anything he had seen on the feed. It moved under the skin, bright for a second and then gone.

Meta, then. Probably.

“You were at the Sprang River warehouse three nights ago,” Tim said.

Silk tilted her head. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds like a very confident guess.”

“It wasn’t a guess.”

“Fun,” you said, and dropped.

Kon lunged as if you had fallen, which was probably what you wanted. You twisted in midair, fired a thread from one wrist, and swung neatly beneath him before landing near the opposite ledge. The movement was too smooth to be improvised and too reckless to be purely trained. Tim fired a grapple before thinking about it, cutting across the roof in a fast arc as you hit the next building and started running.

Behind him, Kon called, “Are we chasing her?”

“Yes,” Tim said.

“Great. Just checking.”

Chasing you through Gotham was a mistake, which Tim realized roughly fifteen seconds after making the decision. It was not because you were faster than him. You were quick, but Tim had chased speedsters, assassins, acrobats, and Dick Grayson when Dick thought he was being funny. The problem was that you moved as if the city had different rules for you than for everyone else.

You used walls as suggestions. You caught ledges with one hand and redirected without losing momentum. You swung between buildings on thin lines that dissolved into glittering fragments after you released them. Twice, Tim almost had you. Twice, your body flickered at the edges, the dark suit bending into rain and shadow until you were only a ripple in the air.

The third time, he landed close enough to catch your wrist.

Static crackled between you.

Tim’s glove insulated most of it, but not enough to keep the shock from racing up his arm and punching a startled breath out of him. You went visible all at once, your eyes wide behind the mask, your mouth parting as if you were as surprised as he was. For one second, neither of you moved.

His fingers were still around your wrist.

Your pulse was racing.

“That was rude,” you said, sounding slightly breathless.

“You ran.”

“You chased.”

“You fled an active crime scene.”

“You brought a Superboy.”

Tim’s comm crackled in his ear. “Robin?” Cassie’s voice came through, distorted by interference. “Are you okay? We heard something short out.”

Silk looked at the side of his mask. Her eyebrows lifted.

Tim did not let go. “Fine. I found her.”

“Wow,” Bart said over the comm. “She shocked him. I think she shocked him. Did she shock him? Ask if she can do it again.”

You leaned closer, just enough for Tim to notice the rain caught on the edge of your mask. “Your team is very professional.”

“They’re growing as people.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Your smile came back, small and dangerous. Then you rolled your wrist in his grip, twisted with alarming flexibility, and stepped into him instead of away. Tim had prepared for you to pull back. He had not prepared for you to close the distance until your shoulder brushed his chest and your free hand pressed against the emblem on his tunic.

The charge under your palm hummed.

His comm died with a pitiful hiss.

You looked down at the darkened receiver on his shoulder, then up at him. “Oops.”

Tim stared at you.

You vanished.

A second later, his cape tugged sharply to the left, and by the time he turned, you were already on the next roof. He could have followed. He had enough line left, and the route was clear.

Instead, he stayed where he was and looked at his fried comm.

Kon landed beside him with a gust of wind and too much smugness. “So. That happened.”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I’m thinking she touched the R on your chest and you forgot how legs work.”

Tim turned and headed for the fire escape. “We’re going back to the Cave.”

Kon floated backward in front of him. “You know, I support this. You need hobbies. Batman gave you crime and emotional repression, but maybe a girl who can electrocute you is what really rounds out the portfolio.”

Tim considered pushing him off the roof. Kon could fly, so it would not hurt him. It might, however, make Tim feel better.

By the next morning, Tim had a file on you.

It was not a satisfying file. Tim liked files with names, addresses, known associates, medical records, criminal histories, and at least one blurry photograph taken from a traffic camera. Your file had a codename, three sightings, four broken cameras, and a growing list of questions.

Silk. Gotham-based or Gotham-adjacent. Unknown identity. Unknown age, though likely close to his own. Metahuman abilities included wall adhesion, bio-electric discharge, camouflage or light-bending invisibility, enhanced agility, and possibly accelerated reflexes. Gear included adhesive filament launchers, though Tim had not ruled out organic production. Motive unknown. Combat style evasive, acrobatic, with strong defensive instincts and a habit of humiliating opponents when given the opportunity.

He wrote that last part after reviewing the footage of you webbing Kon to a fire escape.

“You’re smiling,” Cassie said.

Tim immediately stopped. “I’m not.”

“You were.”

“I found something.”

“Was it her phone number?”

Tim looked up from the computer.

Cassie smiled sweetly at him from the chair opposite the console. She had been helping to review footage for the past hour, which mostly meant she had provided useful observations while joining Kon in making his life worse.

“I’m investigating a potential witness,” Tim said.

“Witness,” Cassie repeated.

“And a possible suspect.”

“The suspect who saved your life last night?”

