♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Percy is convinced he fell in love with you a second time at his mother's wedding & it rewires his brain.
Percy thinks—no, knows—this is one of those moments that rewires his brain chemistry forever, not in a neat way, not like something he’ll look back on calmly later, but in a way where his head feels too full all at once and his body doesn’t know what to do with the excess.
He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs and his foot keeps tapping against the floor even though he told himself to stop doing that, even though Annabeth shot him a look a minute ago. His suit jacket is pulling weird at the shoulders. The tie is too tight. He loosens it, then tightens it again because loose feels worse somehow. His hands don’t settle and they just keep opening and closing.
The apartment is warm, maybe too warm??? Someone brushed past him earlier and apologized and he nodded like a normal person, but it barely registered. Everything felt delayed, as if he’s underwater without actually being underwater, maybe the air has the wrong density.
The stairs are empty. They won’t be empty for long.
He knows that. He’s known it for ten minutes. Maybe longer. Time’s doing something strange.
His mom is getting married.
That fact keeps floating back up, disjointed, like a notification he keeps swiping away without reading properly. Sally Jackson— his mom, the constant and the anchor in his life— is standing in the next room in white, about to walk into a new part of her life. Percy’s chest tightens every time he remembers it, not in a bad way, he's overwhelmed by happiness.
People move around him. Paul says something about the rings. Someone asks Percy if he’s ready and he nods automatically, because yes, he is, he has been for years, for all of this— his mom happy, his mom safe, his mom choosing something good.
Oh, but Percy's mind is also floating another way— what could he possibly do when he sees you in that dress?
Just when his mind is wondering you descend the stairs. The light catches on the curve of your shoulder, the way the dress fits perfectly and accentuates your beautiful body. You hold the railing with one hand, bouquet in the other, and you laugh at something someone whispers behind you.
That’s when it happens.
One second he’s smiling, the next his mouth is trembling, and then— gods— then the tears are just there, spilling.
“Oh—no, no, no,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-breaking, dragging the heel of his hand under one eye, then the other, failing miserably.
Percy never got that moment, did he?
The prom staircase with the dress reveal and the chance to stand there and think: ‘that’s her, she chose me while the rest of the world watched.’
Percy is already there when you reach the last step. He stops short close to the railing, eyes wide and glossy, mouth opening and then closing again. His tie is crooked and one sleeve is wrinkled from where he’s been fidgeting with it all afternoon.
You notice immediately.
His shoulders are tight, his breath uneven, and when he blinks, a tear slips out anyway. He laughs under his breath like he’s embarrassed, and you lower your bouquet to give attention to your boyfriend.
“Percy?” you ask, worry threading into your voice as you step closer. “Hey love— what’s wrong?”
Your hand comes up to his face before he can answer, thumbs brushing under his eyes, catching the tears he didn’t even realize were falling yet. He leans into the touch instinctively, he’s been practically knocked off balance and you’re both the cause and the thing that sustains him.
“I’m fine,” he says, sniffing hard and ruining the lie. He drags his wrist across his nose, laughs again, softer this time, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize every inch. “I swear. I just— gods.”
He swallows, voice thick. “You’re so pretty.”
Another sniff. His hands settle at your waist, not tight but steady, grounding himself there. He looks a little wrecked, eyes red, lashes wet, with a smile trembling and sincere.
“I didn’t think it would hit me like this,” he admits quietly.
“You came down the stairs and I just—froze. I never got to have that moment with you. Prom, or anything like that. Seeing you all dressed up and walking toward me.” His thumb starts tracing small, absent circles against your side. “And now here you are, and I can’t stop thinking about how lucky I am.”
Someone clears their throat nearby. A camera flashes but Percy barely gives his attention to it. He presses his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in, pulling himself together a little.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, still smiling, still sniffing. “I’m just really in love with you.”
The room is dark except for the thin stripe of city light slipping through the curtains, cutting across the bed and the floor.
The wedding ended two hours ago and there you are, warm beside him, one leg tangled with his, your back pressed lightly to his chest. Percy stays still for a long moment, listening at your breathing slow and even, the kind that tells him you’re really asleep this time.
He shifts just enough to free one arm, careful not to wake you. His hand stays on your waist, fingers splayed for the reminder that you’re there. He reaches for his phone with the other hand, and winces when the screen lights up too bright, immediately dimming it down.
Rings.
He types it in and then deletes it. Types again. Engagement rings. He exhales quietly through his nose, lips pressing together as the page loads. His thumb hovers, hesitant, before he starts scrolling.
He doesn’t know what he’s looking for at first.
Too flashy feels wrong. Too simple feels like it’s missing something. He keeps glancing at your hand where it rests against the pillow, memorizing the shape of your fingers, the way they curl when you sleep. He reaches out, gently, lifting your hand just enough to slide his own under it, lining his fingers up with yours, testing how it would look someday.
“Yeah,” he whispers to himself, barely sound at all. “Okay.”
He scrolls slower now. Stops on one. Zooms in. Back out.
He lets out another sniff, quiet and ridiculous, because somehow he’s emotional again. He wipes his nose on the edge of the sheet and shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
He taps a few tabs open, compares bands, stones, settings. Reads reviews.
He imagines you wearing it while brushing your teeth, while cooking dinner, while absentmindedly twisting it around your finger when you’re nervous. He imagines the weight of it there and how permanent that would make everything in the best way.
He wants to spend his life with you forever.
You shift in your sleep, brow creasing slightly, and he freezes instantly. His phone locks instantly and his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer until you settle again, breath evening out. He lets out the breath he was holding, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, even if you can't hear him.
When he unlocks his phone again, he saves a few.
“Just bookmarks. It's nothing official.” He’s trying to think, trying not to rush it— he just wants to know what forever might look like in metal and stone. His thumb pauses over one last ring, simple, sturdy and beautiful.
He glances at you one more time, at the way your hair spills over the pillow, at how safe you look there with him.
“Soon,” he ends up with, and finally sets the phone down.
He pulls you closer, arm snug around your waist, nose tucked into your hair. His breathing slows to match yours, the glow of the screen fading from his eyes but not from his chest.
not in the embarrassing way. not in the clingy, overbearing way people always assume when they see you wrapped around him with your cheek pressed into his shoulder while he scrolls through his phone.
just openly.
like loving him is the easiest thing you’ve ever done.
at the beginning of your relationship, you used to ask before every touch.
“can i hold your hand?”
“is this okay?”
“do you want space?”
sae remembers the first time you asked if you could hug him.
you stood outside your apartment after your third date, fingers hooked behind your back, swaying slightly on your heels while looking at him with careful eyes.
not nervous.
considerate.
like you were trying to learn the shape of him before touching anything fragile.
“you can say no,” you told him quickly. “i just like hugging you.”
sae stared at you for a second. then said yes.
and you hugged him like it meant something.
not casually. not absentmindedly.
you wrapped your arms around him with this quiet sort of sincerity that made his chest feel oddly tight.
he remembers standing there thinking:
oh.
so this is what it feels like to be wanted gently.
months later, you’re practically melted across him on the couch while he rewatches match footage.
one of your legs thrown over his lap. your cheek against his shoulder. fingers playing lazily with the ends of his hair while he scrolls through clips on his tablet.
“you’re staring again,” he says without looking away from the screen.
“i know.”
“why.”
you hum thoughtfully, like this requires genuine analysis.
“i like your face.”
“that’s vague.”
“okay,” you murmur, shifting slightly so you can look at him properly. “you also have very delicate eyelashes.”
“. . .”
“they look soft.”
“they are eyelashes.”
“mhm. pretty ones." your thumb smooths against his temple. “they curl at the ends when you’re tired.”
sae finally glances at you then.
you’re looking at him with unbearable fondness. soft-eyed and completely serious.
like this is important information.
you smile a little when he looks back. “there you are.”
“what does that mean.”
“you disappear into your head sometimes.” another gentle stroke through his hair. “i like when you come back.”
something in his chest shifts quietly at that.
you always notice things.
small things.
the difference between his exhausted silences and his irritated ones. the way his shoulders loosen after a shower. how he taps his fingers against his leg when he’s thinking too hard about something.
you notice all of it like memorising him is instinctive.
and somehow, instead of making him feel watched, it only makes him feel known.
you’re always touching him when you’re alone together.
your hand in his hair. your face pressed into his neck. your fingers tracing slow shapes against his arm while you talk to him about whatever strange thought has crossed your mind that night.
you ask him questions at one in the morning while half asleep against his chest.
“do you think people stay the same forever underneath everything, or do they become entirely different versions of themselves every few years?”
or,
“if soccer never existed, what kind of person do you think you would’ve become?”
sometimes the conversations last for hours. sometimes they fade naturally into silence while your fingertips drift absentmindedly against his skin.
sae likes both equally.
especially because you never seem uncomfortable with quiet. you just like being near him.
and you love him so visibly.
that’s probably the part that unsettled him most in the beginning.
you never acted embarrassed by how much you adored him.
you looked happy when he walked into a room.
your entire face softened whenever you looked at him for too long.
you called him cute constantly, which had genuinely annoyed him at first.
the first time you said it, he thought you were joking.
“you’re cute when you’re irritated,” you told him one evening while he stared at you flatly from across the kitchen.
“that’s not a compliment.”
“to you maybe,” you’d replied easily.
the problem was that you always sounded so sincere.
you never called him handsome or hot. never used the kind of compliments he was used to hearing from other people.
only cute.
but when you said it, it sounded strangely precious. like you were calling attention to parts of him nobody else noticed.
sae gets home late most nights.
between training, media appearances, travel, and sponsorship obligations, exhaustion settles deep into his bones more often than not. there are days where he barely feels like speaking by the time he reaches the apartment.
and then he opens the front door.
there’s usually about two seconds of silence before he hears your voice from somewhere inside.
“sae?”
then the sound of quick footsteps.
the first time you slid around the hallway corner in socks, you nearly slammed directly into the wall trying to get to him faster. now he expects it.
“you’re going to hurt yourself one day,” he says automatically as you hurry toward him.
“probably,” you admit easily before wrapping your arms around his waist anyway.
you always hug him immediately after he gets home. like you’ve been waiting to do it all day.
your cheek presses against his chest while you mumble a quiet, “welcome home.”
it does something strange to him every time.
because nobody has ever said those words to him like they truly meant it.
like home was a person instead of a place.
his hand settles instinctively at the back of your head. “were you waiting long?”
“not really.”
he knows that’s a lie immediately.
there’s a blanket tangled on the couch and a book lying open beside it. one of the lamps is still on. you probably fell asleep trying to wait for him again.
when he points it out, you only shrug sheepishly.
“i wanted to see you first.”
you always say things like that so simply.
never expecting anything in return.
never making him feel guilty for being busy.
you have your own life. your own friends and routines and responsibilities. but somehow you still make space for him so naturally that being loved by you never feels heavy.
there are nights where you climb directly into his lap halfway through a conversation and bury your face into his shoulder without warning.
“hi,” you mumble against his neck.
“. . . hi?”
“pick me up.”
“you’re already on top of me.”
“properly.”
he sighs like you’re inconveniencing him, but his hands are already moving to your waist before he even finishes speaking.
you grin victoriously when he stands with you clinging to him like a koala.
“you’re needy.”
“and you adore me," you tell him with complete certainty.
sae looks at you for a long moment before answering.
“. . . obviously.”
your expression softens every single time he says things like that, no matter how casually.
like part of you still can’t fully believe he means it.
truthfully, sae doesn’t think he fully understands it either sometimes.
that someone can know him this well and still love him this gently.
sometimes he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch waiting for him.
those nights affect him more than he likes admitting.
he’ll walk into the apartment quietly and see you curled beneath a blanket with a book slipping from your lap, glasses slightly crooked from sleep while the lamp beside you casts warm light across your face.
you always try so hard to stay awake for him.
and always fail eventually.
he stands there for a moment just looking at you before setting his bag down.
“baby,” he murmurs softly.
you wake slowly every time, blinking at him with sleepy confusion before your entire expression changes the second you recognise him.
“sae . . .”
your voice is rough with sleep.
warm.
you sit up right away despite still looking half unconscious, reaching for him on instinct alone.
“you’re home,” you mumble, like you’d been thinking about that fact all evening.
he leans down automatically when your hands cup his face.
you stare at him for a second, eyes heavy-lidded as you look over his features carefully, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes.
“you look tired,” you whisper.
“long day.”
a small frown appears on your face for exactly two seconds before you lean forward and press a soft kiss to his forehead.
then another to his cheek.
then one to the corner of his mouth.
and then suddenly you’re kissing him everywhere with sleepy determination. gentle little kisses scattered across his face while your fingers slide into his hair.
his jaw.
his cheekbone.
the bridge of his nose.
back to his jaw again because you seem particularly attached to kissing him there.
“missed you,” you mumble between soft kisses.
sae’s hands settle around your waist as he lets you pull him closer. “you should’ve gone to bed.”
“i wanted to wait for you.”
“you fell asleep.”
“emotionally i was awake.”
he stares at you for a second while you smile sleepily against his face.
“. . . that doesn’t make any sense.”
“it does to me.”
you only continue kissing him afterward, warm and sleepy and impossibly affectionate while your fingers slide through his hair.
“you’re very clingy when you’re tired,” he murmurs quietly.
“mhm.” you admit. then you look at him carefully again, your expression softening almost painfully. “and you’re very cute when you’re tired.”
“there it is again.”
you hum sleepily against his face, smiling a little when his fingers slide beneath the blanket pooled around your legs.
“can’t help it,” you mumble. “you come home looking all worn out and pretty.”
sae gives you a look at that. “pretty?”
“very.” your thumb brushes slowly beneath his eye. “especially right now.”
your expression softens even further the longer you look at him.
it always does.
like every time you see him after being apart for a while, you still need a second to process that he’s actually there.
it used to make him uncomfortable.
now he thinks he’d notice immediately if you ever stopped.
you suddenly narrow your eyes slightly, head tilting as you study him with sleepy seriousness. “did you eat properly today?”
“yes.”
“protein and everything?”
“. . . yes.”
“good.” a tiny approving nod before you kiss his cheek again. “good boy.”
sae actually blinks.
slowly.
you don’t even realise what you’ve said at first because you’re too busy smoothing his hair back from his forehead.
then your eyes widen slightly.
“oh my god,” you groan. “pretend i didn’t say that.”
he stares at you flatly. “that’s difficult.”
you bury your face into his shoulder immediately, muffling a horrified laugh. “i didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“. . . right.”
“that was supposed to stay in my head.”
“you have concerning thoughts.”
“you’re literally sitting here letting me kiss you forty times in a row.”
“that’s unrelated.”
you laugh into his shoulder while he feels your face heating against his neck.
the worst part was that he could tell from the immediate horror on your face that it had genuinely slipped out by accident.
you peek up at him eventually, smiling sheepishly.
“you secretly liked it.”
sae doesn’t answer straight away.
because the annoying thing is ─ you’re right again.
he likes your hands in his hair.
likes the way your face lights up when he walks through the door.
likes being loved by someone who never makes him question it.
your fingers drift lazily along the back of his neck while your eyelids begin drooping again.
“sorry,” you mumble suddenly. “i know you’re probably exhausted.”
“i’m fine.”
“still.” your gaze flickers over his face carefully. “you work so hard.”
something in his chest twists quietly at the softness in your voice.
you say things so gently sometimes it catches him completely off guard.
before he can respond, you lean in again and press three tiny kisses to his jaw in quick succession.
it was affectionate enough to make his chest ache with it.
“cute,” you whisper against his skin.
another kiss.
“cute.”
another.
“very cute.”
sae exhales quietly through his nose while you smile against him. “you’re obsessed with me.”
“why wouldn't i be?”
sae looks at you for a long second after that.
then he finally sits properly beside you, letting you curl against his chest beneath the blanket. the moment he settles, you tuck yourself into him with a sleepy sigh, arms wrapping loosely around his middle.
comfortable. instinctive.
like your body already knows exactly where it belongs.
“there,” you mumble contently. “better.”
his hand moves instinctively to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair carefully as you tug lightly on his sleeve.
“sorry again,” you mumble drowsily. “you want quiet after practice.”
sae’s hand moves to the back of your head automatically, smoothing your hair down.
“this is quiet.”
you smile against him at that.
a few minutes later your breathing evens out again, sleep finally pulling you under for real this time.
the room falls quiet for a while.
just the soft sound of your breathing and the occasional sleepy kiss you press against whatever part of him is closest.
but right before you drift off completely, sae hears one last sleepy mumble against his shoulder.
♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Percy lives with his mother and works part-time, hoping one day he can give her a better life. It all starts to change a rainy day, when he meets you, a girl who lives in a world completely different from his own.
