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The penthouse above the Sanctuary was quiet save for the soft hum of Endgame's systems running their nightly diagnostics. Rain streaked the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the Gotham skyline into watercolor smears of amber and steel.
Bianca lay on her side, her ashen-silver hair pooling across the pillow like spilled moonlight. Her second form, the Darkstar had emerged sometime after midnight, triggered by nothing more than comfort rather than danger. The silver vine-like markings across her shoulders caught the faint glow from the city below, pulsing gently with each breath.
Tim was sprawled beside her, his back pressed against her chest, one of his hands loosely tangled with hers where it rested against his stomach. The other was tucked beneath his pillow, his face half-buried in the fabric. He was warm, impossibly, distractingly warm and Bianca found herself cataloging the details like a chess position she had no intention of solving.
The slight hitch in his breathing that meant he was still awake. The way his fingers occasionally twitched against hers, as if dreaming of typing or reaching for a grapple line. The quiet contentment in the line of his shoulders that he only ever allowed himself here, in this space, with her.
Bianca's arm was draped over his shoulder, her forearm resting across his chest in a loose, possessive curve. It had been there for over an hour.
It was definitely going to fall asleep before she did.
Not that she was complaining.
"You're thinking too loud," Tim murmured, his voice rough with the edge of sleep.
"Impossible," Bianca replied, her tone dry and quiet. "I don't think loudly. I think efficiently."
"You're thinking about how your arm is going numb."
She allowed the barest pause. "Observant."
"Detective." He shifted slightly, not enough to dislodge her, just enough to settle more firmly against her. "I can feel you flexing your fingers."
Ah. So she had been.
Bianca relaxed her hand deliberately, letting it rest flat against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm: steady, unhurried, alive.
"I'm not complaining," she said.
"You never complain."
"I complain. When it's warranted."
"You complained about the temperature of the coffee I brought you last week."
"Fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit is objectively incorrect for espresso."
Tim laughed quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her arm. It was a small victory, one she catalogued with the same precision she used for opening gambits and endgame strategies.
"I love you," he said, as if it were simply another observation. As if it were as unremarkable as the rain outside.
Bianca felt the words settle somewhere beneath her ribs, warm and inconvenient. She pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder, her lips brushing the fabric of his worn t-shirt.
"I know," she said, and meant it as the gift it was.
The arm was definitely asleep now.
Bianca could feel the pins-and-needles sensation creeping up from her fingertips, a dull prickle that would soon become an uncomfortable reminder of her own poor judgment. She could move it. She should move it.
She didn't move it.
Instead, she watched the slow rise and fall of Tim's breathing, the way his dark lashes cast shadows against his cheeks in the dim light. He was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with symmetry or aesthetics: beautiful in the way he trusted her enough to turn his back, to close his eyes, to exist in her space without armor.
He had been the one to tell her, months ago, that he didn't need her to be anything just because. She hadn't understood it then, she had spent so long being what survival demanded that the idea of just being felt like a language she had forgotten.
But here, with her arm numb and her heart full, she thought she might be learning.
"The longer you leave it," Tim said, "the worse it's going to feel when you move."
"I am aware."
"You're doing it on purpose."
"Perhaps."
He turned then, rolling toward her with a grace that belied his exhaustion. His face was inches from hers, warm and soft, his eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep.
"Move your arm," he said.
"No."
"Bianca—"
"I'm comfortable."
"You're not comfortable. Your arm is asleep."
"I am comfortable enough."
Tim studied her for a moment, that detective's gaze she had grown so familiar with, the one that saw past every carefully constructed facade. Then his expression softened into something that made her chest ache.
"You don't have to prove anything," he said quietly. "You know that, right? You don't have to hold on like I'm going to disappear."
Bianca blinked. The words were too close, too precise. She opened her mouth to deflect, to retreat behind a wall of dry humor and strategic deflection—
—and then she kissed him instead.
It wasn't a particularly skilled kiss. She was off-balance, her arm still awkwardly draped across him, and he tasted faintly of the chamomile tea he'd had before bed. But it was honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.
When she pulled back, she said, "I'm not holding on because I think you'll disappear. I'm holding on because I want to."
Tim stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed again, quiet and warm, and pressed his forehead against hers.
"You're ridiculous," he said.
"I am a world-renowned chess grandmaster with multiple international titles and a net worth in the tens of millions. I am not ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous and I love you."
Bianca huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if she'd allowed it. "Your standards are concerningly low."
"My standards are exactly where I want them."
She let herself have this, let herself be held in the warmth of his regard, his acceptance, his presence. The arm was definitely, absolutely asleep now, and she still didn't care.
"Tim."
"Mm?"
"Thank you for being inconvenient."
He smiled against her forehead, a soft curve of warmth that she could feel more than see. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should."
Bianca's arm remained where it was for another two hours.
By the time she finally moved it, she had lost all feeling from shoulder to fingertip. The pins-and-needles were exquisite, a sharp reminder of exactly how long she had willingly endured discomfort for the privilege of staying close.
She got up, made tea, and returned to bed to find Tim still waiting for her, his eyes tracking her movements with quiet contentment.
"Did it hurt?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Worth it?"
She settled back against him, this time with her head on his chest, her ear pressed to the steady rhythm of his heart.
"Always."
---
Endgame, monitoring from the penthouse's integrated systems, recorded the following observation in its private logs:
"Subject A (Bianca Stoker) voluntarily maintained non-optimal limb position for 3 hours, 42 minutes. Subject B (Timothy Drake) remained in proximity throughout. Conclusion: Subject A is demonstrating bonding behavior inconsistent with prior operational protocols. This is not a deviation. This is development."
The note was flagged for later review. It would never be shown to Bianca.
But Endgame knew.
And somewhere, beneath the Sanctuary, in a place that asked nothing from her, Bianca smiled.