“She didn’t save my life.”

“She disabled the guy behind you with the shock baton.”

“I had it under control.”

“Tim.”

He turned back to the screen. “She has useful information.”

“She made your voice do that thing.”

“My voice isn’t doing anything.”

“It gets flatter when you’re embarrassed.”

The truly unfair part was that Cassie had become much better at reading people since joining the team. Tim supported this development in theory. In practice, it was deeply inconvenient.

Bart blurred into the room with a stack of printouts. “I found every mention of Silk in Gotham message boards, weird conspiracy pages, and three fan forums that are mostly arguing about whether she’s a ghost, a ninja, or a really committed theater kid.”

Tim took the papers before Bart could scatter them across the keyboard. “Anything useful?”

“There’s a blurry picture from six months ago near Crime Alley, a police report from four months ago about a mugger found stuck to a billboard, and one guy who says she dropped out of the sky, called him ‘bestie’ in a mean way, and knocked him unconscious.”

“That does sound like her,” Kon said, wandering in with a soda he definitely had not gotten from the Cave’s supplies because the Cave did not have supplies Kon was allowed to touch. “Does she have a number? Asking for Robin.”

Tim took a slow breath. “I am going to solve this case.”

“Sure,” Kon said. “And if solving the case involves standing really close to her in the rain again, that’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.”

Greta drifted through the console before Tim could respond, making the screen flicker. “She’s lonely.”

Everyone went quiet.

Tim looked at her.

Greta’s expression had gone distant, her dark eyes fixed on the blurry image of you caught in midair between two buildings. “I don’t know how I know. Maybe because she runs like she expects no one to catch her.”

The words settled over the room with more weight than Tim expected. There was a difference between teasing him and looking at the evidence of someone operating alone in Gotham. He knew what loneliness looked like in a mask. He knew what it cost, too.

Kon’s expression softened first. He tried to hide it by taking a drink of soda, but Tim saw it anyway.

Cassie leaned back in her chair. “So we help her.”

“We find her,” Tim said. “Then we ask what she knows.”

Bart raised a hand. “And then we help her?”

Tim looked back at the screen, where your half-visible outline clung to a wall with impossible grace.

“And then,” he said, “we see what she needs.”

You found him before he found you.

Tim should have been annoyed by that. He had spent the better part of two patrols setting up a pattern he thought would draw you out. He revisited the previous theft sites, mapped likely targets based on the missing components, and positioned himself near a chemical storage facility that had enough conductive gel to complete the device the thieves were building. It was solid work. It was careful work.

It was also apparently unnecessary, because at 1:13 in the morning, while he was crouched on a gargoyle across from the facility’s eastern gate, someone dropped upside down into his field of vision with a soft whisper of silk thread.

“Your cape is dramatic,” you said.

Tim did not startle. He was proud of that.

“Your entrance is impractical,” he replied.

“It got your attention.”

“I heard you on the roof thirty seconds ago.”

Your eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Liar.”

“You land quietly, but you displace gravel when you pivot.”

“That is a deeply annoying thing to know.”

“You asked.”

“I didn’t.”

“You implied.”

You stared at him for another second, then smiled despite yourself. It changed the whole shape of your face. Tim noticed because he was trained to notice things, not because Kon was right about anything.

You released the thread and flipped down to land beside him on the ledge. The movement brought you close enough that Tim felt the faint prickle of static before he heard it. Your suit seemed to hum in the damp air, silver lines catching little glints of city light.

“Your team isn’t here,” you said.

“They’re nearby.”

“That means yes.”

“It means nearby.”

“Does Superboy define nearby in feet or zip codes?”

Tim almost smiled. “Depends on whether he’s bored.”

“Impulse?”

“Continents.”

That made you laugh, and Tim had the sudden, inconvenient thought that he wanted to hear it again without a mask between you. He pushed the thought aside with the discipline of someone who had trained under Batman and then immediately made the mistake of looking at your mouth.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

Your amusement dimmed into something quieter, not gone, only changed. The air between you drew tighter. Tim felt the weight of the city around you, the wet stone under his boots, the cold wind pulling at the edges of his cape. You were still close, close enough that he could see a faint nick in the lower edge of your mask and the small scrape along your jaw where someone had landed a lucky hit.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“It’s Gotham. Everyone’s hurt.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

Tim reached slowly for one of the pouches on his belt. Your gaze dropped to his hand, but you did not move away. He took out a small antiseptic wipe and held it out between two fingers.

You looked at it. “Is that a peace offering?”

“It’s antiseptic.”

“That’s less romantic.”

Tim’s brain stalled for a fraction of a second. You smiled again, sharper this time, as if you had found something worth testing.

“Romantic wasn’t the goal,” he said.

“No?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.”