Percy Jackson had never thought much about what he didn’t have.
The apartment he lived in was small. The radiator clanked like it was fighting for it's life every winter. The wallpaper in the kitchen peeled near the sink, and the couch had a dip in the middle where he and his mom always ended up during movie nights.
It was home with those blue plastic tablecloths and pancakes on Sundays or his mom dancing with him in the kitchen to old songs on the radio, her hugging him before every shift and saying, “You and me, Percy. We’re doing just fine.”
And they were! There was laughter everyday and for the boy seeing his mom laugh was top tier importance.
Sally Jackson worked long shifts— café mornings and afternoons, working in a restaurant at night when she could get it— but she never let it show at home. She’d come in tired, her black hair slipping out of the clips, the apron wrinkled, and still smile like Percy was the best thing she’d ever seen.
Because to her, he was.
And to Percy? She was everything.
He learned early how to stretch things, to fix the cabinet door with a screwdriver or to make boxed mac and cheese taste gourmet with some extra pepper and a splash of milk. He also tried to pretend he didn’t notice when his mom skipped showers so he could have more.
He couldn't pretend anyway because he loved his mom too much.
So he got a part-time job as soon as he could— shelving books at a tiny independent shop a few blocks away. It didn’t pay much, but it helped. And he liked the smell of paper and ink and talking to the old man that ran it.
Their Friday tradition was sacred.
No matter how chaotic the week had been, Friday nights meant cheap takeout— usually pizza, sometimes Chinese if tips had been good— and a movie they’d already seen at least five times.
They’d sit cross-legged on the floor because the coffee table doubled as storage, and Sally would narrate scenes like she was in the film herself.
“Percy,” she’d say in an exaggerated tone, pointing at the screen, “if you ever fall in love, I hope she laughs at your jokes.”
“What if they’re not funny?”
“Oh honey,” she’d grin, “then she’s the one.”
The boy always rolled his eyes, but his cheeks would go pink.
He didn’t dream about mansions or sports cars or having a penthouse.
He just dreamed about stability. About one day buying his mom a place where the windows didn’t rattle, surprising her with a stove that didn’t need a match to light.
About maybe, someday, having enough that she wouldn’t have to work double shifts.
He also wasn’t bitter. He didn’t look at rich neighborhoods with envy. He just looked at them like they were another world— really shiny, distant, a life not built for people like him.
And that was fine.
Because he had Saturday mornings where he and his mom would walk to the farmer’s market before closing so vendors would sell produce cheaper. She’d squeeze peaches and hand him strawberries to taste, laughing when his cheek was stained.
He had love— unwavering, unembarrassed love.
The kind of love that didn’t need money.
Sometimes, when he lay in bed listening to the cars outside, Percy would think about how small their place was. Then he’d hear his mom moving around in the kitchen, singing to herself while she packed tomorrow’s lunch.
And he’d think: We’re okay. More than okay.
He didn’t know that somewhere across the city, in a house with marble floors and many empty rooms, a girl with everything would be wishing for exactly what he already had.
The first time Percy sees her, it’s raining.
Not the romantic kind of rain that's movie-like. More of an aggressive, strong wind, umbrella-flipping kind of rain.
He’s just finished his shift at the bookstore, with the hoodie pulled over his head, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s debating whether he can outrun the storm to the subway when he hears it—
A sharp, frustrated gasp.
He turns and there you are. Standing under the useless shelter of a bus stop sign holding an umbrella that has completely inverted, metal spokes sticking out like a spider. Your shoes— expensive-looking, cream-colored, not built for puddles— are soaked. Well, all you is soaked.
And you look… stunned, even a bit confused.
Percy shouldn’t stare but he does anyway because you don't look like someone who would walk around this part of the city.
You're dressed in soft, tailored clothes— not flashy, but they are the type of clothes that obviously cost more than his entire closet. Your hair is pinned back neatly, though the rain is slowly winning that battle. A leather bag hangs from your shoulder— real leather. He can tell.
And yet you're standing there alone with no driver, friends or someone rushing to the rescue as you mutter a curse under your breath, poking the broken umbrella as if it might fix itself.
Percy hesitates.
He doesn’t belong in your world... That much is obvious. You probably live in one of those buildings with doormen and polished brass handles and a lobby that smells like expensive candles!
But you looks so… lost.
And his mom didn’t raise him to ignore a lady in the rain.
So he jogs over.
“Uh,” he says, pushing his hood back, the rain instantly soaking into his curls. “You know you’re kind of fighting a losing battle there, right?”
You blink at him. Your eyes are bright and curious.
“Oh,” you say, looking at the umbrella somewhat embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?”
Percy grins. “I’d say once it turns into modern art, yeah.”
You look at him surprised but laugh like you found it hilarious. He feels his chest doing a flip.
“I didn’t check the weather,” you admit, glancing up at the sky. “I thought it would just be… light.”
“It’s never light,” Percy replies, trying to be calm and failing the next second. “This city's weather is like those London crime books.”
Another laugh comes out of you.
God, okay. He needs to calm down. “You waiting for the bus?” he asks.
“Yes, I didn’t know it only comes every thirty minutes.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Welcome to public transport.”
You tilt your head. “You say that like you’re the mayor of it.”
“I might be.”
He pulls his backpack off and digs around before pulling out a slightly dented but functional blue umbrella.
He opens it and holds it over both without really thinking about it and you step closer automatically. Suddenly you're standing under this small circle of dry space, shoulders nearly touching.
Up close, Percy notices you smell good too— not overpowering but likely those expensive colognes that are the perfect type of smell.
“You don’t have to—” you start when he pushes the umbrella for you to grab.
“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “I live like three blocks that way. The bus is probably more important for you.”
There’s something thoughtful in your expression at that.
“And where do you live?” you ask with curiosity.
He jerks his chin vaguely downtown. “Over the laundromat on 104th.”
He expects something to change in your face. Maybe pity, discomfort or even disgust. It would be normal since you look like a rich kid.
But it doesn't, instead you nod like he just said something important.
“That’s close to the little bookstore on the corner, right? With the crooked sign?”
He blinks. “Yeah. I work there.”
Your eyes light up. “You do? I love that place!”
He laughs. “You love that place?”
“Yes!! I like the smell of book paper and ink, but I never have time to go...”
He doesn’t know why his stomach mimics the flip his chest did 5 minutes ago. Were you hiding under a rock your whole life and have now decided to come out?
The bus headlights appear in the distance, cutting through the rain. You look at it and back at him.
“I’m glad it rained,” you say suddenly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Most people aren’t.”
“I wouldn’t have met you otherwise, funny guy.”
And Percy— who has faced broken radiators, overdue bills, and a lifetime of making do— finds himself utterly unprepared for one sweet girl in the rain.
The bus pulls up with a hiss. You hesitate before stepping on and then you turn around to give him your name.
“Percy,” he says.
“I know,” you reply with a small smile, glancing at the bookstore logo on his hoodie.
The doors close with the bus pulling away. And Percy stands there in the rain, without umbrella, heart doing wild things in his chest.
When he gets home, dripping wet and dazed, his mom looks up from the stove.
“You look like you saw a mythical creature,” she says.
The boy pauses next to the bathroom door. Maybe he did.
He sees you again three days later. He’s not expecting to but he's happy when your eyes find his. It’s Saturday afternoon, and the bookstore is slow. The bell above the door jingles, and Percy looks up automatically, opening his mouth to greet the customer.
There you are. Dry this time by the way.
Dressed in a soft and pale sweater with a neat skirt, some jewelry that probably costs a fortune... But you're smiling happily as if just walked into somewhere you love.
“Hi,” you say, moving a bit your hand.
Oh man, he forgets how to speak.
“You—” He clears his throat. “I see you survived the bus.”
“I did,” you reply gravely. “But it was harrowing.”
As you step further inside, you look around, getting some mystery books and pausing to read the back covers of those that did catch your attention before you talk once more.
“You really work here,” your eyes are still on the book as you put it back in place.
“Yep, I wasn’t lying.”
“I didn’t think you were.” You say while picking up a copy of Pride and Prejudice from Jane Austen, flipping it open.
“My mom used to read to me from this,” you say. “When she had time.”
“Mine reads everything out loud,” he says. “Even takeout menus. She loves making people laugh.”
Why was he talking to a pretty girl about his mom? Gods, he might be the worst on flirtin—.
Your smile widens, “I like her already,” you settle into the worn armchair by the window.
You talk between customers. About books at first, then the rainy day 3 days ago and where were you going and how you didn’t realize the bus schedule could ruin completely a day.
He finds out you live uptown, like, really uptown. He was right about thinking of you living in the kind of building with a lobby attendant and marble floors.
He tries not to picture it too clearly. For some reason he thinks for the first time ever in his life he might look like a homeless person to people like you.
He hates that the thought even crosses his mind.
He’s never been ashamed of where he lives, about the laundromat downstairs or the way the stairwell smells faintly like detergent and metal. He’s never cared that his sneakers are worn or that most of his clothes are secondhand.
But you’re standing there in really nice clothes and brand jewelry, talking about books, and suddenly he’s aware of how he might be looking like he cannot afford even some roses.
A customer wanders in, and Percy moves to help them, but he keeps glancing back at you like you might go if he doesn’t check. You don’t, you’re flipping through pages, legs tucked beneath you.
When the customer leaves, you look up.
“So,” you say casually, “what time do you get off?”
He hesitates. “Six.”
You nod. “Okay.”
“Okay…?”
You glance at your watch for a moment before looking up at the boy again. “I have to leave in a little while today, but I'd like to walk you home tomorrow.”
“What?”
You come back the next day.
Percy tells himself it’s more of a coincidence than a premeditated idea.. People find places they like and return to them. That doesn’t have to mean anything! The bookstore is quiet, tucked away and easy to miss unless you’re looking for it. Maybe he's falling in love with a performative rich girl !?
Then you come back the day after that.
And the day after that.
At first, you browse like any other customer. You look for a book, settle into the worn armchair by the window, knees tucked up slightly with the afternoon sunlight catching in your hair while you read. Every so often, you look up and ask him something— about a title, about an author, even why he shelved books by their color.
He answers every time since you have been walking with him back home.
Then one afternoon, you walk in holding two coffees. You just step up to the counter and place one near his elbow while he’s sorting receipts.
He glances at it, then at you before drinking.
It’s exactly how he likes it! Balanced, but sweet at the same time, with blue syrup. He doesn’t remember ever telling you that and he doesn’t ask how you knew because he doesn’t want to look like an idiot that forgets your conversations.
Another day, you bring a pastry folded in blue paper. You break it in half without asking and slide part of it toward him while he’s helping a customer. When he looks up, you’re already pretending to read the back cover of Journey to the Center of the Earth from Jules Verne, as if you haven’t been watching him the entire time.
He thinks you’re blushing behind the book but maybe it’s just hot inside. Perhaps he should turn the heating down a bit.
The third time, you bring nothing at all.
You sit on the counter while he reorganizes a display, careful not to knock anything over, your feet swinging slightly above the floor. You ask him why certain books are always moved to the front. You listen when he explains about how the sales and visibility and what customers gravitate toward.
Some afternoons you read for hours, only looking up when the bell above the door rings. Other days you talk about long dinners you’re expected to attend, about the rooms full of people who only know each other’s last names.
Percy likes to listen and he starts to expect you.
Around 15:50p.m, his focus shifts toward the door without meaning to. When the bell rings, his head lifts. When it isn’t you, something small inside him settles back down again.
When it is you, the entire room explodes in colors for the boy.
Even when you’re not speaking to him, he’s aware of you— the soft sound of a page turning where you sit, the way you lean your cheek against your hand when you’re thinking, or the faint tap of your shoe against the counter when you’re bored.
He really enjoys your company.
The bell above the bookstore door jingles at exactly 15:17 p.m.
Percy knows the time because he’s been checking the clock every five minutes since two. Not that he’s been waiting for you, buuut he's been waiting...
He’s reorganizing the mythology section for the third time this week when the door opens and even before he looks up, he knows it's you by the sound of those boots with heels you usually wear.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hey,” he says, trying for casual and landing somewhere around in love.
Still, today you seem a bit nervous. You don’t head for a book and the armchair but walk straight up to him.
Percy immediately becomes aware of everything— the way he’s holding the Odyssey book upside down, the dust on his clothes from cleaning and the fact that his hair is looking terrible today.
“You’re early,” he blurts out.
You blink. “Early?”
“For— I mean. You usually come closer to four.”
“Oh,” you say slowly. “So you do notice when I come in.”
He wants the floor to swallow him whole. Please, just let a black hole appear and swallow him whole!
“Well, you're a regular” he mutters weakly.
You step closer, and suddenly the space between you feels very small. The bookstore is quiet since there's no customers and the owner is out running errands.
You study him for a second like you’re working up to something.
“Percy,” you say.
The way you say his name should be illegal.
“Yeah?” “Are you ever going to ask me out?”
He blinks. “I— what?”
You cross your arms, not annoyed but definitely amused. “I very obviously like you.”
His brain short-circuits. “You— you do???”
You stare at him.
“Yes.” “Oh.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Can his mouth just work???
You sigh softly, but you have a little smile on your lips.
“Okay,” you say with decision. “Let’s make this easier.”
You step even closer— close enough that he can see the tiny gold flecks in your eyes.
“Do you want to go on a date with me?” Direct and clear question with no games in between.
Percy’s face goes red instantly.
“A date?” he repeats, that word is foreign, he has NEVER gone to a date. He dedicates himself to studying and working to help his mother have it easier; he doesn't date.
“Yes. A date.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “You. Me. Intentionally spending time together with romantic implications.”
He makes a strangled sound and you can't help yourself but laugh.
“Perce.”
“I— I just didn’t think you’d want—” “Why wouldn’t I?”
He hesitates. The words hovering in his mind: You're rich and pretty and sweet and I’m a guy living on top of a laundromat.
Even if he doesn't say anything you can see it on his face.
“I don’t care about your status,” you reply even if he didn't open his mouth. “I like you.”
“You’re serious?” he asks.
“Yes.” “Like… really serious?”
You lean in slightly. “Perseus Jackson, I have been flirting with you for two weeks.”
His eyes widen. “That was flirting?”
You laugh again, shaking your head. “Yes. That was flirting.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still flushed. “I thought you were just…well, being nice?”
“I am nice,” you respond. “And I’m also asking you on a date.”
He looks at you and for once, instead of seeing the distance between your worlds, he just sees you waiting for an answer, you seem determined and bold, but your hands are also playing with each other and a slight blush is growing on your cheeks.
“I’d like that,” he says finally. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
Your smile is slow and bright and victorious in the gentlest way.
“Good,” you say. “Saturday. You pick somewhere you like.”
“Somewhere I like?” “Yes. I want to see your world.”
“Okay,” he says, voice softer now. “I know a place.”
You nod, satisfied and then you lean forward and press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
Percy freezes, basically, you just made his whole system to shutdown. When you pull back, his face is glowing red.
“That,” you say lightly, “is motivation.”
You grab your leather bag and head for the door like you didn’t alter the chemical makeup of his entire being.
Percy spends all of Saturday morning pretending he’s not nervous. He cleans the apartment even though you’re not coming inside. He reorganizes the bookshelf and changes shirts three times before his mom finally leans against his bedroom door and says: “If you change one more time, I’m picking for you.”
He freezes mid-button. “I’m not nervous.”
“Of course you’re not,” Sally says sweetly. “You’ve only been pacing for twenty minutes.”
She walks over, fixing his collar gently, and smoothing his hair like she used to when he was little. “She likes you,” she keeps going. “You don’t have to impress her. Just be you.”
By the time he reaches the bookstore, you're there. Leaning against the brick wall outside, dressed simply— not in anything flashy or intimidating. A soft blue sundress and sneakers. You planned for walking.
When you spot him, your entire face lights up and Percy forgets every anxious thought he’s had all morning.
“You clean up nicely,” you start, pushing off the wall and walking toward him.
His brain malfunctions briefly. “I— uh. You look— I mean.. You always look—”
You smile and save him. “Thank you.”
There’s no awkward hovering or guessing. You step into his space and nudge his arm with yours. “So, where are you taking me?”
He swallows. “There’s this place by the river. It’s not fancy or anything... Just a food truck park and a walking path. But the view’s good.”
Your smile softens. “That sounds perfect.”
You start walking. At first, there’s that slight hyper-awareness— the knowledge that this is different. This is a date.
But it doesn’t take long before it feels like all the evenings you walked with him home after work, just… lighter.
You guys pass corner stores and street vendors. A man playing saxophone on the sidewalk. Kids chasing each other through a spray of water from a busted hydrant.
At one point Percy stops to buy a small teddy bear as a gift for you.
“You really like it here,” you mention as you hug the plushie.
“Yeah,” Percy admits. “It’s loud and kind of messy and sometimes smells weird, but… it’s nice.”
When you reach the food trucks, he relaxes a bit more. This is practically his territory! He knows which stand has the best fries and which one overloads the tacos in the best way.
He orders for them after checking what you like and sit on a low stone wall facing the river, city skyline stretching across the water. The breeze is warm, tugging at your hair a bit, and brushing against his collar.
For a while, you just eat and talk. About stupid things. About how Percy's mom was screaming like crazy about him having a date. About how your building has a lobby pianist on Thursdays and you've always found it vaguely unsettling.
“You have a lobby pianist?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Like… just sitting there?” “Yes!”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s insane.”
You grin. “You don’t treat me differently,”
He frowns. “How do you mean?”
“You don’t act impressed or intimidated or with respect.”
He snorts softly. “You brought me coffee for two weeks and I do respect you.”
You nudged him with the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
You finish eating and wander down the river path, slow and unhurried. The sun is dipping lower now, painting everything in gold and purple.
Your hands brush once. Then twice. The third time, you don't pull away. Instead, you lace your fingers through his and don’t let go. You've been waiting to be able to hold his hand. It’s really warm.
He looks down at your joined hands like he’s dreaming.
“You okay?” you ask, amused.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah. Just— wow.”
“You’re very red.” “I’m aware.”
You laugh softly and squeeze his hand.
You walk like that for a while, fingers still intertwined, the warmth of his hand against your own. The path along the river is calmer now, the late afternoon drifting gently toward evening and the sun hangs lower, spilling molten gold across the water, the boats that pass leave ripples that shimmer and dissolve behind them.
There's silence— not heavy, it's more like you both are waiting for something and any can make it happen— watching a small rowboat drift lazily across the water. The person inside rows unevenly, splashing more than gliding.
You tilt your head. “Have you ever done that?”
“Fallen in?” he replies.
“No. Gone out on one.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve thought about it, though.”
There’s a small dock ahead where rentals are offered. A wooden sign, a bored teenager behind a folding table, and a few rowboats bobbing gently against their ropes.
“Let’s do it,” you say suddenly.
He looks at you. “Do what?” “Get in a boat!”
He laughs softly, thinking you're joking, but you're turning toward the dock already, tugging him lightly along with you.
“Wait,” he says, stumbling a little. “Right now?”
“Why not?” your eyes bright in the fading light. “It’s still warm, it’s pretty and since we’re already here..”
He hesitates only for a second— not because he doesn’t want to, but because this feels spontaneous in a way he’s not used to. He’s always thinking about the money, calculating the costs of this things, weighing their practicality.
You step up to the folding table and asks for a boat. When the price is mentioned, Percy instinctively reaches for his wallet, but you're faster.
“I’ve got it,”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you say. “Next time you can.”
Next time.
The words warm him more than the sunset.
A few minutes later, both of you are climbing carefully into a small rowboat that rocks slightly under the weight. Percy nearly loses his balance, and you laugh softly, steadying yourself with one hand on his arm.
“Okay,” he mutters, trying to look competent as he takes the oars. “I may have overestimated my boating abilities.”
“I have full faith in you,” you reply, settling onto the wooden seat across from him, knees brushing his.
He pushes off from the dock, and for a moment the boat wobbles uncertainly before gliding outward. The river opens around with the sounds of the city dulling and water reflecting streaks of orange and violet, the sky melting slowly into dusk. The gentle dip and pull of the oars create soft ripples that spread.
You just watch him row for a while, chin resting lightly in your hand, a small smile playing at the lips.
“What?” he asks eventually, self-conscious.
“Nothing, I just like looking at you when you’re focused.”
He nearly rows sideways and you grab his arm to steady you both.
Percy shakes his head, smiling despite himself, and slows once far enough from shore that the dock is just a small shape behind. He lets the oars rest and the boat drifts.
You reach out, fingers lightly tracing along the inside of his wrist, following the faint line of a vein there. It’s an absent gesture, thoughtful rather than bold.
“It’s peaceful out here,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice quieter.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The boat rocks gently beneath them, the water lapping faintly against the wood.
You look up at him then. “I’ve wanted to do this since the rain,”
“Get in a boat?” he asks.
You smile faintly. “No.”
Then you're leaning forward, close that he can feel her breath warm against his cheek.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” you say quietly, matching his voice.
He lifts his hand slowly, cupping your cheek with a touch so reverent it feels like he's touching a pearl. You lean into it immediately, your eyes softening.
The first brush of lips is tentative, like you both are confirming it’s real.
Then it deepens— not rushed or desperate — your lips are pressing with certainty and your hand slides into his hair, gentle as the boat rocks slightly with the shift in weight, but neither pulls away.
When you finally part, it's not far. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, the river drifting quietly around with the sky darker now, the first city lights reflecting in broken lines across the water.
You smile against his mouth. “Worth it?”
He exhales softly, thumb brushing along your cheek.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and sure. “More than worth it.”
♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞
♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
💭 : Repost time as I work on my new fics! I got scared thinking I lost this oneshot request.
Did you notice that several books are mentioned throughout the one-shot? (Pride and Prejudice, Journey to the Center of the Earth, The Odyssey)
Random fact, those are some of my favorite books from when I was little, I wanted to add The Neverending Story but ended up choosing Pride and Prejudice. x) Also, the first idea was to make a reader who loves Jules Verne's stories because they're some of my favorite books lmaoo.
warnings: swearing; use of cigarettes, for de plot; percy is a dork and extremely down bad from the millisecond y'all make eye contact
word count: 2,1k
the aforementioned remix. I'm gonna start getting serious ab writing guys, I swær, bc I lowkey thrived off the pressure bc I gave myself a time limit, and we all know pressure make diamonds.
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Percy hadn’t been performing for long but the shitty bars he somehow got gigs in around New York were always filled themselves with fans when he was around (there wasn’t much space to begin with but I digress.) The faces in the crowd shifted from bar to bar like a moving tide but there was one face he’d seen that kept coming back, yours.
You’d been to almost all of his shows. You reasoned it was because the music was good, but all your friends said you were obsessed and definitely crushing on him. You couldn’t really deny it, you did find him physically attractive but there was something that wasn’t so superficial intriguing you.
Maybe he felt it too, because every show, without fail, his eyes met yours, almost like he was actively looking for you, that or he’s wondering “who is this girl who keeps showing up to my shows? even in places that aren’t remotely close to each other.” You hoped you gave mysterious, cool energy instead of obsessed groupie.
You were outside a bar after one of said shows when you got your answer.
You’d slipped outside, before girls started to bat their eyelashes and twirl their hair at Percy and his bandmates, for some air that wasn’t potent with the sickly sweet smell of cocktails and musky sweat and, paradoxically, a smoke. You were mid light up when the sound you heard when you pushed through the backdoor sounded again.
───────────────────────────────
Ever since Percy had first seen you, he’d thought you were gorgeous and like any sane person, he was going get your number, so after the show, he pulled off his guitar and put it away before starting his search for you but apparently the gods still loved playing with him even though he was, apparently, passed the age where they enjoy meddling the most because he lost sight of you in the chaos of his bandmates pulling him into conversations and tipsy girls flirting with him.
He mourned you the whole night. His bandmates caught onto his bad mood. Leo was the one to ask.
“What’s up with you?” He mused as he wrapped an arm around Percy’s shoulders. “You’re literally surrounded by women who want you and think you make good music, how are you upset?”
“I think I saw the love of my life.”
“And they call me dramatic.” He says as he takes a sip of his drink.
Percy huffs and pushes him off.
“What do you mean “saw”?” Leo asks before taking another sip.
“I mean I saw her but I didn’t get the chance to talk to her because of you bitch ass.” Leo had been the one to pull Leo into the conversation that made him lose sight of you.
“My bad?” He apologises, not really knowing what he’s apologising for.
“Fuck, she was so gorgeous, and we made eye contact and there was this spark. I swear to the gods, I watched our whole future flash before my eyes. Maybe I was hallucinating but she was just that bad, bro.” He says with his head in his hand.
“How are you this down bad? You haven’t even spoken to her.”
“If you saw her, you’d get it.”
Leo shrugs and goes back to flirting with girls (and boys) at the bar.
So you can imagine his reaction when he sees you, with your friends. different from the ones you were with last gig, he noticed (he replayed the moment you first made eye contact in his memory a million times over trying to find a clue to find you, so yes he knew who you were with), in the crowd at another gig way across town. He’s sure he froze the a second he spotted you. He was also sure he was seeing things.
“Dude, she’s haunting me.” Percy says as he stares at you like you’ll disappear if he looked away (you probably will.)
“What are you talking about?” Leo asks as he tucks his drumsticks into his pocket.
“The baddie from our last gig, I saw her in the crowd.” He elaborates.
“Oh, shit. Maybe the gods don’t hate you.” He says as he follows Percy’s line of vision as he notices he’s staring at something (someone). “Damn, she is bad.”
“I told you.” He says as he watches you laugh with one of your friends. Gods, you’re even more hypnotising when you smile, he thought to himself. “So you see her too? I’m not crazy, right?”
“I do, in fact, see her, homie.”
“I’m gonna go talk to her.”
“You do that, or I will.”
Percy shoots him a glare before stepping off stage to get to you.
He doesn’t know how it happened but one second he was looking at you, practically pinning you down with his gaze so you wouldn’t move, then somebody’s bumping into him, spilling a drink on his shoes and apologising with slightly slurred speech and the next he’s looking up and you’re gone.
“Jesus, she’s like fucking Houdini.” He mutters to himself before returning to his bandmates in defeat, already sulking enough for everyone to notice.
“What’s wrong with Percy?” Jason asks as he pushes up his glasses.
“He’s mourning” Leo replies.
“Mourning who?” Frank questions.
“A bad bitch.” Leo shakes his head in sadness.
“Did someone die?” Frank asks
“Shh, Franklin,’ Leo shushes him dramatically with a finger on his lips “a moment of silence for the fallen angel.” He puts a hand over his heart just as dramatically.
“Did someone actually die?” Jason whispers after what he deems is a respectable amount of time for a moment of silence.
“Nah, Percy just saw a really pretty girl and didn’t get her number.” Leo shrugs.
“So why’s he acting like he lost his wife?” Frank asks.
“He might’ve, he told me something about seeing their future flash before his eyes. I don’t know, she was really bad, bro. I’d be like that, too.” He says before walking off.
Jason and Frank look at each other, not knowing what to do.
By the end of the night, all the band members, Jason; frank; and Leo, had taken their turn at comforting him about the ‘baddie who got away’ as Leo dubbed it.
The third show, you didn’t attend and he convinced himself that you weren’t real and that he’d had some kind of shared hallucination with Leo. He spent the night sitting in the corner on his phone, checking through every view on the Instagram story that announced that where they’d be performing tonight in case he could find your account by your profile picture that’d ideally be a picture of you. He had no luck.
The forth show is when he saw you again and he made it personal mission to talk to you, no matter what; he was not leaving this bar without at least knowing your name. He dodged every drunk fangirl and bandmate trying to talk to him and he didn’t take his eyes off of you. He watched you as you slipped out the back door and he followed after you.
───────────────────────────────
It could’ve been literally anyone coming through the door but you guessed (hoped) it was him. You took a drag of your cigarette, letting him sit in the silence or as close as you can to it in New York City; you know, let him bask in your badness for a second, before turning around. You guessed right, you smirked in satisfaction and at the fact that this might actually start going somewhere, to him it’d come across as a knowing smile.
He stared like he couldn’t believe he’d finally caught you. The gods were finally having some mercy on him and he was not about to fumble what could very well be his last shot.
He opened his mouth and promptly shut it as he realised the words would not be coming out. You smiled like you thought it was cute; Percy came to the conclusion that your smile was (somehow) prettier when it was directed towards him specifically.
“Uh- could I bum a cigarette?” he asked, smooth.
Gods, what was he thinking? “Could I bum a cigarette?” —he’s a rockstar for the gods’ sake, he shouldn’t be bumming cigarettes from fans and who even uses the word “bum”? He mentally facepalmed.
“Help yourself.” you shrug and open the pack, holding it in his direction.
He takes one, grateful that you didn’t question. “Do you have a lighter.”
“Mhm.” you hum as you spark your light and hold it up to his lips, your eyes, though, were on his, all pretty and green. You’d always been had a thing for green eyes. His were crown with long black lashes and you were pretty sure the colour was shifting as if you were watching a moving tide.
When Percy looked up from making sure the end of his cigarette lined up with the flame, he was met with your eyes locked on his. It was like he got hypnotised for a second, giving into the warmth swirling in your irises, and when he snapped out of it, he did the dorkiest thing he could’ve done: he choked, full on. The kind where you start coughing and struggle to breathe between your muscles spasming and expelling air from your lungs.
A panicked look was quick to grace your face, you patted his back because you didn’t know what else to do, “Oh my gosh, are you okay?!”
He replied with a gasp as he was finally able to get some air back in his lungs, “I’m good, this is just, uh, not my regular brand.”
“Right.” You nod.
“It’s like when you switch milk brands and you have to get used to the taste.” He didn’t know why he was driving this home this hard.
“Yeah.” you smiled, amused by the weird analogy before taking a drag of your cigarette.
He thanks the gods that you smiled instead of looking put off. He spends the next few seconds of silence berating and telling himself he needed to lock in and the next admiring your profile.
“Staring problem much?” You tease as you turn your head to look at him.
“Says the person who keeps showing up to my shows, groupie much?” He teases back.
“I’m not a groupie, you just make good music.” You roll your eyes.
“You could stream it on platforms instead of coming to multiple shows.” He adds
“Music sounds better live.”
“So you’re not an obsessed fangirl? Just a music connoisseur.”
“Exactly.” You nod.
“So you’d be opposed to giving me your number?”
“I never said that.”
“Just checking.” Percy smiles a little to himself.
A comfortable silence falls between you two. Percy tucks his phone that had just been graced with your number back into his pocket. You can hear the music from the bar bleeding out onto the street; cars zipping by and other nightlife of the city that never sleeps.
“So… does my number one groupie have a name?”
“I’m not a groupie.” You frown
“Does it help if I say you’re my favourite and prettiest groupie?”
“Oh so there are other groupies you’ve been comparing me to?”
“Uh- That’s not what I meant. You don’t compare to anyone else I’ve ever met.” He say, flustered.
You tilt your head at him, not expecting a genuine compliment “I was kidding, but thanks.” You smile. “Oh and it’s Y/n, my name.”
“Y/n,” he tested it on his tongue ‘Pretty name. I’m Percy.”
“Nice to meet you, Percy.”
Your cigarette is almost finished even though you’ve barely smoked it, too occupied with the man standing next to you. You snub it out and throw it into the big dumpster in the alley.
“Well, Percy, this has been great but I think I’m gonna get going.”
“Wait,” he says before he can think it through; he just really doesn’t want this to end. “the night doesn’t have to end here.”
“Are you asking me out?” You cock your head teasingly with a smirk.
“Yeah, we could, uh, get pizza. The best slice in the city isn’t too far from here and it closes pretty late. You like pizza right?”
“Who doesn’t but don’t you have to, y’know, get back to your band?”
“They’ll be fine; they’re all adults. I’ll shoot them a text and everything’ll be right as rain. Just say yes. please?” Percy wasn’t even embarrassed by how desperate he sounded at this point.
“Well, since you’re begging. I guess, I’ll go out with you.”
“You guess?”
“Sarcasm, Percy. I’d love to go out with you.”
Percy smiled giddily at your response before putting his arm out for you to take.
“Lead the way.” You smile as you take his arm.
───────────────────────────────
There will be an extended version where the date actually happens and maybe other parts bc they're too cute together and I have hella ideas. Comment if you want to be on percy taglist!!
Here you can donate to the families in Gaza. We have collected $3,912 / $20,000.
This video shows ongoing, systematic demolitions in Gaza.
Homes are being destroyed, neighborhoods cleared, and entire areas wiped out even now, while a ceasefire is supposedly in place.
People are watching their houses disappear piece by piece.
Not during fighting.
Not in the middle of airstrikes.
But after everything, when they were told it was safe to breathe again.
The destruction didn’t stop.
It just became quieter.
These images show displacement tents set up right next to a heavily damaged building.
The building was hit before and is leaning, at risk of collapsing at any moment.
Families are living in these tents because they have no other place to go.
There are no safe areas left, no intact homes, no shelters to move to.