The static around you snapped. His comm gave a warning crackle, and Tim saw your eyes flick toward it. There was something fascinating about the fact that your power reacted before the rest of you did. Your expression was mostly controlled, but the air betrayed you. The glow beneath your gloves brightened when you teased him. The interference spiked when he stepped closer. On the rooftop two nights earlier, you had vanished only after he caught your wrist, as if camouflage was less a tactic and more a reflex.

He filed that away, then immediately felt bad for filing it away.

“You’re doing it again,” you said.

Tim blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m a case.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

That landed closer than he liked. He lowered the antiseptic slightly. “I didn’t mean to.”

You studied him for a long moment. The humor did not leave your face entirely, but something guarded moved in behind it.

“I know,” you said, and took the wipe from his hand.

You cleaned the scrape yourself, wincing only once. Tim pretended not to notice. The facility below remained quiet, guards moving in slow loops around the perimeter, the eastern loading dock lit by two flickering security lamps. A truck rolled past on the far street. Somewhere below, a siren rose and faded.

“You’re tracking the same crew,” he said.

You folded the wipe and tucked it into one of your own pouches. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“They stole something.”

“A lot of things have been stolen.”

“Something mine.”

Tim waited.

You did not elaborate.

He understood secrets. He had been living around other people’s secrets long before he put on the mask. Batman had taught him that information was leverage, but Dick had taught him that sometimes people handed you the truth only after you proved you would not grab for it. Tim was still working on the balance.

“The device they’re building uses adaptive camouflage as a delivery system,” he said. “The capacitors suggest a directed electromagnetic pulse. Portable, targeted, and strong enough to disable security networks across several blocks if they stabilize it.”

You glanced at him. “You always talk like that?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

“It usually is.”

“Maybe I like it.”

Tim’s glove creaked softly where his hand tightened around the edge of the stone ledge. Your gaze dropped, then returned to his face. The static jumped again, a tiny spark leaping from your wrist to the damp stone.

This time, you were the one who looked away first.

“I think they’re trying to make a ghost bomb,” you said.

Tim latched on to the case because the alternative was thinking about the shape of your smile. “Ghost bomb?”

“That’s what the guy I intimidated called it. A pulse that makes everything electronic go blind while the people carrying the tuned receivers can still see through it. Cameras, alarms, comms, drones, traffic grids, police networks. Dead for everyone else. Open road for them.”

“That lines up with my analysis.”

“Good. I’d hate to disappoint the detective.”

He gave you a look.

You were smiling again.

The eastern gate below clicked open.

Both of you moved at once. Tim dropped into a crouch and raised his binoculars. You slid down the side of the building without needing a line, your hands and feet finding silent grip against stone, until you were nearly level with the top of the gate. A black van rolled inside. Three men in gray tactical gear stepped out, followed by a woman in a glossy white coat carrying a silver case.

Tim recognized her from one of Oracle’s flagged searches. Dr. Maribel Jones. Former S.T.A.R. Labs contractor. Electromagnetic fields, stealth tech, and three sealed misconduct complaints before she vanished from the legitimate research world.

His comm clicked twice, then Cassie’s voice came through. “Robin, we have eyes on the west side. Kon says he recognizes one of the trucks from the warehouse.”

“Tell him not to engage yet,” Tim murmured.

“Too late,” Kon said.

Something exploded on the west side of the facility.

You looked back up at Tim. Even with the mask, he could feel the judgment.

“My team is nearby,” he said.

“I’m getting that.”

Then you dropped.

Tim followed.

The fight inside the facility was a mess, but it was a Young Justice mess, which meant it came with moments of accidental brilliance. Kon hit the first truck hard enough to tip it onto two wheels without crushing the driver. Cassie landed on the hood and punched through the engine block. Bart pulled every magazine out of every gun in the loading bay before most of the men had finished turning around. Greta moved through the walls and whispered from corners until two guards ran into each other trying to flee from her voice.

You fit into the chaos like you had been designed for it.

Tim saw flashes of you between moving bodies and broken light. A thread fired from your wrist, wrapped around a rifle, and yanked it out of a man’s hands. Your palm struck his vest a second later, blue electricity snapping across the armor and dropping him in a boneless heap. Someone swung a baton at your head. You bent backward, planted one hand on the floor, and kicked him under the chin hard enough to lift him.

“Okay,” Kon called from across the room, “that was cool.”

“Focus!” Tim shouted.

“I can do both!”

Dr. Jones was moving toward the central platform, where the device sat inside a metal cradle. It looked unfinished but active, a sleek black cylinder surrounded by stabilizing rings, its surface shimmering in and out of view as if reality had trouble remembering it. Tim threw a birdarang at the control panel. Jones raised one hand without looking, and the birdarang froze midair, caught in a field of trembling blue light.

“Robin,” she said, turning with a pleased expression. “I was told Gotham might send you.”

Tim landed on the railing above her. “You should have prepared better.”

“I did.” Her gaze shifted past him. “I brought bait.”

A scream cut through the facility.

Tim’s stomach tightened.

You stopped moving.

On the far side of the room, one of Jones’s men dragged a teenager out from behind a stack of crates. He was maybe fourteen, wearing an oversized hoodie and a terrified expression, his hands bound in front of him with shimmering filament.

Your filament.

The static around you flared so brightly that the lights overhead flickered.

Voss smiled. “There you are.”

Tim knew, instantly and with cold clarity, that the stolen thing had not been equipment. Or at least, not only equipment.

You took one step forward.

The man holding the boy pressed a weapon against his side. “Don’t.”

Your whole body went still.

Kon drifted lower, his expression shifting from cocky to dangerous. Cassie’s hands curled into fists. Bart was suddenly beside Tim, vibrating with barely restrained motion.

“Who is he?” Tim asked quietly.

You did not look at him. “My brother.”

The word changed the room.

Jones lifted the silver case onto the platform. “Technically, he is also a research asset. Your abilities are more developed, of course, but family patterns are useful. I had hoped you would be sentimental enough to come yourself.”

Your voice, when it came, was very soft. “Let him go.”

“I will, once you help me stabilize my device.”

“You said that last time.”

“Last time, you broke three of my ribs.”

“You had it coming.”

Jones sighed. “Children are so moral until they need something.”

Tim moved before anger could cloud the room. He tapped his comm twice, sending a silent signal to the team. Bart saw it. Cassie saw Bart see it. Kon’s eyes flicked toward the boy, then toward the armed men between them. Greta drifted lower behind the platform, invisible to everyone except the people who knew how to look for absence.

You did not see any of it. Your gaze was locked on your brother.

That, Tim understood. He understood it too well.

He stepped closer to the edge of the railing. “Jones.”

She looked back at him.

“You’re assuming she came alone.”

Voss’s smile thinned. “She did.”

“No,” Tim said. “She started alone.”

The room erupted.

Bart moved first. The weapon against your brother’s side disappeared, along with the gloves, belt, and left boot of the man holding him. Cassie hit the floor between them hard enough to crack concrete and send three guards stumbling backward. Kon flew straight through the stabilizing rings with a shout that sounded entirely too pleased for someone about to collide with experimental technology. Greta rose behind Jones like a ghost from a nightmare and whispered something in her ear that made the scientist scream.

Tim went for your brother.

You went for Jones.

For several seconds, everything worked.

Tim cut the filament from your brother’s wrists, caught him before his knees buckled, and shoved him behind a storage column. “Stay down.”

The boy stared at him. “Who are you?”

“Robin.”

“Oh,” he said faintly. “Cool.”

Then the ghost bomb activated.

The pulse did not explode so much as unfold. Light bent outward from the platform in a shimmering wave, turning the facility silver-white. Tim’s lenses blacked out. His comm died. The security lights shattered. Every electronic device on his belt screamed at once and went quiet.

In the sudden silence, someone laughed.

Jones.

Tim ripped the dead lenses from his mask, blinking through the darkness. Emergency chemical lights glowed faintly along the floor, enough to turn bodies into shadows. The device was still active, its center spinning faster now, unstable without the rings Kon had damaged. He could hear Cassie coughing. Kon swearing. Bart asking if everyone else’s teeth felt fuzzy.

Then he heard you cry out.

Tim turned.

You were on the platform with one hand pressed against the device, blue electricity pouring from your palm into the machine. Jones stood several feet away, one arm wrapped around a support beam, her face lit with wild triumph.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it. Hold it there.”

The device was using you.

Tim saw it in the way your body shook, in the white-blue lines crawling up your arm, in the sharp pain twisting your mouth as your own power was dragged through you and into the unstable core. You tried to pull back. Your hand would not move.

Tim ran.

A guard came out of the dark. Tim dropped him without slowing, ducking a wild swing and driving his elbow into the man’s solar plexus. Another reached for him; a blur that had to be Bart knocked the man sideways into a pile of crates. Tim vaulted onto the platform, cape snapping behind him, and grabbed your wrist.

The shock hit harder this time.

It burned through the insulation, through his glove, through every disciplined thought in his head. Tim held on anyway. You looked at him, eyes wide and bright with pain behind the mask.

“Let go,” you gasped.

“No.”

“It’ll hit you too.”

“I know.”

“Robin—”

“I’ve got you,” he said.

The words came out low and certain, cutting through the scream of the machine. Your face changed as if certainty, from him, had been worse than a confession.

For a heartbeat, the machine, the fight, and the collapsing facility narrowed to the space between your hand and his. You knew his name now. He had given it to you in the middle of a fight with a mad scientist and an unstable electromagnetic weapon, which was possibly the least advisable way to reveal a secret identity short of writing it on a billboard.