Leaving this spot doesn’t mean safety it just means being displaced again.
So people stay.
Not because they feel protected,but because this is the last option they have They sleep knowing the building beside them could fall.
They wake up hoping it doesn’t.
This is not temporary living This is forced survival.
Donate for GAZA
This donation campaign is for ANAS family. Not for strangers, not for a cause I'm distant from but for the people who raised me, the people I love, the people I'm terrified of losing.
They are in Gaza, trying to survive something no human being should ever have to endure. Constant bombardment, displacement, hunger, fear, and the feeling that tomorrow is never guaranteed. Every day is about staying alive one more night.
If you choose to help, you are not donating to an abstract crisis. You are helping real people with names, memories, and lives that matter to me more than anything.
TD: How (Not) To Fall In Love, A Guide By Tim Drake
In which: Tim Drake had vowed to take you down, to have the number one spot in your semester. What he hadn't expected was to finally find his match: you.
Tags: 8.8k, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, very light angst. (masterlist)
Notes: look, I know I should work on my thesis but this just posessed me. Anyway: I'm new to the fandom, so come say hi! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3
Look, it was never supposed to happen like this.
Tim knows that he is smart. Everybody knows that he is smart, from the Professors to the other students in the class that don’t even understand his questions to the scholarship he got even though he technically doesn't need one.
So he should be at the top of the class. He should be the one with the best grades, the one to win the internship with the tech company that everyone was aiming for, but instead it went to you.
You, who somehow always scored just a bit higher than him, was just as good at networking, at connecting hints that went over other people’s heads.
It was supposed to be just one semester of hard work to take you down, but now, over one and a half years, he lost sight of the goal. He fell in love instead, somehow.
~*~
Ever since Tim could think he knew that he would end up going to college, no matter what. Even after he became Robin and lost his parents, and found a new family entirely, he knew what he wanted and he went after it.
Gotham University was the only choice.
Not only was the reputation not bad, but it was close to home, and he would still be able to be Red Robin, help out Bruce and live in Gotham. After a few weeks he realised that he liked this, the flexibility, the people around him, the sense of normalcy, even when his life seemed to unravel at the seams.
So, when there was an Open Day for high school students where each major would send a representative with the best record to give a speech and give them a tour, Tim had genuinely expected it to be him.
When the professor announced that it was not him but in fact you, and he saw the knowing glint in your eyes, the one that screamed ‘I knew it was going to be me’ he vowed to hate you. Not because he didn’t like your attitude, that would have been hypocritical, but because it was a challenge, something he could work at and overcome. A new project of sorts.
Suddenly he had a new goal. Take you down and claim that spot for himself: because he was Tim Drake and he never lost, not when he put his mind to things.
Logically he knew it was absolutely immature, probably stupid. He was a big name already, with two fortunes attached, a far above average GPA, a stellar record, a vigilate, but for some reason it really, really fucking annoyed him to not be the best at everything he did, so he wanted to fix it. Needed to fix it.
Staring at your stupid picture on the university’s website, he started to formulate a plan. You were going down, even if he had to drag from underneath.
~*~
You stared blankly at your laptop, at the shared presentation that was due tomorrow evening, just twenty hours from now on, not believing what you were seeing.
Your groupmates slide was almost completely empty, no work done, not even properly formatted to the rest of the presentation you had sent her three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago.
Insanity. You knew, of course, that you could be a bit of a perfectionist, the stereotypical type A person, maybe a bit of a nerd and you always went above and beyond, but this was ridiculous. This was a shared grade, and you knew that there was no way that this was going to destroy your perfect record.
You wouldn’t let it.
With a resigned sigh you boiled some water for a tea and sat down, wasting no more time. From now on, you promised yourself, you would choose your group partners carefully.
~*~
When your favorite Professor, the one that had never let you down for three modules so far, announced that the grade of the entire semester depended on a partner presentation and report, you wanted to get up and leave the lecture hall.
Instead you stared down at the fake wood finish of the desk in front of you, clenching your pen a little too hard underneath it.
This was not fair. There was no one, not a single person in this room, that made you not have to micromanage every single part of the assignment. You knew that it was partly, okay mostly, your fault, but you refused to believe that there wasn’t a single person out there that just understood what quality meant.
You just had to succeed, because what did you have if not that?
So you did what you had to, and approached the one person who might actually keep up with your way too high standards for a normal college assignment.
After class you made sure to pack your things quickly and waited outside the doors, because you knew that he was usually one of the last people to leave the room.
And sure enough, bingo. Tim Drake went up to the Professor that you still felt betrayed by to ask something.
You waited outside, idly fiddling with a ring on one of your fingers. You weren’t nervous, not really, because every person is just a person, but there was just something about Tim Drake that you couldn’t put your finger on. One late, sleepless night you had given into the urge and googled him, a genius despite tragedy, always polite and put together, the only Wayne son to make an appearance at every single gala with only very, very rare exceptions. There were just too many pictures of him: in suits that cost more than your rent, in high school with different awards, showing up at a dog shelter with his younger brother.
The future head of Wayne Enterprises, you had read, already controlling the entire franchise behind the scenes.
He was your biggest competition, but also your biggest chance.
So you weren't nervous, but you were not. It’s not like one shared group project would destroy what you had built over the past years.
Right?
When he walked past you, you were just a half second too late, so you had to catch up to him.
“Drake, right? Tim Drake?”
When he turned, seemingly oblivious to your presence which didn’t sting at all, thank you very much, he had a polite smile on his face. For a second you could have sworn that it had slipped when he saw it was you who approached him.
You were definitely not sweating, but his eyes were really unnerving up close. Too seeing. You blinked, hard.
“That’s me,” he answered, not offering anything else.
“Cool,” Cool? What was wrong with you today, “I wanted to ask if you had a partner for the final project yet,” you asked, the words on the side of a little too forceful.
For a second he just looked at you, so you continued talking, “I just really want a partner that can keep up, you know?”
“Keep up?” he repeated, eyebrows raising a few millimeters.
“No, not keep up,” you laughed, a bit too self consciously, “that sounds really arrogant of me,” you added, why were you rambling still, “I swear I’m not like, evil, or anything, but I just need my partner to be reliable for once.”
At that his expression went back to its natural state, which looked vaguely judgemental. After a few seconds it shifted into something else, and there was something almost challenging in his gaze when he answered, “sure, why not. We’ll see who needs to keep up with who.”
(Later that night, when he collapsed into his bed after typing out tonight's report, he opened up that note on his phone, the white ‘Step 1: get closer. Find weaknesses.’ staring back at him mockingly.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and closed them. Still, he could not help but smile, looking forward to it.)
~*~
That first meeting seemed so far away now, six weeks after you first approached him.
If you were being honest, the two of you hadn’t even spent that much time together. You met once to go over the rough concept, once more to properly write it down and once to talk to your Professor to approve it and you were still unsure how you felt about him.
On the one hand he was incredibly refreshing. He turned up to the meetings with perfect notes, carefully designed ideas of actual substance, but on the other hand he was just a little, how to put it nicely, weird.
Firstly, you were almost one hundred percent sure that he had some kind of grudge against you despite the fact that you had literally never done anything to this man. Which was just rude, because he was the one that had everything: money, status, a mind rivaling yours. What else could he possibly want?
Secondly, he was just shifty. Phone calls that were clearly by family and close friends that were always an emergency, dipping out of classes, always looking annoyed when his phone so much as lit up. He noticed too many things, adjusting even if you didn’t need him to, giving you a bit more space because you liked your papers shifted just so when you wrote, filling up your water with his, automatically after he had asked you once.
And thirdly, which might just be a You thing, but he was constantly eating or drinking something. You had never really had that many male friends, so you didn’t really have anything to compare this to, but Tim was always concerningly hydrated and always pulled out some sort of highly concentrated carbohydrate or protein snack. If you didn’t know any better you would have thought that he was some kind of athlete, but you did, because he spent almost the entirety of his day at the university or library, only disappearing home at night. And maybe also because you had looked him up, but there were two posts from three years ago on his instagram talking about taking some self defense classes. Nothing more recent than that.
Now that it was nearing the end of the semester, you actually had to get your shit together and finish this project so that you could rest easy at night. So, at the end of the next meeting you collected whatever scraps of dignity you had left after realising that he probably never obsessed about you the same way you had about him, and asked, “Can we exchange numbers instead of communicating per E-Mail?”
“You want my number?” he asked, sliding his shiny laptop back into its case, letting it disappear in his backpack.
“Yes,” you said, looking straight into his eyes, a hue between dark brown and blue that seemed almost gray in the bright light of the library. “I think it’s a bit silly to do all of this over E-Mail.”
Just like when the two of you first met he paused for a second as if he had never considered this, but then he pulled out his phone and handed it to you, an empty contact already pulled up.
You took his phone, typed in your first and last name, carefully checking your number twice, just in case.
“Okay, so I’ll text you about the second model, then we can-” he was interrupted by a call from ‘Demon Spawn’.
A sigh, then he picked up, half turning away, pretending to care about privacy, but not really, “what is it this time Damian?”
You knew who he was, of course, because everything in this town seemed to always lead back to the Wayne family, but you still pretended to not listen in.
That meant that you saw the exact moment when Tim froze mid movement, face suddenly deadly serious. “Where are you?” His brother answered something you weren’t able to make you when he followed up with, “what colour?”
A pause, no response. You weren’t sure if it was better to stay here and wait for him to finish his call or awkwardly leave without saying goodbye. “Damian, you dragged me into this mess, if you need me to get you out I need you to answer the question.” Whatever the response was, it was bad because Tim cursed once, closed his eyes for two seconds, seemingly praying to whatever he believed him before opening his eyes and looking straight ahead again before answering, "don't move, I swear to God, do not move a single muscle, I will know. I’ll be there in eight.”
With that he ended the call and looked over at you. “Sorry about that, you know how it can be,” he vaguely made a shrugging gesture, “little brothers.” You did not, as a matter of fact know how it could be, but you just said, “seems like the two of you are close.”
That made him laugh, “sure, after we got over the beginning stabbing phase.”
“The what now?”
“Sorry, I really do have to go,” he waved over his shoulder, “I’ll text you.”
And with that the boy with too many weird secrets disappeared and you were left at the table wondering just what his little brother had gotten himself into.
Later that night a story about the two Robins managing to take down a small weapon smuggling operation made the news. When you squinted at your screen you wondered if Damian had somehow gotten involved in that, somehow.
You shrugged and moved on. This, Tim, was none of your business afterall.
(That same moment Tim had gotten a talking to about ‘the importance of teamwork, which also means calling me-’ when he rubbed his thumb against his middle finger. He had touched you, by accident, and he wondered if you felt it too, still.)
~*~
After two more meetings, you realised that Tim was actually a really nice study buddy. He was very quiet when he was really focused on the task, almost eerily still. When he transitioned out of his focused state, he liked to do a few stretches, and after two months of never talking about anything personal, you had to admit that you were just a bit curious about him.
“So,” you started, always a bit clumsy with small talk with people you actually wanted to get to know, “what do you do in your free time,” you asked him once, just after eight in the afternoon, the sky already dark outside.
He was still rotating his wrists when he looked up at you. “My free time?”
“Yeah, you know, when you aren’t studying, being groomed for another company takeover or something like that.”
That stilled his movements and he had to think for a long moment. “I fight.”
“You do what now?” He gave a polite chuckle.
“You know, material arts. Other than that,” he paused for a second, “I take pictures. But that’s just for fun.”
“Ah, of course, and the fighting isn’t,” you commented.
That made him smile, “‘course not. You know me, I go and beat up bad guys in my free time before working on my thermodynamics assignment.”
“Of course, I forgot, the Gotham vigilante Tim Drake, defeating villains with the power of enthalpy and entropy.”
For the first time ever, he actually seemed genuinely amused. It surprised you that it was a good look on him, gleaming eyes and upturned mouth. He seemed younger, almost approachable now. Handsome, too, maybe. Just generally.
“You know me too well,” he continued, “and you?”
“Work,” you listed, “and study. Sometimes I read and sometimes I run, but nothing terribly exciting.”
“Really? Where?”
“Work?” he nodded, so you continued, “down Geneva Street, just a small restaurant Downtown.”
He made an appreciative noise, “Juan’s pizza?”
“Yes, actually, how did you know that?”
A small pause, before “I like to eat. Takeaway and stuff. And I just really know Gotham.”
“Clearly,” you said, still a bit surprised, because you had never seen him in the restaurant and there honestly weren’t that many employees. It was a small establishment, which was a big part of the reason you liked it so much.
Then, “Are you going to the winter fair?”
The Winterfair was a fundraising event for the family of the students but mostly just outside investors, so each department made sure to have a captivating presentation on top of a few game and food booths that were centered around the main entrance.
It was a nightmare to plan, as the safety regulations in Gotham were meticulously planned out, but this year you hadn’t signed up for the committee, too busy with internship applications for the summer as well as finals. You were going to help with the final presentation, for sure, but so far they seemed to be actually well organised, all things considered.
“I’m not sure, depends on if I’m working,” you answered, “you?”
“Yes. My brothers and Cass really want to see the presentation, and I’m hoping I can defeat Dick at one of the game booths.”
“You know those are always rigged, right?”
“Of course I do, that just means I have to work out faster how exactly before he does.”
“Menace,” you said, before you could stop yourself. Before you could take it back or apologise, Tim laughed. “True. He says it’s a family trait, the competitiveness, but I think I’ve always been like this.”
“Same,” you agreed, “I hate it when I don’t understand why I’m failing this badly at the ring toss.”
“Obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be the best in our semester.”
He knew that? “Wow,” you said, a smile creeping up on your face, “was that a compliment?”
“Maybe,” he conceded, “maybe not. Depends on the interpretation.”
“Good,” you smiled, satisfied because it was something to be proud of, your hard work, “then I’ll take it as one.”
More than the laugh, the slightly blush and genuine smile suited him. It made you want to want to figure out what other things he could express, how you could make him smile more.
Maybe, you realised when you arrived home that evening with a text from Tim asking you if you made it home safe, you had made a new friend.
(In the dark of the night, Tim held his finger to him comm, connecting him to Dick who was at home, resting from a knee injury.
“Hey Dick? Have you ever wanted to beat someone at something so bad that you think you might want them to succeed instead?”
“What are you even talking about? I swear, if this is about Mario Party yesterday-”)
~*~
The weather turned colder, the nights longer and finals crept closer still. You were well prepared, as always, but you spent a lot more time at the library, going over your notes just one more time, solving another exercise just in case.
Not as the years before, however, was the semi-permanent fixture at the opposite side of your table. Even if he was weirdly inconsistent at times, Tim showed up almost every second or third day, and lately, often with a cup of coffee.
Today was not one of those days.
Today however, was one of those days where you wanted, no, needed something warm, to get you through the final block of material you had scheduled for yourself. You were dreaming about a hot chocolate, or even a tea, when you realised that you could just go and get one. Free will and all that.
“Do you wanna get hot chocolate with me?”
Tim looked up and slid his headphones down his neck. Unfairly effortless, like almost everything he did, and you started to accept that no matter how much you tried to convince yourself (which wasn't really all that hard) Tim Drake was kind of pretty. Not in the classic way that Dick was, or the rugged way Jason was, but the way a foggy forest was. Unexpected and a bit strange but still alluring, in the most ordinary way.
You really were tired today, because what were you even thinking right now?
“Sure,” he agreed, “let me just finish this one thing first,” and so you took a break for a few minutes to just breathe before the two of you packed up your things and headed over to the closest but still open coffee shop.
It ended up being one of the corner stop convenience stores that also had some kind of coffee machine built in, but you didn’t mind it. When the two of you sat outside on the just slightly scratched up plastic chairs you curled your hands around your cup, breathing in the warmth.
Despite the humid but still chilly air clinging to your fingers you smiled, genuinely satisfied. You had caught up on your laundry yesterday, you were well prepared for every single upcoming exam and project and you were holding a hot chocolate now. Life did not get any better than this.
“Smells that good?” Tim asked, from where he was already sipping his coffee, apparently not being burnt to death by the still hot liquid. You wondered if he always drank it like that, overly hot and too bitter.
“I just love hot chocolate,” you responded, “but just sweets in general if I’m being honest.”
“Really?” he sounded genuinely surprised, so you angled your body towards him, fully facing him.
“Don’t sound that surprised, even I have weak spots.”
“No, it’s not that,” he said, tracing the rippled inner pattern of the underside of his cup with his nail. You had noticed, somewhen in your first month of sharing a desk, that he always had perfectly manicured nails, filed down, slightly shiny. He had nice hands, even with the jagged scar on his left side cutting through the illusion of perfection. Maybe because of it, actually, both the care and the juxtaposition. “I have never seen you eat anything sweet.”