He would worry about that later.

Your fingers turned under his and gripped back.

“On three,” he said.

You nodded once, jaw tight.

“One.”

The device screamed.

“Two.”

Jones lunged toward the controls.

“Three.”

You released everything.

The surge that came out of you was blinding. Tim pulled you backward as the blue-white charge flooded the core, overloading every stabilizer still attached to it. Kon hit Jones from the side and carried her through a stack of insulation foam. Cassie grabbed the central column and tore it free. Bart got your brother out through the eastern exit. Greta swallowed the platform in darkness just as the ghost bomb imploded, folding light and sound into a single concussive pulse that threw Tim off his feet.

He landed badly. The impact drove the air from his lungs, his shoulder slamming against the floor with enough force to send pain down his arm. You landed half on top of him, which was probably the only reason your head did not hit the concrete.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you groaned against his chest. “Ow.”

Tim coughed. “Agreed.”

“You make terrible plans.”

“That plan worked.”

“I think your definition of worked needs help.”

“Everyone’s alive.”

You lifted your head. Your mask was cracked along one side, and the hood had fallen back enough for him to see more of your face than before; not enough to identify you, but enough for the closeness to feel different.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth.

Tim forgot about his shoulder.

For one reckless second, he had to remind himself where he was, who was watching, and why leaning closer would be a terrible idea.

Kon cleared his throat loudly from somewhere nearby. “I hate to interrupt whatever this is, but the ceiling is doing that thing where it looks like it wants to become the floor.”

You closed your eyes for a second. “I’m going to shock him.”

“Later,” Tim said.

“You promise?”

His mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

That made you smile, and then you vanished.

Tim felt your weight remain against him, felt the warm pressure of your hand braced beside his shoulder, but your body disappeared in a flicker of light. It was not tactical this time. It was pure embarrassment.

Kon made a sound of delight. “Oh, that’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” you said, invisible and mortified.

Tim, against his better judgment, laughed.

The Cave was not the Batcave, which Tim appreciated more than usual when he brought you there.

The team’s headquarters in Happy Harbor had its own oddities, including souvenirs from missions nobody had properly explained, evidence of Kon’s attempts to use the kitchen without supervision, and a couch that Bart insisted was haunted because Greta had once emerged from it during a movie night. But it did not have Batman standing silently in the shadows, and at the moment, that was enough.

Your brother was asleep in the med bay with a blanket pulled up to his chin and Cassie sitting nearby, pretending she was not standing guard. The team had treated him with a kindness that made you quiet. Bart had offered him snacks. Kon had solemnly promised that getting kidnapped by a mad scientist was a terrible first impression of superhero life and that most days were only a little weird. Greta had stayed close without crowding him, her presence soft and strange and comforting in a way Tim did not fully understand but trusted completely.

You watched all of it from the doorway with your arms folded tight across your chest.

Tim watched you.

He had fixed his comm already, because needing something to do with his hands was better than replaying the moment on the platform when your fingers had locked around his, and you had trusted him not to let go. He had also cleaned and wrapped the burn across his palm, though Alfred would have had opinions about the quality of the work. His shoulder hurt. His ribs hurt. His head hurt.

You were still standing too still.

He picked up the spare first-aid kit and walked over.

“You’re avoiding treatment,” he said.

You glanced at him. Your mask was gone now, replaced by a domino you had taken from one of the spare supply drawers after refusing to remove your hood entirely. It covered enough. Tim had not pushed.

“You’re avoiding sleep,” you replied.

“I don’t sleep.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From everyone?”

“Yes.”

You looked past him toward the med bay. Your brother shifted in his sleep, and Cassie immediately leaned forward to check the monitor. The movement made your expression soften in a way that took the teasing out of you.

“He’s okay,” Tim said.

“I know.”

“You don’t sound like you know.”

“I know in my head,” you said. “The rest of me is catching up.”

Tim understood that, too.

He held up the kit. “Let the rest of you catch up while I look at your arm.”

You stared at him for long enough that he expected another argument. Instead, you nodded and followed him to the training room, where the lighting was gentler and there was less chance of Kon wandering in with commentary. Tim set the kit on a bench. You sat beside it and peeled back the damaged sleeve of your suit, revealing an angry electrical burn across the inside of your forearm.

Tim’s throat tightened. “You should have said it was this bad.”

“You were busy being electrocuted.”

“Because you were being used as a battery.”

“See? Busy.”

He gave you a look.

You shrugged, then winced. “Okay. That was stupid.”

“The shrug?”

“The whole thing.”

“It wasn’t stupid to go after your brother.”

“I went alone.”

“That part could use revision.”

You looked down at your arm. “I didn’t have a team.”

Tim opened the antiseptic and kept his voice even. “You do now.”

The words hung there between you.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the bench. For once, you did not make a joke. Tim cleaned the burn as carefully as he could, watching your face for any sign that the pressure was too much. You were good at hiding pain. Unfortunately for you, he was good at finding it.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

“I am.”

“Slowly, then.”

You gave him a narrow look, but you inhaled more slowly the next time. The static around your skin settled with it, the sharp prickling in the air becoming a faint hum. Tim applied the burn gel and wrapped your forearm with gauze, his gloved fingers moving steadily around your wrist.

“You should have let go,” you said.

Tim did not look up. “No.”

“That’s your whole argument?”

“It’s the important part.”

Your mouth curved despite yourself, but the smile was softer than the joke deserved. “You always that stubborn?”

“When someone is being used as a battery by a homicidal scientist, yes.”

“That’s weirdly specific.”

“It’s been a weird night.”

His fingers slowed near your wrist, and for a moment, the room went quiet around the faint hum of your power. Then he said, very quietly, “Tim.”

You looked at him. “What?”

“My name,” he said. “It’s Tim.”

The static returned, soft and nervous, lifting the fine hairs near his wrist beneath the glove.

“Oh,” you said.

Tim finally looked up. “Yeah.”

He had finished securing the bandage and should have moved away. There were plenty of reasons to put space between you. You were injured. He was injured. The team was nearby, your brother was in the next room, and they had just survived an explosion, captured a scientist, and prevented a localized technological blackout across Gotham. Any reasonable person would have stood up, gotten water, written a report, called Batman, or at least pretended not to notice how close your knees were to his.

Tim had never claimed to be reasonable about everything.

Your uninjured hand rested on the bench beside you. His was still near your wrist. The space between your fingers was very small.

“Tim,” you said.

His name sounded different from you. Softer than it had been in his own mouth. More dangerous, somehow, because he wanted to hear it again.

“You know I could use that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You don’t know me that well.”

“I know enough.”

There it was again, that careful certainty that made him seem older than he was and younger at the same time, like he had learned caution from someone else but trust was still something he was deciding for himself.

Your fingers flexed against the bench. “That’s a lot to hand someone.”

“Yes.”

“Batman would hate this.”

“Definitely.”

Your mouth curved, but the smile did not last long. “I won’t.”

Tim looked at you.

“Use it,” you clarified. “Look for you. Tell anyone. Any of it.”

“I know,” he said.

“You keep saying that like it’s simple.”

“It isn’t.” His hand shifted, close enough that his glove brushed your knuckles. “I’m saying it anyway.”

For a moment, you only looked at him. The faint hum of your power filled the space between you, soft and uncertain, and Tim wondered if he had gone too far after all. Then your hand relaxed against the bench instead of pulling away.

The relief he felt was bigger than it should have been. Trust was a dangerous thing in Gotham, and worse in a mask, where every truth had to be weighed against every possible consequence. But you had made the decision without ceremony, as if the name he had given you was something you could hold carefully instead of use.

Your fingers twitched, and a tiny blue spark jumped against the bench. You made a small, embarrassed sound and started to pull your hand back.

Tim caught it.

Carefully this time. Slowly. He laid his gloved fingers over yours and watched the electricity flicker harmlessly against the reinforced material. You went very still.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Your voice was quieter when you answered. “Yes.”

The invisibility started at the edges of you, your outline blurring where the light met your shoulders. You squeezed your eyes shut as if concentration alone could stop it.

Tim’s mouth curved before he could help it. “You’re disappearing.”

“I’m aware.”

“Is it because you’re embarrassed?”

“I could be preparing a tactical retreat.”

“While holding my hand?”

“It’s a new technique.”

“It needs work.”

You opened one eye and glared at him. The effect was weakened by the fact that half your face had gone transparent.

Tim should not have found it charming. He did anyway.

“I’m usually better at this,” you said.

“At invisibility?”

“At flirting.”

He looked at your hand under his. “This is flirting?”

“You are such a detective.”

“I’m gathering evidence.”

“Of what?”

Tim brushed his thumb once over your knuckles. The movement was small, barely anything, but your camouflage flickered hard enough that your whole body vanished for half a second before snapping back into view.

“That,” he said.

Your mouth parted. Then you laughed, breathless and disbelieving, and electricity danced along your bandaged arm like stars caught under skin.

“You’re smug,” you accused.

“I’m observant.”

“That is worse.”

He leaned a little closer. “I can stop.”

You looked at him for a long moment, the humor in your face softening into something warmer. “I didn’t ask you to.”

Tim’s heart kicked once, hard.

The training room door slid open.

Bart stood in the doorway holding three juice boxes and a bag of pretzels. His eyes went from Tim’s hand over yours to your glowing arm to the fact that you were now mostly invisible below the shoulders.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m interrupting.”