“Yeah,” you admitted, finally taking a sip of the just slightly disappointing hot chocolate, “I just have to budget well, you know? So I save up my extra money for sweet treats during stressful times, like finals.”
He looked down at his cup, contemplating something, before taking a sip. “But hot chocolate is your favorite?”
“Hm,” you thought for a second, “yes, but do you know the spiced versions?”
He shook his head, so you continued. “There is this one shop, on the west side, and they make it better. It’s thicker? And has more depth in it, like cinnamon, clove, maybe star anise, chili too, depending on the barista.”
“Midtown?”
“Yeah,” you laughed lightly, lighting up at the memory, “my grandfather used to work there, and I stayed with him for a year when I was younger and he used to take me there every Sunday. I’m not sure if they are still open.”
“Sounds nice,” he added.
“It was,” you answered, the grief a soft wave, a hurt that had healed years ago.
You let a beat pass, before you asked, “but you prefer coffee, right?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, grinning. “Don’t tell the number one spot, but this,” he raised his cup, “is my secret to one day overtaking her.”
You laughed, “sure,” you leaned into the space between you, “you can try.”
The challenging expression on his face made only your smile deepen.
For once you were really looking forward to results, not just because you could see your work pay off, but because there were stakes now. Fun ones, not just your entire future.
(When Tim stared down at the white of his notes, the same way he had every night this past week, the next line was already burned into his mind. ‘Step two: pry on those weaknesses’ but the line did not make him giddy anymore, only felt intrusive, too mean. Weird.)
~*~
A week before your presentation with Tim, you were still sitting in the library, at almost ten pm, just before it closed. The two of you had wanted to practice together, one last time, and suddenly you felt a bit sad. Your time together was over now because there was no reason to spend any time together anymore after the presentation.
You knew that you were friends, but you also knew that it was probably more out of convenience than like.
“I think that’s enough, we should pack up before the librarian actually removes us by force,” Tim interrupted your thoughts, referring to the librarian who had been staring at the two of you ever since the only other person had left.
“Yeah,” you agreed, still adjusting the text on the third slide slightly to the left. “See you next week?”
“I,” he started, and when he didn’t finish his sentence, you looked up at where he was leaning against your desk. Somehow you had missed him standing up and gathering his things. “Do you want me to get you home?”
“What?”
The two of you had always split up at the entrance, never really lingering that much outside of university. “You know, it’s late, dark and last week another woman was kidnapped.”
You clicked save, closed the window and turned off your laptop. “That happens once a month, this is Gotham. And besides, didn’t Batman end up uncovering an entire human trafficking ring? I think I have another week before the next bad guy comes along.”
“Batman and Red Robin.”
You laughed, “that’s your problem?”
“Well,” he carded his hand through the hair at his nape, “you know me, I always give credit where credit is due.”
“True,” you supposed, zipping up your jacket. “Then come on, let’s go.”
It was raining outside, because this was Gotham and Gotham was always wet in some way or another. “I take the train,” you said, motioning towatrds the closest station, “you don’t have to come along if you took your car.”
But Tim was already pulling up the hood of his jacket, the rain never lingering on the fabric. Stupidly expensive but very convenient technology. You were a bit jealous. “I also take the train.”
You raised both your eyebrows, “you, Timothy Drake-Wayne, also take El Train to university.”
“No,” he made a weird huff sound, “I mean yes, just today.”
That made more sense, but still you laughed lightly and unfolded your umbrella. “C’mon, I think we can both fit under here.”
After arguing who gets to hold the stupid thing (‘it’s mine’, you said, and he countered with, ‘yes, but the metal thingies keep tugging at my hair because you hold it too low’, which you followed up with ‘the stretchers?’ and he just took it from your grasp, hands cold but gentle, offering no comeback because you had won) the two of you were making a plan for a hypothetical scenario if the rest of the city suddenly turned into zombies.
“As I was saying,” you stressed, steamrolling over whatever sentence he had wanted to start, “if there was one city that would be the start of a zombie apocalypse, it would be Gotham.”
“I’m not arguing, per se, I just think that in the grand scheme of things, Gotham would also be the best city for it. I think people here actually know how to behave in that scenario whereas, I don’t know, Metropolis would shatter to pieces after three days.”
“True,” you said, thinking about the gasmask you were storing in your first desk drawer, “can’t argue with that.”
“Right?” he lit up, obviously getting into the debate now, “and I think that a lot of people here actually know how to fight,” at your disbelieving look he added, “or at least defend themselves.”
“True,” you thought back to every single school year that started with a single day of self defense, to those two posts of his, “but I would still like a cool weapon, you know?”
“Really?” he asked, “and what would be your weapon in this scenario?”
You made a hm sound and thought for a bit. “A sword would be insanely cool, but we need to think realistically here.” A pause. “Maybe these things that Nightwing has, you know?”
“The escrima sticks?”
“Is that what they are called?”
“Yes,” Tim answered. “It emerged in the Philippines when the Spanish outlawed the carrying of knives and other weapons. A solid choice, all things considered. Even if you have to practice for a bit.”
“You know, I know that you mentioned liking martial arts before, but I honestly didn't really believe you.”
“What?”
“Don’t take this personally, like at all, but if a scrawny-” “Excuse me-” at his indignation you smiled, "nerdy electrical engineer student tells you that he likes martial arts, you just think that ‘yeah I’m sure he does’.”
He dramatically stopped in his tracks, but still held the umbrella outstretched, so that you did not get wet. “Okay, so first of all I am not scrawny–don’t laugh I swear to God–and second of all I am really, really good at hand to hand combat.”
Tim sounded so very sure of himself, even if you were still slightly unsure.
“Really?”
“Yes, really, is that really so hard to believe?”
“I mean kind of? I’ve never seen you fight, like ever. And you don’t give off very threatening vibes.”
“Wow,” he drawled sarcastically, but you could see the pure amusement in his eyes, as the two of you arrived at your platform, “I’m not sure if I should be offended.”
“Don’t be,” you said, “that means you aren’t, you know, scary. It’s a good quality in a man, I think.”
“Good,” he said, “I don’t want to scare the people around me, just, you know, the ones on the street.”
“Yes, of course, I forgot, Tim Drake, one of Gotham's vigilantes.”
“Well,” he leaned in closer, and the announcement of your train faded into the background and all you could see was the thin iris of his eyes, lighter than his pupil, even in the impossible dark of the night. “You never know who could be hiding behind the mask.”
The pounding of your heart was loud, too loud, and the sound of the opening doors snapped you out of it. Embarrassed to be flustered by Tim of all people, you only gave him a wave and disappeared into the safety of the train, a clear barrier between you.
Later that night, just before you went to sleep, you scrolled idly through your phone when you received a notification. You switched to your Instagram app, clicking on the notifications tab. Tim had followed you, and without hesitating you clicked on the blue square and watched it turn white gray.
Before you could actually scroll through his profile, you received a DM.
[Tim Drake]
give me 10min and then I’ll prove it to you
11:52pm
[You]
prove what?
11:52pm
[Tim Drake]
that I’d be a valuable asset of protection against the dark forces of Gotham
11:53pm
[You]
and how are you going to do that?
11:54pm
[Tim Drake]
Patience young Padawan
Just refresh my account in ten minutes
11:55pm
Sue you, but you were a bit curious now. Maybe a story of some award he won? Or a picture of a weapon he had at home?
You kept yourself busy by scrolling through his other posts. Most of them were some sort of brand deal or some sort of official picture, one for watches, one for some kind of moisturiser, another one by Getty Images that somehow didn’t even look bad. How he never looked bad, ever, was still a mystery to you.
But every once in a while was an artistic shot, mostly of Gotham, mostly at night. You recognised the Tower of your university, Miller harbour, Wayne mansion. For fun, he’d said about his pictures, but they were stunning, capturing the rawness of Gotham beautifully.
And sometimes there were messier pictures, usually with his family in it. There was one of Dick balancing Damian on his feet in a handstand, one of Jason with a dog and the caption ‘my dad and the dog he didn’t want’ and even some of the lesser photographed people like Bruce, reading the newspaper on a patio and Cassandra and Duke, smiling and mid laugh, respectively, leaning against each other.
And there, in those photo dumps you saw pieces of Tim.
A picture of him in a black tuxedo, messily brushing his teeth while taking a picture in the mirror with some sort of film camera that was then followed up with a cropped picture, probably from snapchat because of the overlaid text that showed toothpaste on the lapel of that suit saying ‘Bruce is going to murder me’. Another of him with his arm around Stephanie Brown, both smiling, the summer sun slightly overexposing the picture but the grainy texture of it making it charmin. A video of him with a bad audio quality that said “wait, no, look, I can do it-” before he fell off his handstand on his skateboard and someone was laughing in the background. Him drinking coffee, him in a red light room, him as a younger version with both his parents. Him, him, him.
[Tim Drake]
should be online now
i think that’s proof enough
00:05am
[You]
I’ll be the judge of that
00:06am
Sure enough, when you refreshed his feed, a new story loaded, the circle green which didn’t make you feel anything. It was him, in some sort of training facility, a blue mat underneath his bare feet. He was wearing shorts and some sort of dark compression shirt and he was already a bit sweaty. It shouldn't look as good as it did but you had accepted the fact that you were crushing just a bit last week when he had gotten you a chocolate croissant, just because. There was a mannequin popped up, and you recognised it from other Taekwondo videos you had seen online and sure enough Tim kicked up in the air once, before turning around, jumpkicking the air again and then hitting the cylinder once with enough force to throw it over. He then jogged back to his phone, carding his hand through his hair and smiling before turning the video off, a cocky grin on his face.
The overlaid text said ‘training in case of a zombie apocalypse’ and you grinned against your pillow. He was so stupid but God so were you. This was so very clearly for you it made something in your throat burn, so you swallowed it down.
Still, you clicked back to your DMs and texted him
[You]
the verdict is in:
I trust you to get me home safe
00:10am
[Tim Drake]
good.
sleep well
00:11am
[You]
you too
00:12am
And well if your dreams were filled with dark hair and bright eyes, a challenging grin and some fighting it was no one's business but your own.
(Tim looked over to where your umbrella was dried and packed up at his door, and he smiled at the memory, and when he looked down at his phone he deleted the note, not looking back. He knew he was crushing, badly.)
~*~
The next three weeks were a blur of exams, presentations and deadlines. Still, the two of you fell into some sort of routine together. Every second or third day you were seated at the table right in the corner, tucked away next to the emergency exit. You had brought home made brownies once, and ever since Tim seemed determined to one up you so he brought you a different hot chocolate every single time.
It was the evening before the advanced maths 4 exam, your very last for the semester, when Tim asked you, “this might be a bit out there, but you you wanna go on a date after tomorrow?”
“I,” you processed his words, “what?”
He blushed, and tucked his hand against the nape of his neck. “You know, you and me. Museum and coffee after?”
“Is this a tactic to distract me?” you asked, still baffled.
Tim laughed out loud, and the librarian shushed from her desk. Then he folded his arm under his chin and dropped his head on it. “Sure, this was my masterplan all along, distracting the only student better than me by catching feelings.” Skirting the truth, but not really, not anymore.
You made a sound, vaguely between flustered and mortified, before zoning in on what he said, “you have feelings for me?”
He blinked, stunned, and the smile fell off his face, “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“So you don’t? This is really is just a joke?”
“What? No, I didn’t say that. I just,” he paused, looked serious, “I want to take you out on a date, yes or no?”
If you were being honest, you hadn’t really thought about Tim like that. You had a crush, sure, but it seemed like an impossible thing, something to dream about, nothing more. There were moments, of course, like when he started taking the train just so that he made sure you got on yours safe, when the two of you sent each other reels until late at night, conversations moving onto different topics, or when he had bought you churros from that one stand at the Open Day where you had literally spent all of your time together, just pulled in by each other’s presence.
The thing was that you weren’t really asked out much. Or at all. You were one of the few women in your degree, sure, but when the guys realised that you were, in fact smarter and more dedicated than most of them, they quickly lost interest, pretending that you got an advantage simply because you were a woman. And if it wasn’t that then they realised that you were a bit too cocky, challenging and stubborn. “I’m annoying.”
“So? After the entire semester you think I haven’t noticed?”
But you continued, “and I’m stubborn. Really smart, too.”
“I know,” he said, smiling now, “that’s what I like about you.”
“And competitive,” you added, flustered because how was this real. Tim Drake, Tim Drake was asking you out.
“Once again: so am I. I think it matches rather well, don’t you?”
You thought about the countless pointless debates about nothing and everything the two of you have had, the silly competitions of who can throw more paper in the trashcan in one minute, the stupid spreadsheet you had started to rate each coffee you had shared, the not quite breakdowns before certain exams.
“I just,” you started, but you were out of arguments. He knew you, for better or worse, after spending so much time together over the past few months. “okay.”
“Okay as in yes?”
“Yes, Tim Drake, we can go on a date together.”
This time he smiled genuinely, a soft thing that spread across his face slowly, and you really did like it when he smiled. So far there was no expression you liked more than this, but you wanted to find out if that held up. “I’m glad. It’s going to be the best date you’ve ever been on.”
“It better be.”
~*~
It was. It really was. And so was the one after, and the one after that. The one after that one where you kissed for the first time, and the one after when you actually got together.
Now you were sitting at your desk while he was leaning against the wall, legs folded underneath him on your bed. It was the middle of February and for once, it was actually snowing in Gotham, even if it melted into puddles on the sidewalk.
There was something that bothered you, a half formed idea in your head that you weren’t able to talk about yet.
Tim was a wonderful boyfriend. Never forgot anything you told him, always texted you good morning, even at 12pm when he woke up, insisting on walking at the side of the road, carrying your bags. It’s just that sometimes, he was really, really suspicious.
There was that one time at the library, six months ago, when his little brother called him, and he had become deathly serious in the blink of an eye. There was that one time he spent twenty five minutes in the bathroom on one of your dates and when he came back to your table he was weirdly out of breath and some kind of green goo was sticking to the ends of his hair. There was the fact that he sometimes limped, slowly running out of plausible ideas. But most of all there was the uneven skin you felt underneath your fingertips when your hands wandered as you made out, scars, and too many of them. It wasn’t unusual, this was Gotham after all, but there was something more going on, and you were sure of this.
One of these days you would figure out what exactly that was.
There was just one detail missing, you knew that. Just one.
“Tim, I-” but before you could finish what you wanted to say, you heard the alarm bells. Your phone lit up with an emergency alarm, one all too familiar, but still a cold shiver ran down your spine.
“Blackgate, there was a,” he finished your sentence, “breakout. Everyone needs to stay put.”
You closed your blinds, standing up to fill up empty cups with clean water, just in case, when Tim pulled out his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
“You can’t be serious,” you said, as he clearly got up to leave your apartment, despite the order.
“I’m sorry, I really am, I just have to, you know,” he motioned towards the door.
“Know what?”
“Go.”
You laughed, a bit disbelieving. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he said, in a too honest, too sharp tone, “I have to go.”
“Where? We just got the explicit order to stay inside because you don’t know what’s happening outside.”
“Home, I need to see the others, I need to know what is happening.”
You stood there, in front of your sink, completely shocked. Tim was one of, if not the most rational person you had ever met. There was a reason you respected his opinion, why you relied on him as much as you had these past few months. “Then we will turn on the news, the radio. You can call home and tell them you’ll be here.”
“No,” he said, moving closer to the door, further away from you, “you don’t understand. I have to go, now.”
“I really don’t, so explain it to me.”
You looked at his face, desperate, looking for a clue, some sign, anything. He seemed devastated, torn between something, but you just didn’t understand what. “Tim, don’t be stupid. It’s not safe out there.”
He came back to you, tugged you in close, but before you could wrap your arms around him, he gave you a kiss on the cheek and closed the door behind him.
Somehow, you knew that this was significant. This was bigger than you, than him.
Still, when you turned back to your room, your eyes automatically moved back to the place he had sat in just moments ago. He had left one of his journals, still open, with one pen stuck in the middle.
You pretended not to notice the floorplans of one of the highest security buildings in Gotham staring back at you.
Wordlessly you closed it and stored it in one of your drawers, hidden from plain sight.
The puzzle shifted, you had gotten the clue, but you were not sure if you liked the picture it formed.
~*~
Connecting everything you had gathered, it would make sense if you assumed that Tim worked for someone in Blackgate. It was hard to believe, sure, because Tim was, beneath all his layers of teasing, genuinely kind, but maybe that was what had been his downfall.