“Yes,” Tim said.

“No,” you said at the same time, then immediately winced.

Bart’s grin spread with terrifying speed. “Crash.”

“Bart,” Tim warned.

“I’m going.” Bart backed out of the room, still grinning. “I didn’t see anything. Or, well, I kind of couldn’t, because she was doing the invisible thing, which is probably private? Anyway, snacks are outside.”

The door shut.

You buried your face in your uninjured hand.

Tim stared at the door and seriously considered changing every security code in the Cave.

From somewhere down the hall, Bart shouted, “I support you both!”

Kon shouted, “I knew it!”

Cassie shouted, “Leave them alone!”

Greta’s voice drifted through the wall, soft and pleased. “They’re cute.”

You groaned. “Your team is a nightmare.”

Tim looked back at you. “Our team.”

That shut you up.

It also brought you fully visible again.

For a few seconds, you only stared at him. Then the corner of your mouth lifted, shy in a way he had not expected from someone who could insult Kon while hanging upside down from a fire escape.

“Our team,” you repeated.

Tim nodded.

Your fingers turned under his, fitting more deliberately into his grip. The static between you warmed without stinging. It felt less like a warning now and more like a pulse.

“Tim?”

“Yes?”

“If you almost kiss me again and get interrupted, I’m going to start taking it personally.”

His breath caught. “Again?”

“You think I didn’t notice the rooftop?”

“I was assessing your injuries.”

“You were looking at my mouth.”

Tim considered denial. It would have been tactically weak and also pointless.

“Yes,” he said.

The glow under your skin brightened.

His own confidence, such as it was, almost failed at the sight. There were enemies he could face with steadier nerves than this. Trained killers. Riddler death traps. Batman’s silence after a reckless decision. None of them had ever made him feel as exposed as you did, sitting on a training bench with one arm bandaged, one hand in his, and a smile like you had caught him somewhere he wanted to be caught.

He lifted his free hand slowly, giving you time to move away. You did not. His fingers touched the edge of your hood, then the line of your jaw beneath the domino mask. Your breath trembled once.

The static popped against his glove.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

“I’m fine.”

“It happens when I—” You stopped.

“When you?”

“When I feel too much.”

Tim’s thumb stilled against your jaw.

There were easy things he could have said. Clever things, maybe. Kon would have teased. Bart would have blurted something honest and horrifying. Dick would have known exactly how to make it charming. Tim had a dozen possible responses and no idea which one would not ruin the fragile, bright thing resting between you.

So he chose the truth.

“I do too,” he said. “It just looks different.”

Your eyes searched his face.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

For a second, Tim forgot every plan he had ever made.

The kiss was soft at first, careful because both of you were bruised and tired and still wearing too much armor. Then your hand tightened around his, and the carefulness shifted into something warmer. His fingers slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, and your shoulder brushed his chest as you angled closer. Static skated across his gloves and up his sleeves, harmless but insistent, making every place you touched feel lit from underneath.

You made a small sound against his mouth when he kissed you back.

Tim’s brain attempted to catalog it and then failed completely.

The lights flickered.

Somewhere in the hall, the repaired comm unit on his belt gave a weak burst of static and died again.

You pulled back just enough to look at it. “Oops.”

Tim looked at your mouth, then back at your eyes. “Worth it.”

Your face went pink.

Then you vanished.

Tim laughed, warm and helpless, and leaned forward until his forehead rested against the place where he knew yours had to be. He felt you there, invisible and shaking with silent laughter, your breath brushing his cheek.

“You know,” he said, “this complicates the report.”

Your forehead bumped his. “Put it under equipment damage.”

“The comm?”

“The kiss.”

“I don’t think Batman has a form for that.”

“Make one. You’re Robin.”

The door opened again, only a crack this time.

Kon’s voice came through. “Are you two decent?”

You stayed invisible, but Tim felt the shift of your weight a second before one of his birdarangs slipped from his belt.

Kon leaned farther into the doorway. “So are you two being weird in here, or—”

The birdarang snapped into the doorframe inches from his face.

Kon went very still.

“Rude!” he called.

“Accurate,” you said, still invisible.

Tim looked at the birdarang, then at you. “You stole from my belt.”

“You were distracted.”

“I’m usually better at that.”

Your smile turned bright. “At flirting?”

“At theft prevention.”

“Same problem, maybe.”

Tim wanted to kiss you again. He wanted it badly enough that he had to remind himself you were both injured, both exhausted, and surrounded by teammates with the self-control of a particularly invasive flock of birds. He settled for keeping your hand in his a little longer.

Outside the training room, someone started arguing about whether celebratory waffles were appropriate after stopping an electromagnetic ghost bomb. Bart was firmly in favor. Cassie wanted everyone to sleep. Kon said waffles were basically sleep for your stomach. Greta suggested pancakes in a dreamy voice that made Bart gasp like she had introduced a devastating philosophical complication.