Both of his parents died, his mother due some sort of accidental poisoning, and his father years later in an accident. But what if none of it was an accident? What if someone was after Tim, because of his name, of his association or maybe just his brain? Or maybe it was just bad luck.
Tim knew Gotham like the back of his hand, seemed to be able to hold more than his own in a fight, and had access to the Wayne Enterprises for God's sake. Of course he was a valuable asset to every villain in the city. It made so much sense that you felt a little bit stupid for not realising sooner.
He had texted you that night, saying something along the lines of how he had to be quarantined along with his family, and you pretended to believe him, just glad he was alive.
Which leads you to this moment, a week and a half later, everyone safely behind bars again, and the city continued living, just the way it always did.
Tim looked up from where he was already waiting for you on the park bench.
He looked, frankly, worse than usual. He was paler, his eyebags darker and his hair messy, and you knew that this wasn’t an easy conversation to have.
“Hey you,” you greeted him, and at the sight of you he stood up and he folded himself against you, and you returned his hug. The two of you stayed like that for a while, together, sharing warmth in the cold.
When he leaned back and in to kiss you, you held his face in your hands, grateful, somehow, that he was back by your side, alive, breathing, even though you didn’t know what he had done.
It was soft, and you felt breakable in his arms, vulnerable in a way you usually never let yourself, but this was still him, the boy who had convinced five different coffee shops to add cinnamon to your hot chocolate, just because he knew you liked it. The same one whose hand was unsteady that first time he held yours, in the middle of an exhibition of Artificial Intelligence in a museum closeby.
“I missed you,” he murmured in the crook of your neck, into your scarf.
You carded your fingers through his hair, soft, despite the mess. Maybe because of it.
“I missed you too,” you let it linger before breaking the comfortable silence, “but I need to talk to you about something.”
“So let me get this right,” Tim repeated, shoulder against shoulder, thigh against thigh, a black tea in his hand, “you think I’m working for some sort of supervillain.”
“Yes,” you said, sipping your green one, “is that so far-fetched?”
He laughed, whole heartedly and while the sound was comforting you scowled into your cup, “don’t laugh, I’m serious.”
“As am I,” Tim said, prying one hand away from your cup and into his instead, “and you would still want to date me?”
“I mean,” you hesitated, “depends on who exactly you were working for. Joker probably not, Ivy maybe.”
“You really like me,” he repeated, retracing the shapes on your gloves.
“I do,” you said, “and I don’t want to lose you, but I think that you should still ask for help. Batman, maybe. Robin, or the police.”
“Okay,” Tim said, “I need you to trust me one last time, and then it’s over, alright? No more secrets.”
“Alright,” you let yourself be pulled up by him, and the two of you left the park, your footsteps making indents in the snow behind you. “One last time.”
“You are joking.”
“I’m not,” Tim confirmed, “I’m serious, this is my secret.”
You were standing in Tim’s room in the Wayne Manor, but not really. His bedroom had a small door, a closet you had assumed when you first came to his house, but that was wrong, that was so very wrong.
“You,” your grip on his upper arm still hadn’t loosened. If anything it had only gotten tighter. “You, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne are Red fucking Robin?”
“Yes.”
“You,” you started, taking in the secret room, the four monitors, the plans of his suit, his weapons and other small trinkets on the shelves. “I just.”
Tim laughed and guided you to the chair, spinning it around for you and kneeling at your feet.
“I thought you were,” you paused, “evil. Like not evil evil but evil.”
“Surprise,” he said, taking your hand into his.
“That makes so much sense,” you started talking, “Bruce is Batman. Damian is Robin.”
“Yes.”
“Oh God, Dick is Nightwing? Who is Jason?”
“That’s a secret,” Tim answered gently.
“I’ll just find it out later,” you brushed him off.
Tim couldn’t help his smile at that. “Knowing you, you probably will.”
You looked down at Tim’s face and took it in your hands. “You are an idiot.”
Tim just closed his eyes, “I’m really not.”
“I know,” you said, suddenly realising the depth of this. He could have died last week. He could die tomorrow, or maybe the month after. He was human, the same way you were, but he still put on a suit every night to make sure that people like you made it home safe.
You dropped down to your knees in front of him, face to face and hugged him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s okay.”
“I,” you started, hugging him tighter, “thank you for trusting me with this. But please always come back to me.” In your arms he was just Tim, the same guy who had tripped over his shoelaces, looked up at you and said that Newton had a personal vendetta against him. The same one that had cut up an apple for you because you insisted that it tasted better like that.
The same one, that was saving people, every week, risking his own life.
“‘Course, there is nowhere I’d rather be.”
“Good,” you said, “because I really need you to come back to me, in one piece, okay? Otherwise I’ll just find a way to revive you.”
“Naturally, you need someone on your team against the zombies,” he said, “but I could settle on becoming your experiment too.”
“No, that won’t work,” you replied stubborn, “we need both of our brains, not decomposed, to think about how we can save the entire world, right?”
~*~
Later, much later, during an overly hot summer day the two of you lay in your bed, while you traced a yellowing bruise across his ribs.
“You know,” Tim starts, in the tone of voice that screamed repressed embarrassment. You prop your chin up on his chest, suddenly very much interested in what he had to say.
“Before we first met I vowed to take you down.”
“What?”
“I had an entire master plan when you approached me for our shared group project. I wanted to find out how you did better than me and beat you at any exam.”
Amusement curled up around your lungs, “really?”
“Yeah,” Tim admitted, “I was a bit obsessed, really. Even before we met, I spent too much of my time thinking about you, about the way you must spend your free time, about the way your brain worked.”
“This is the best thing you’ve ever told me.”
“I just,” Tim traced the curve of your eyebrow with his fingers, “I was interested in you, but I broke it down into something easier. I was really obvious about it, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “even Dick was sick of hearing me rant about you. I once asked him if he also got so determined to beat someone in something that you end up only thinking about your rival.”
“That’s embarrassing,” you said, “I love it.”
“Nah,” he said, “What’s embarrassing is that my masterplan worked out.”
You let out an indignant sound, righting yourself up against the bed “it did not.”
“Yes, it did,” he said, tugging you down below him. “I beat you at something.”
A very affronted noise left your mouth, “so not true!”
“So true,” he replied, easily and so very earnest, “I love you more.”
“Like I said,” you repeated yourself, “so not true.”
He avoided your kiss but gave you five half on your eyelid instead, pressing your into the pillow below. When you opened your eyes, determined to get your revenge, he looked at you openly, so you could only offer a truce. “We should make the agreement that we love each other the exact same amount. No winner here, not this time.”
“Hmm,” he pretended to think about it but then lamented, “fine, but just this once.”
“Pinky promise?” you offered him your finger, outstretched between the two of you, and he hooked his through yours.
“Promise.” He kissed you and it felt right. It felt like you found your equilibrium, finally someone who could meet you where you needed them to.
It felt like peace.
a/n: the pacing is bothering me, but I still really wanted to post it. Please come and talk to me about it! Lots of love <3
TD: How (Not) To Fall In Love, A Guide By Tim Drake
In which: Tim Drake had vowed to take you down, to have the number one spot in your semester. What he hadn't expected was to finally find his match: you.
Tags: 8.8k, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, very light angst. (masterlist)
Notes: look, I know I should work on my thesis but this just posessed me. Anyway: I'm new to the fandom, so come say hi! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3
Look, it was never supposed to happen like this.
Tim knows that he is smart. Everybody knows that he is smart, from the Professors to the other students in the class that don’t even understand his questions to the scholarship he got even though he technically doesn't need one.
So he should be at the top of the class. He should be the one with the best grades, the one to win the internship with the tech company that everyone was aiming for, but instead it went to you.
You, who somehow always scored just a bit higher than him, was just as good at networking, at connecting hints that went over other people’s heads.
It was supposed to be just one semester of hard work to take you down, but now, over one and a half years, he lost sight of the goal. He fell in love instead, somehow.
~*~
Ever since Tim could think he knew that he would end up going to college, no matter what. Even after he became Robin and lost his parents, and found a new family entirely, he knew what he wanted and he went after it.
Gotham University was the only choice.
Not only was the reputation not bad, but it was close to home, and he would still be able to be Red Robin, help out Bruce and live in Gotham. After a few weeks he realised that he liked this, the flexibility, the people around him, the sense of normalcy, even when his life seemed to unravel at the seams.
So, when there was an Open Day for high school students where each major would send a representative with the best record to give a speech and give them a tour, Tim had genuinely expected it to be him.
When the professor announced that it was not him but in fact you, and he saw the knowing glint in your eyes, the one that screamed ‘I knew it was going to be me’ he vowed to hate you. Not because he didn’t like your attitude, that would have been hypocritical, but because it was a challenge, something he could work at and overcome. A new project of sorts.
Suddenly he had a new goal. Take you down and claim that spot for himself: because he was Tim Drake and he never lost, not when he put his mind to things.
Logically he knew it was absolutely immature, probably stupid. He was a big name already, with two fortunes attached, a far above average GPA, a stellar record, a vigilate, but for some reason it really, really fucking annoyed him to not be the best at everything he did, so he wanted to fix it. Needed to fix it.
Staring at your stupid picture on the university’s website, he started to formulate a plan. You were going down, even if he had to drag from underneath.
~*~
You stared blankly at your laptop, at the shared presentation that was due tomorrow evening, just twenty hours from now on, not believing what you were seeing.
Your groupmates slide was almost completely empty, no work done, not even properly formatted to the rest of the presentation you had sent her three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago.
Insanity. You knew, of course, that you could be a bit of a perfectionist, the stereotypical type A person, maybe a bit of a nerd and you always went above and beyond, but this was ridiculous. This was a shared grade, and you knew that there was no way that this was going to destroy your perfect record.
You wouldn’t let it.
With a resigned sigh you boiled some water for a tea and sat down, wasting no more time. From now on, you promised yourself, you would choose your group partners carefully.
~*~
When your favorite Professor, the one that had never let you down for three modules so far, announced that the grade of the entire semester depended on a partner presentation and report, you wanted to get up and leave the lecture hall.
Instead you stared down at the fake wood finish of the desk in front of you, clenching your pen a little too hard underneath it.
This was not fair. There was no one, not a single person in this room, that made you not have to micromanage every single part of the assignment. You knew that it was partly, okay mostly, your fault, but you refused to believe that there wasn’t a single person out there that just understood what quality meant.
You just had to succeed, because what did you have if not that?
So you did what you had to, and approached the one person who might actually keep up with your way too high standards for a normal college assignment.
After class you made sure to pack your things quickly and waited outside the doors, because you knew that he was usually one of the last people to leave the room.
And sure enough, bingo. Tim Drake went up to the Professor that you still felt betrayed by to ask something.
You waited outside, idly fiddling with a ring on one of your fingers. You weren’t nervous, not really, because every person is just a person, but there was just something about Tim Drake that you couldn’t put your finger on. One late, sleepless night you had given into the urge and googled him, a genius despite tragedy, always polite and put together, the only Wayne son to make an appearance at every single gala with only very, very rare exceptions. There were just too many pictures of him: in suits that cost more than your rent, in high school with different awards, showing up at a dog shelter with his younger brother.
The future head of Wayne Enterprises, you had read, already controlling the entire franchise behind the scenes.
He was your biggest competition, but also your biggest chance.
So you weren't nervous, but you were not. It’s not like one shared group project would destroy what you had built over the past years.
Right?
When he walked past you, you were just a half second too late, so you had to catch up to him.
“Drake, right? Tim Drake?”
When he turned, seemingly oblivious to your presence which didn’t sting at all, thank you very much, he had a polite smile on his face. For a second you could have sworn that it had slipped when he saw it was you who approached him.
You were definitely not sweating, but his eyes were really unnerving up close. Too seeing. You blinked, hard.
“That’s me,” he answered, not offering anything else.
“Cool,” Cool? What was wrong with you today, “I wanted to ask if you had a partner for the final project yet,” you asked, the words on the side of a little too forceful.
For a second he just looked at you, so you continued talking, “I just really want a partner that can keep up, you know?”
“Keep up?” he repeated, eyebrows raising a few millimeters.
“No, not keep up,” you laughed, a bit too self consciously, “that sounds really arrogant of me,” you added, why were you rambling still, “I swear I’m not like, evil, or anything, but I just need my partner to be reliable for once.”
At that his expression went back to its natural state, which looked vaguely judgemental. After a few seconds it shifted into something else, and there was something almost challenging in his gaze when he answered, “sure, why not. We’ll see who needs to keep up with who.”
(Later that night, when he collapsed into his bed after typing out tonight's report, he opened up that note on his phone, the white ‘Step 1: get closer. Find weaknesses.’ staring back at him mockingly.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and closed them. Still, he could not help but smile, looking forward to it.)
~*~
That first meeting seemed so far away now, six weeks after you first approached him.
If you were being honest, the two of you hadn’t even spent that much time together. You met once to go over the rough concept, once more to properly write it down and once to talk to your Professor to approve it and you were still unsure how you felt about him.
On the one hand he was incredibly refreshing. He turned up to the meetings with perfect notes, carefully designed ideas of actual substance, but on the other hand he was just a little, how to put it nicely, weird.
Firstly, you were almost one hundred percent sure that he had some kind of grudge against you despite the fact that you had literally never done anything to this man. Which was just rude, because he was the one that had everything: money, status, a mind rivaling yours. What else could he possibly want?
Secondly, he was just shifty. Phone calls that were clearly by family and close friends that were always an emergency, dipping out of classes, always looking annoyed when his phone so much as lit up. He noticed too many things, adjusting even if you didn’t need him to, giving you a bit more space because you liked your papers shifted just so when you wrote, filling up your water with his, automatically after he had asked you once.
And thirdly, which might just be a You thing, but he was constantly eating or drinking something. You had never really had that many male friends, so you didn’t really have anything to compare this to, but Tim was always concerningly hydrated and always pulled out some sort of highly concentrated carbohydrate or protein snack. If you didn’t know any better you would have thought that he was some kind of athlete, but you did, because he spent almost the entirety of his day at the university or library, only disappearing home at night. And maybe also because you had looked him up, but there were two posts from three years ago on his instagram talking about taking some self defense classes. Nothing more recent than that.
Now that it was nearing the end of the semester, you actually had to get your shit together and finish this project so that you could rest easy at night. So, at the end of the next meeting you collected whatever scraps of dignity you had left after realising that he probably never obsessed about you the same way you had about him, and asked, “Can we exchange numbers instead of communicating per E-Mail?”
“You want my number?” he asked, sliding his shiny laptop back into its case, letting it disappear in his backpack.
“Yes,” you said, looking straight into his eyes, a hue between dark brown and blue that seemed almost gray in the bright light of the library. “I think it’s a bit silly to do all of this over E-Mail.”
Just like when the two of you first met he paused for a second as if he had never considered this, but then he pulled out his phone and handed it to you, an empty contact already pulled up.
You took his phone, typed in your first and last name, carefully checking your number twice, just in case.
“Okay, so I’ll text you about the second model, then we can-” he was interrupted by a call from ‘Demon Spawn’.
A sigh, then he picked up, half turning away, pretending to care about privacy, but not really, “what is it this time Damian?”
You knew who he was, of course, because everything in this town seemed to always lead back to the Wayne family, but you still pretended to not listen in.
That meant that you saw the exact moment when Tim froze mid movement, face suddenly deadly serious. “Where are you?” His brother answered something you weren’t able to make you when he followed up with, “what colour?”
A pause, no response. You weren’t sure if it was better to stay here and wait for him to finish his call or awkwardly leave without saying goodbye. “Damian, you dragged me into this mess, if you need me to get you out I need you to answer the question.” Whatever the response was, it was bad because Tim cursed once, closed his eyes for two seconds, seemingly praying to whatever he believed him before opening his eyes and looking straight ahead again before answering, "don't move, I swear to God, do not move a single muscle, I will know. I’ll be there in eight.”
With that he ended the call and looked over at you. “Sorry about that, you know how it can be,” he vaguely made a shrugging gesture, “little brothers.” You did not, as a matter of fact know how it could be, but you just said, “seems like the two of you are close.”
That made him laugh, “sure, after we got over the beginning stabbing phase.”
“The what now?”
“Sorry, I really do have to go,” he waved over his shoulder, “I’ll text you.”
And with that the boy with too many weird secrets disappeared and you were left at the table wondering just what his little brother had gotten himself into.
Later that night a story about the two Robins managing to take down a small weapon smuggling operation made the news. When you squinted at your screen you wondered if Damian had somehow gotten involved in that, somehow.
You shrugged and moved on. This, Tim, was none of your business afterall.
(That same moment Tim had gotten a talking to about ‘the importance of teamwork, which also means calling me-’ when he rubbed his thumb against his middle finger. He had touched you, by accident, and he wondered if you felt it too, still.)
~*~
After two more meetings, you realised that Tim was actually a really nice study buddy. He was very quiet when he was really focused on the task, almost eerily still. When he transitioned out of his focused state, he liked to do a few stretches, and after two months of never talking about anything personal, you had to admit that you were just a bit curious about him.
“So,” you started, always a bit clumsy with small talk with people you actually wanted to get to know, “what do you do in your free time,” you asked him once, just after eight in the afternoon, the sky already dark outside.
He was still rotating his wrists when he looked up at you. “My free time?”
“Yeah, you know, when you aren’t studying, being groomed for another company takeover or something like that.”
That stilled his movements and he had to think for a long moment. “I fight.”
“You do what now?” He gave a polite chuckle.
“You know, material arts. Other than that,” he paused for a second, “I take pictures. But that’s just for fun.”
“Ah, of course, and the fighting isn’t,” you commented.
That made him smile, “‘course not. You know me, I go and beat up bad guys in my free time before working on my thermodynamics assignment.”
“Of course, I forgot, the Gotham vigilante Tim Drake, defeating villains with the power of enthalpy and entropy.”
For the first time ever, he actually seemed genuinely amused. It surprised you that it was a good look on him, gleaming eyes and upturned mouth. He seemed younger, almost approachable now. Handsome, too, maybe. Just generally.
“You know me too well,” he continued, “and you?”
“Work,” you listed, “and study. Sometimes I read and sometimes I run, but nothing terribly exciting.”
“Really? Where?”
“Work?” he nodded, so you continued, “down Geneva Street, just a small restaurant Downtown.”
He made an appreciative noise, “Juan’s pizza?”
“Yes, actually, how did you know that?”
A small pause, before “I like to eat. Takeaway and stuff. And I just really know Gotham.”
“Clearly,” you said, still a bit surprised, because you had never seen him in the restaurant and there honestly weren’t that many employees. It was a small establishment, which was a big part of the reason you liked it so much.
Then, “Are you going to the winter fair?”
The Winterfair was a fundraising event for the family of the students but mostly just outside investors, so each department made sure to have a captivating presentation on top of a few game and food booths that were centered around the main entrance.
It was a nightmare to plan, as the safety regulations in Gotham were meticulously planned out, but this year you hadn’t signed up for the committee, too busy with internship applications for the summer as well as finals. You were going to help with the final presentation, for sure, but so far they seemed to be actually well organised, all things considered.
“I’m not sure, depends on if I’m working,” you answered, “you?”
“Yes. My brothers and Cass really want to see the presentation, and I’m hoping I can defeat Dick at one of the game booths.”
“You know those are always rigged, right?”
“Of course I do, that just means I have to work out faster how exactly before he does.”
“Menace,” you said, before you could stop yourself. Before you could take it back or apologise, Tim laughed. “True. He says it’s a family trait, the competitiveness, but I think I’ve always been like this.”
“Same,” you agreed, “I hate it when I don’t understand why I’m failing this badly at the ring toss.”
“Obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be the best in our semester.”
He knew that? “Wow,” you said, a smile creeping up on your face, “was that a compliment?”
“Maybe,” he conceded, “maybe not. Depends on the interpretation.”
“Good,” you smiled, satisfied because it was something to be proud of, your hard work, “then I’ll take it as one.”
More than the laugh, the slightly blush and genuine smile suited him. It made you want to want to figure out what other things he could express, how you could make him smile more.
Maybe, you realised when you arrived home that evening with a text from Tim asking you if you made it home safe, you had made a new friend.
(In the dark of the night, Tim held his finger to him comm, connecting him to Dick who was at home, resting from a knee injury.
“Hey Dick? Have you ever wanted to beat someone at something so bad that you think you might want them to succeed instead?”
“What are you even talking about? I swear, if this is about Mario Party yesterday-”)
~*~
The weather turned colder, the nights longer and finals crept closer still. You were well prepared, as always, but you spent a lot more time at the library, going over your notes just one more time, solving another exercise just in case.
Not as the years before, however, was the semi-permanent fixture at the opposite side of your table. Even if he was weirdly inconsistent at times, Tim showed up almost every second or third day, and lately, often with a cup of coffee.
Today was not one of those days.
Today however, was one of those days where you wanted, no, needed something warm, to get you through the final block of material you had scheduled for yourself. You were dreaming about a hot chocolate, or even a tea, when you realised that you could just go and get one. Free will and all that.
“Do you wanna get hot chocolate with me?”
Tim looked up and slid his headphones down his neck. Unfairly effortless, like almost everything he did, and you started to accept that no matter how much you tried to convince yourself (which wasn't really all that hard) Tim Drake was kind of pretty. Not in the classic way that Dick was, or the rugged way Jason was, but the way a foggy forest was. Unexpected and a bit strange but still alluring, in the most ordinary way.
You really were tired today, because what were you even thinking right now?
“Sure,” he agreed, “let me just finish this one thing first,” and so you took a break for a few minutes to just breathe before the two of you packed up your things and headed over to the closest but still open coffee shop.
It ended up being one of the corner stop convenience stores that also had some kind of coffee machine built in, but you didn’t mind it. When the two of you sat outside on the just slightly scratched up plastic chairs you curled your hands around your cup, breathing in the warmth.
Despite the humid but still chilly air clinging to your fingers you smiled, genuinely satisfied. You had caught up on your laundry yesterday, you were well prepared for every single upcoming exam and project and you were holding a hot chocolate now. Life did not get any better than this.
“Smells that good?” Tim asked, from where he was already sipping his coffee, apparently not being burnt to death by the still hot liquid. You wondered if he always drank it like that, overly hot and too bitter.
“I just love hot chocolate,” you responded, “but just sweets in general if I’m being honest.”
“Really?” he sounded genuinely surprised, so you angled your body towards him, fully facing him.
“Don’t sound that surprised, even I have weak spots.”
“No, it’s not that,” he said, tracing the rippled inner pattern of the underside of his cup with his nail. You had noticed, somewhen in your first month of sharing a desk, that he always had perfectly manicured nails, filed down, slightly shiny. He had nice hands, even with the jagged scar on his left side cutting through the illusion of perfection. Maybe because of it, actually, both the care and the juxtaposition. “I have never seen you eat anything sweet.”
“Yeah,” you admitted, finally taking a sip of the just slightly disappointing hot chocolate, “I just have to budget well, you know? So I save up my extra money for sweet treats during stressful times, like finals.”
He looked down at his cup, contemplating something, before taking a sip. “But hot chocolate is your favorite?”
“Hm,” you thought for a second, “yes, but do you know the spiced versions?”
He shook his head, so you continued. “There is this one shop, on the west side, and they make it better. It’s thicker? And has more depth in it, like cinnamon, clove, maybe star anise, chili too, depending on the barista.”
“Midtown?”
“Yeah,” you laughed lightly, lighting up at the memory, “my grandfather used to work there, and I stayed with him for a year when I was younger and he used to take me there every Sunday. I’m not sure if they are still open.”
“Sounds nice,” he added.
“It was,” you answered, the grief a soft wave, a hurt that had healed years ago.
You let a beat pass, before you asked, “but you prefer coffee, right?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, grinning. “Don’t tell the number one spot, but this,” he raised his cup, “is my secret to one day overtaking her.”
You laughed, “sure,” you leaned into the space between you, “you can try.”
The challenging expression on his face made only your smile deepen.
For once you were really looking forward to results, not just because you could see your work pay off, but because there were stakes now. Fun ones, not just your entire future.
(When Tim stared down at the white of his notes, the same way he had every night this past week, the next line was already burned into his mind. ‘Step two: pry on those weaknesses’ but the line did not make him giddy anymore, only felt intrusive, too mean. Weird.)
~*~
A week before your presentation with Tim, you were still sitting in the library, at almost ten pm, just before it closed. The two of you had wanted to practice together, one last time, and suddenly you felt a bit sad. Your time together was over now because there was no reason to spend any time together anymore after the presentation.
You knew that you were friends, but you also knew that it was probably more out of convenience than like.
“I think that’s enough, we should pack up before the librarian actually removes us by force,” Tim interrupted your thoughts, referring to the librarian who had been staring at the two of you ever since the only other person had left.
“Yeah,” you agreed, still adjusting the text on the third slide slightly to the left. “See you next week?”
“I,” he started, and when he didn’t finish his sentence, you looked up at where he was leaning against your desk. Somehow you had missed him standing up and gathering his things. “Do you want me to get you home?”
“What?”
The two of you had always split up at the entrance, never really lingering that much outside of university. “You know, it’s late, dark and last week another woman was kidnapped.”
You clicked save, closed the window and turned off your laptop. “That happens once a month, this is Gotham. And besides, didn’t Batman end up uncovering an entire human trafficking ring? I think I have another week before the next bad guy comes along.”
“Batman and Red Robin.”
You laughed, “that’s your problem?”
“Well,” he carded his hand through the hair at his nape, “you know me, I always give credit where credit is due.”
“True,” you supposed, zipping up your jacket. “Then come on, let’s go.”
It was raining outside, because this was Gotham and Gotham was always wet in some way or another. “I take the train,” you said, motioning towatrds the closest station, “you don’t have to come along if you took your car.”
But Tim was already pulling up the hood of his jacket, the rain never lingering on the fabric. Stupidly expensive but very convenient technology. You were a bit jealous. “I also take the train.”
You raised both your eyebrows, “you, Timothy Drake-Wayne, also take El Train to university.”
“No,” he made a weird huff sound, “I mean yes, just today.”
That made more sense, but still you laughed lightly and unfolded your umbrella. “C’mon, I think we can both fit under here.”
After arguing who gets to hold the stupid thing (‘it’s mine’, you said, and he countered with, ‘yes, but the metal thingies keep tugging at my hair because you hold it too low’, which you followed up with ‘the stretchers?’ and he just took it from your grasp, hands cold but gentle, offering no comeback because you had won) the two of you were making a plan for a hypothetical scenario if the rest of the city suddenly turned into zombies.
“As I was saying,” you stressed, steamrolling over whatever sentence he had wanted to start, “if there was one city that would be the start of a zombie apocalypse, it would be Gotham.”
“I’m not arguing, per se, I just think that in the grand scheme of things, Gotham would also be the best city for it. I think people here actually know how to behave in that scenario whereas, I don’t know, Metropolis would shatter to pieces after three days.”
“True,” you said, thinking about the gasmask you were storing in your first desk drawer, “can’t argue with that.”
“Right?” he lit up, obviously getting into the debate now, “and I think that a lot of people here actually know how to fight,” at your disbelieving look he added, “or at least defend themselves.”
“True,” you thought back to every single school year that started with a single day of self defense, to those two posts of his, “but I would still like a cool weapon, you know?”
“Really?” he asked, “and what would be your weapon in this scenario?”
You made a hm sound and thought for a bit. “A sword would be insanely cool, but we need to think realistically here.” A pause. “Maybe these things that Nightwing has, you know?”
“The escrima sticks?”
“Is that what they are called?”
“Yes,” Tim answered. “It emerged in the Philippines when the Spanish outlawed the carrying of knives and other weapons. A solid choice, all things considered. Even if you have to practice for a bit.”
“You know, I know that you mentioned liking martial arts before, but I honestly didn't really believe you.”
“What?”
“Don’t take this personally, like at all, but if a scrawny-” “Excuse me-” at his indignation you smiled, "nerdy electrical engineer student tells you that he likes martial arts, you just think that ‘yeah I’m sure he does’.”
He dramatically stopped in his tracks, but still held the umbrella outstretched, so that you did not get wet. “Okay, so first of all I am not scrawny–don’t laugh I swear to God–and second of all I am really, really good at hand to hand combat.”
Tim sounded so very sure of himself, even if you were still slightly unsure.
“Really?”
“Yes, really, is that really so hard to believe?”
“I mean kind of? I’ve never seen you fight, like ever. And you don’t give off very threatening vibes.”
“Wow,” he drawled sarcastically, but you could see the pure amusement in his eyes, as the two of you arrived at your platform, “I’m not sure if I should be offended.”
“Don’t be,” you said, “that means you aren’t, you know, scary. It’s a good quality in a man, I think.”
“Good,” he said, “I don’t want to scare the people around me, just, you know, the ones on the street.”
“Yes, of course, I forgot, Tim Drake, one of Gotham's vigilantes.”
“Well,” he leaned in closer, and the announcement of your train faded into the background and all you could see was the thin iris of his eyes, lighter than his pupil, even in the impossible dark of the night. “You never know who could be hiding behind the mask.”
The pounding of your heart was loud, too loud, and the sound of the opening doors snapped you out of it. Embarrassed to be flustered by Tim of all people, you only gave him a wave and disappeared into the safety of the train, a clear barrier between you.
Later that night, just before you went to sleep, you scrolled idly through your phone when you received a notification. You switched to your Instagram app, clicking on the notifications tab. Tim had followed you, and without hesitating you clicked on the blue square and watched it turn white gray.
Before you could actually scroll through his profile, you received a DM.
[Tim Drake]
give me 10min and then I’ll prove it to you
11:52pm
[You]
prove what?
11:52pm
[Tim Drake]
that I’d be a valuable asset of protection against the dark forces of Gotham
11:53pm
[You]
and how are you going to do that?
11:54pm
[Tim Drake]
Patience young Padawan
Just refresh my account in ten minutes
11:55pm
Sue you, but you were a bit curious now. Maybe a story of some award he won? Or a picture of a weapon he had at home?
You kept yourself busy by scrolling through his other posts. Most of them were some sort of brand deal or some sort of official picture, one for watches, one for some kind of moisturiser, another one by Getty Images that somehow didn’t even look bad. How he never looked bad, ever, was still a mystery to you.
But every once in a while was an artistic shot, mostly of Gotham, mostly at night. You recognised the Tower of your university, Miller harbour, Wayne mansion. For fun, he’d said about his pictures, but they were stunning, capturing the rawness of Gotham beautifully.
And sometimes there were messier pictures, usually with his family in it. There was one of Dick balancing Damian on his feet in a handstand, one of Jason with a dog and the caption ‘my dad and the dog he didn’t want’ and even some of the lesser photographed people like Bruce, reading the newspaper on a patio and Cassandra and Duke, smiling and mid laugh, respectively, leaning against each other.
And there, in those photo dumps you saw pieces of Tim.
A picture of him in a black tuxedo, messily brushing his teeth while taking a picture in the mirror with some sort of film camera that was then followed up with a cropped picture, probably from snapchat because of the overlaid text that showed toothpaste on the lapel of that suit saying ‘Bruce is going to murder me’. Another of him with his arm around Stephanie Brown, both smiling, the summer sun slightly overexposing the picture but the grainy texture of it making it charmin. A video of him with a bad audio quality that said “wait, no, look, I can do it-” before he fell off his handstand on his skateboard and someone was laughing in the background. Him drinking coffee, him in a red light room, him as a younger version with both his parents. Him, him, him.
[Tim Drake]
should be online now
i think that’s proof enough
00:05am
[You]
I’ll be the judge of that
00:06am
Sure enough, when you refreshed his feed, a new story loaded, the circle green which didn’t make you feel anything. It was him, in some sort of training facility, a blue mat underneath his bare feet. He was wearing shorts and some sort of dark compression shirt and he was already a bit sweaty. It shouldn't look as good as it did but you had accepted the fact that you were crushing just a bit last week when he had gotten you a chocolate croissant, just because. There was a mannequin popped up, and you recognised it from other Taekwondo videos you had seen online and sure enough Tim kicked up in the air once, before turning around, jumpkicking the air again and then hitting the cylinder once with enough force to throw it over. He then jogged back to his phone, carding his hand through his hair and smiling before turning the video off, a cocky grin on his face.
The overlaid text said ‘training in case of a zombie apocalypse’ and you grinned against your pillow. He was so stupid but God so were you. This was so very clearly for you it made something in your throat burn, so you swallowed it down.
Still, you clicked back to your DMs and texted him
[You]
the verdict is in:
I trust you to get me home safe
00:10am
[Tim Drake]
good.
sleep well
00:11am
[You]
you too
00:12am
And well if your dreams were filled with dark hair and bright eyes, a challenging grin and some fighting it was no one's business but your own.
(Tim looked over to where your umbrella was dried and packed up at his door, and he smiled at the memory, and when he looked down at his phone he deleted the note, not looking back. He knew he was crushing, badly.)