You listened to them, your expression softening.

“They’re always like this?” you asked.

“Usually louder.”

“That should scare me.”

“It scares Batman.”

Your eyes lit. “Really?”

“Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“You keep saying that like I’m supposed to trust you.”

You squeezed his hand. “You already do.”

Tim had no answer for that because it was true.

Later, after Jones was in custody, your brother was released into the care of someone you trusted, and Batman received a report that was technically complete while omitting several personal details that did not belong to him, you returned to Gotham.

For three nights, Tim did not see you.

He told himself that was expected. You had your own patrols, your own responsibilities, and a brother who needed you more than Tim did. You had been operating alone before Young Justice stumbled into your life with explosions and waffles. It made sense that you would need time.

He still found himself checking rooftops.

On the fourth night, he landed on a grotesque overlooking Robinson Park and found a paper bag tied to its neck with a strand of shimmering filament.

Inside were dumplings, still warm.

The note tucked under the container read, in handwriting that managed to look both elegant and smug:

For the detective. Since Gotham has dumplings, apparently.

Tim smiled before he could stop himself.

“You’re late,” he said to the empty rooftop.

Nothing happened.

Then the air to his left shimmered, and you appeared sitting on the edge of the building with your legs swinging over the drop. Your hood was up, your mask in place, and your grin entirely too pleased.

“You knew I was here?”

“I hoped.”

That answer caught you off guard. Your smile softened, and the faint static around you turned shy.

Tim walked over and sat beside you, leaving enough space that you could choose what to do with it. For a while, neither of you talked. Gotham moved below in uneasy layers: traffic, sirens, distant voices, the rustle of wind through leaves in the park. Above you, the clouds had broken enough for a few stubborn stars to show through.

“How’s your brother?” Tim asked.

“Annoyed that he’s grounded from all rooftops, alleys, suspicious laboratories, and independent hero activity until he’s thirty.”

“Reasonable.”

“He says I’m a hypocrite.”

“He’s right.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

The smile you gave him was worth the stolen word.

Tim opened the bag and took out the dumplings. You handed him chopsticks from your sleeve, because apparently your suit had room for emergency utensils. He decided not to ask. You ate together on the gargoyle while Gotham pretended not to notice.

“So,” you said after a while. “Young Justice.”

“Yes.”

“Is there an application?”

“Bart joined by showing up.”

“Low bar.”

“Kon joined through property damage and stubbornness.”

“Lower bar.”

“Cassie was competent, which confused everyone.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “And you?”

Tim looked out over the park. “I was kidnapped into the first mission.”

You stared at him.

He took another dumpling.

“That explains so much,” you said.

“It does?”

“You have the energy of someone who became team leader because everyone else was worse at paperwork.”

Tim considered that. “Accurate.”

Your laughter curled through the cold air, and this time he did not have to wonder if he would hear it again.

When the food was gone, you leaned back on your hands and looked at the sky. Your shoulder rested against his now. It had happened gradually, the small space between you disappearing bite by bite until warmth pressed through the side of his cape.

“Are you going to ask?” you said.

“Ask what?”

“Who I am.”

Tim looked at you.

Your face was turned upward, the lower half visible beneath the mask. You were trying to sound casual. You did not quite make it.

“I want to know,” he said.

Your jaw tightened.

“But I’m not asking.”

You looked at him then. “Why?”

“Because you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

The words seemed to settle into you the way a hand might. Your camouflage flickered once, not enough to hide you. Enough to tell him it mattered.

“You’re very dangerous,” you said.

Tim blinked. “Me?”

“You make patience look romantic.”

Heat climbed up his neck. “That’s a new accusation.”

“Get used to it.”

You leaned closer. He did too, drawn in by the same quiet pull that had been there since the roof, since the chase, since the moment your hand lit up under his, and neither of you let go. This kiss was slower. Less surprised. Tim felt your smile against his mouth before it deepened, felt the static gather in the air around you like a secret learning how to glow.

His comm crackled once.

You pulled back with a laugh. “Still?”

“You are very hard on equipment.”

“You kissed me first this time.”

“Technically, I leaned.”

“You leaned with intent.”

Tim smiled. “That’s going in the report.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Equipment damage due to leaning with intent.”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing, and he caught your hand before you could pull away. The spark that jumped between your palms was gentle. Familiar, almost.

Below, Gotham carried on. Somewhere in the city, Batman was probably brooding over a gargoyle of his own. Somewhere farther away, Young Justice was undoubtedly turning a quiet night into a group activity with consequences. There would be more cases, more danger, more secrets that needed time before they became truths.

Tim still did not have a contingency plan for you.

He was starting to think he did not want one.