~*~
The next three weeks were a blur of exams, presentations and deadlines. Still, the two of you fell into some sort of routine together. Every second or third day you were seated at the table right in the corner, tucked away next to the emergency exit. You had brought home made brownies once, and ever since Tim seemed determined to one up you so he brought you a different hot chocolate every single time.
It was the evening before the advanced maths 4 exam, your very last for the semester, when Tim asked you, “this might be a bit out there, but you you wanna go on a date after tomorrow?”
“I,” you processed his words, “what?”
He blushed, and tucked his hand against the nape of his neck. “You know, you and me. Museum and coffee after?”
“Is this a tactic to distract me?” you asked, still baffled.
Tim laughed out loud, and the librarian shushed from her desk. Then he folded his arm under his chin and dropped his head on it. “Sure, this was my masterplan all along, distracting the only student better than me by catching feelings.” Skirting the truth, but not really, not anymore.
You made a sound, vaguely between flustered and mortified, before zoning in on what he said, “you have feelings for me?”
He blinked, stunned, and the smile fell off his face, “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“So you don’t? This is really is just a joke?”
“What? No, I didn’t say that. I just,” he paused, looked serious, “I want to take you out on a date, yes or no?”
If you were being honest, you hadn’t really thought about Tim like that. You had a crush, sure, but it seemed like an impossible thing, something to dream about, nothing more. There were moments, of course, like when he started taking the train just so that he made sure you got on yours safe, when the two of you sent each other reels until late at night, conversations moving onto different topics, or when he had bought you churros from that one stand at the Open Day where you had literally spent all of your time together, just pulled in by each other’s presence.
The thing was that you weren’t really asked out much. Or at all. You were one of the few women in your degree, sure, but when the guys realised that you were, in fact smarter and more dedicated than most of them, they quickly lost interest, pretending that you got an advantage simply because you were a woman. And if it wasn’t that then they realised that you were a bit too cocky, challenging and stubborn. “I’m annoying.”
“So? After the entire semester you think I haven’t noticed?”
But you continued, “and I’m stubborn. Really smart, too.”
“I know,” he said, smiling now, “that’s what I like about you.”
“And competitive,” you added, flustered because how was this real. Tim Drake, Tim Drake was asking you out.
“Once again: so am I. I think it matches rather well, don’t you?”
You thought about the countless pointless debates about nothing and everything the two of you have had, the silly competitions of who can throw more paper in the trashcan in one minute, the stupid spreadsheet you had started to rate each coffee you had shared, the not quite breakdowns before certain exams.
“I just,” you started, but you were out of arguments. He knew you, for better or worse, after spending so much time together over the past few months. “okay.”
“Okay as in yes?”
“Yes, Tim Drake, we can go on a date together.”
This time he smiled genuinely, a soft thing that spread across his face slowly, and you really did like it when he smiled. So far there was no expression you liked more than this, but you wanted to find out if that held up. “I’m glad. It’s going to be the best date you’ve ever been on.”
“It better be.”
~*~
It was. It really was. And so was the one after, and the one after that. The one after that one where you kissed for the first time, and the one after when you actually got together.
Now you were sitting at your desk while he was leaning against the wall, legs folded underneath him on your bed. It was the middle of February and for once, it was actually snowing in Gotham, even if it melted into puddles on the sidewalk.
There was something that bothered you, a half formed idea in your head that you weren’t able to talk about yet.
Tim was a wonderful boyfriend. Never forgot anything you told him, always texted you good morning, even at 12pm when he woke up, insisting on walking at the side of the road, carrying your bags. It’s just that sometimes, he was really, really suspicious.
There was that one time at the library, six months ago, when his little brother called him, and he had become deathly serious in the blink of an eye. There was that one time he spent twenty five minutes in the bathroom on one of your dates and when he came back to your table he was weirdly out of breath and some kind of green goo was sticking to the ends of his hair. There was the fact that he sometimes limped, slowly running out of plausible ideas. But most of all there was the uneven skin you felt underneath your fingertips when your hands wandered as you made out, scars, and too many of them. It wasn’t unusual, this was Gotham after all, but there was something more going on, and you were sure of this.
One of these days you would figure out what exactly that was.
There was just one detail missing, you knew that. Just one.
“Tim, I-” but before you could finish what you wanted to say, you heard the alarm bells. Your phone lit up with an emergency alarm, one all too familiar, but still a cold shiver ran down your spine.
“Blackgate, there was a,” he finished your sentence, “breakout. Everyone needs to stay put.”
You closed your blinds, standing up to fill up empty cups with clean water, just in case, when Tim pulled out his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
“You can’t be serious,” you said, as he clearly got up to leave your apartment, despite the order.
“I’m sorry, I really am, I just have to, you know,” he motioned towards the door.
“Know what?”
“Go.”
You laughed, a bit disbelieving. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he said, in a too honest, too sharp tone, “I have to go.”
“Where? We just got the explicit order to stay inside because you don’t know what’s happening outside.”
“Home, I need to see the others, I need to know what is happening.”
You stood there, in front of your sink, completely shocked. Tim was one of, if not the most rational person you had ever met. There was a reason you respected his opinion, why you relied on him as much as you had these past few months. “Then we will turn on the news, the radio. You can call home and tell them you’ll be here.”
“No,” he said, moving closer to the door, further away from you, “you don’t understand. I have to go, now.”
“I really don’t, so explain it to me.”
You looked at his face, desperate, looking for a clue, some sign, anything. He seemed devastated, torn between something, but you just didn’t understand what. “Tim, don’t be stupid. It’s not safe out there.”
He came back to you, tugged you in close, but before you could wrap your arms around him, he gave you a kiss on the cheek and closed the door behind him.
Somehow, you knew that this was significant. This was bigger than you, than him.
Still, when you turned back to your room, your eyes automatically moved back to the place he had sat in just moments ago. He had left one of his journals, still open, with one pen stuck in the middle.
You pretended not to notice the floorplans of one of the highest security buildings in Gotham staring back at you.
Wordlessly you closed it and stored it in one of your drawers, hidden from plain sight.
The puzzle shifted, you had gotten the clue, but you were not sure if you liked the picture it formed.
~*~
Connecting everything you had gathered, it would make sense if you assumed that Tim worked for someone in Blackgate. It was hard to believe, sure, because Tim was, beneath all his layers of teasing, genuinely kind, but maybe that was what had been his downfall.
Both of his parents died, his mother due some sort of accidental poisoning, and his father years later in an accident. But what if none of it was an accident? What if someone was after Tim, because of his name, of his association or maybe just his brain? Or maybe it was just bad luck.
Tim knew Gotham like the back of his hand, seemed to be able to hold more than his own in a fight, and had access to the Wayne Enterprises for God's sake. Of course he was a valuable asset to every villain in the city. It made so much sense that you felt a little bit stupid for not realising sooner.
He had texted you that night, saying something along the lines of how he had to be quarantined along with his family, and you pretended to believe him, just glad he was alive.
Which leads you to this moment, a week and a half later, everyone safely behind bars again, and the city continued living, just the way it always did.
Tim looked up from where he was already waiting for you on the park bench.
He looked, frankly, worse than usual. He was paler, his eyebags darker and his hair messy, and you knew that this wasn’t an easy conversation to have.
“Hey you,” you greeted him, and at the sight of you he stood up and he folded himself against you, and you returned his hug. The two of you stayed like that for a while, together, sharing warmth in the cold.
When he leaned back and in to kiss you, you held his face in your hands, grateful, somehow, that he was back by your side, alive, breathing, even though you didn’t know what he had done.
It was soft, and you felt breakable in his arms, vulnerable in a way you usually never let yourself, but this was still him, the boy who had convinced five different coffee shops to add cinnamon to your hot chocolate, just because he knew you liked it. The same one whose hand was unsteady that first time he held yours, in the middle of an exhibition of Artificial Intelligence in a museum closeby.
“I missed you,” he murmured in the crook of your neck, into your scarf.
You carded your fingers through his hair, soft, despite the mess. Maybe because of it.
“I missed you too,” you let it linger before breaking the comfortable silence, “but I need to talk to you about something.”
“So let me get this right,” Tim repeated, shoulder against shoulder, thigh against thigh, a black tea in his hand, “you think I’m working for some sort of supervillain.”
“Yes,” you said, sipping your green one, “is that so far-fetched?”
He laughed, whole heartedly and while the sound was comforting you scowled into your cup, “don’t laugh, I’m serious.”
“As am I,” Tim said, prying one hand away from your cup and into his instead, “and you would still want to date me?”
“I mean,” you hesitated, “depends on who exactly you were working for. Joker probably not, Ivy maybe.”
“You really like me,” he repeated, retracing the shapes on your gloves.
“I do,” you said, “and I don’t want to lose you, but I think that you should still ask for help. Batman, maybe. Robin, or the police.”
“Okay,” Tim said, “I need you to trust me one last time, and then it’s over, alright? No more secrets.”
“Alright,” you let yourself be pulled up by him, and the two of you left the park, your footsteps making indents in the snow behind you. “One last time.”
“You are joking.”
“I’m not,” Tim confirmed, “I’m serious, this is my secret.”
You were standing in Tim’s room in the Wayne Manor, but not really. His bedroom had a small door, a closet you had assumed when you first came to his house, but that was wrong, that was so very wrong.
“You,” your grip on his upper arm still hadn’t loosened. If anything it had only gotten tighter. “You, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne are Red fucking Robin?”
“Yes.”
“You,” you started, taking in the secret room, the four monitors, the plans of his suit, his weapons and other small trinkets on the shelves. “I just.”
Tim laughed and guided you to the chair, spinning it around for you and kneeling at your feet.
“I thought you were,” you paused, “evil. Like not evil evil but evil.”
“Surprise,” he said, taking your hand into his.
“That makes so much sense,” you started talking, “Bruce is Batman. Damian is Robin.”
“Yes.”
“Oh God, Dick is Nightwing? Who is Jason?”
“That’s a secret,” Tim answered gently.
“I’ll just find it out later,” you brushed him off.
Tim couldn’t help his smile at that. “Knowing you, you probably will.”
You looked down at Tim’s face and took it in your hands. “You are an idiot.”
Tim just closed his eyes, “I’m really not.”
“I know,” you said, suddenly realising the depth of this. He could have died last week. He could die tomorrow, or maybe the month after. He was human, the same way you were, but he still put on a suit every night to make sure that people like you made it home safe.
You dropped down to your knees in front of him, face to face and hugged him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s okay.”
“I,” you started, hugging him tighter, “thank you for trusting me with this. But please always come back to me.” In your arms he was just Tim, the same guy who had tripped over his shoelaces, looked up at you and said that Newton had a personal vendetta against him. The same one that had cut up an apple for you because you insisted that it tasted better like that.
The same one, that was saving people, every week, risking his own life.
“‘Course, there is nowhere I’d rather be.”
“Good,” you said, “because I really need you to come back to me, in one piece, okay? Otherwise I’ll just find a way to revive you.”
“Naturally, you need someone on your team against the zombies,” he said, “but I could settle on becoming your experiment too.”
“No, that won’t work,” you replied stubborn, “we need both of our brains, not decomposed, to think about how we can save the entire world, right?”
~*~
Later, much later, during an overly hot summer day the two of you lay in your bed, while you traced a yellowing bruise across his ribs.
“You know,” Tim starts, in the tone of voice that screamed repressed embarrassment. You prop your chin up on his chest, suddenly very much interested in what he had to say.
“Before we first met I vowed to take you down.”
“What?”
“I had an entire master plan when you approached me for our shared group project. I wanted to find out how you did better than me and beat you at any exam.”
Amusement curled up around your lungs, “really?”
“Yeah,” Tim admitted, “I was a bit obsessed, really. Even before we met, I spent too much of my time thinking about you, about the way you must spend your free time, about the way your brain worked.”
“This is the best thing you’ve ever told me.”
“I just,” Tim traced the curve of your eyebrow with his fingers, “I was interested in you, but I broke it down into something easier. I was really obvious about it, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “even Dick was sick of hearing me rant about you. I once asked him if he also got so determined to beat someone in something that you end up only thinking about your rival.”
“That’s embarrassing,” you said, “I love it.”
“Nah,” he said, “What’s embarrassing is that my masterplan worked out.”
You let out an indignant sound, righting yourself up against the bed “it did not.”
“Yes, it did,” he said, tugging you down below him. “I beat you at something.”
A very affronted noise left your mouth, “so not true!”
“So true,” he replied, easily and so very earnest, “I love you more.”
“Like I said,” you repeated yourself, “so not true.”
He avoided your kiss but gave you five half on your eyelid instead, pressing your into the pillow below. When you opened your eyes, determined to get your revenge, he looked at you openly, so you could only offer a truce. “We should make the agreement that we love each other the exact same amount. No winner here, not this time.”
“Hmm,” he pretended to think about it but then lamented, “fine, but just this once.”
“Pinky promise?” you offered him your finger, outstretched between the two of you, and he hooked his through yours.
“Promise.” He kissed you and it felt right. It felt like you found your equilibrium, finally someone who could meet you where you needed them to.
It felt like peace.
a/n: the pacing is bothering me, but I still really wanted to post it. Please come and talk to me about it! Lots of love <3
synopsis: you are damian wayne's best friend, and your parents want you to get married. can you two best friends be more than just best friends?
tags: damian wayne x fem!reader ft. batfamily
A/N: i got very inspired by a kate and anthony dialogue from bridgerton. based on this request.
Damian Wayne does not do friendships.
The heir to the League and the Wayne family does not need a companion, platonic or otherwise. That is the consensus—the winning opinion that even his entire family agrees with.
At least, that was what Dick, Jason, Duke, and Tim thought for the longest time. At least, that was what Cassandra and Stephanie theorized, sharing those thoughts with Barbara whenever she was over at Wayne Manor. At least, that was what Bruce and Alfred were worried about.
But then came you.
You, who is quiet, kind, but not lacking in self-respect and ambition. You, who Gotham Academy sees as peculiar, uptight, but quietly smart. You, who are called a paradox by her parents for your fierceness wrapped in a softness they do not understand at all.
You, who Damian Wayne befriended.
And, Damian’s world transformed. It exploded with colour, soft-spoken conversations, late-night strolls, cherishing secrets, and shared happiness in goals, big or small.
The first indication that Damian valued you was when he willingly sought you out in class. He had never done that before, and the instructors, who are paid hefty salaries by the academy, noted it and brought it up with Bruce. Bruce, who arched an eyebrow at this development, brought it up over dinner.
It was casual. A simple question.
“You seem to have made a friend, Damian,” Bruce shared, gauging his son’s facial expressions at the same time.
Damian did not freeze. There was no show of any weakness, as he was trained to forego. But that slight tremor in his hand that was curled around the silver spoon he used did not go unnoticed. Not by Bruce. Not by Alfred. Not by anyone else.
Jason huffed like he didn’t care, but he did keep an eye on you, both on the Gotham Academy grounds and on nights when he patrolled. It was his way of saying that he saw what you meant to Damian. He cherished your safety from afar, because his little brother had someone—a friend, a companion, a support where he could simply be—and that was important. A truly unforgettable detail.
Dick grinned at Damian, softly teasing him about finally having a friend. He did give absolutely unwanted lessons on maintaining friendships 101, as if he had meaningful connections himself.
Tim made it a point not to react badly, but he did run an extensive background check on you. He knew your great grandma’s name, your second cousin’s credit score, and your parents’ estate attorney before Damian did, even before you did.
Bruce and Alftred tried to stay out of this so as not to cause Damian any discomfort. Bruce meddled enough, so he tried to stay still about this. And Alfred… he tried not to badger Damian about inviting you to the manor or taking homemade baked and cooked goods to school for you.
They all patiently waited. They noticed, took notes, and stood on the sidelines. And then one evening, you came over—the infamous friend, the mysterious companion, the person who signified something to Damian. You, with your backpack, uniform, and perfect hair, came over to study. It was a simple study session that ended up becoming a family dinner, with nosy—absolutely nosy siblings—and laughter.
Just like that, it became an unsaid truth that you are family, too.
Now, years later, you stand on the threshold of the manor, looking at the boy who became your best friend. You look at him with comfort, trust, and also pain.
Damian knows just by the look on your face that something is wrong. His first instinct is to question you and pry an answer from you as rapidly as he can, because he wants to fix whatever perturbs you.
But any patience that he exhibits is for you. He knows how easily you get overwhelmed, but never shows it. He also knows you trust him enough to show him how you are when you don’t pretend. It’s a privilege that he has, and the realization of it never fails to fill him with honour and a longing he refuses to give a truthful name to.
“How are you doing, Miss?” Alfred asks as you follow him into the dining room, with Damian right beside you.
You halfheartedly smile, making Alfred concerned as well. But you answer calmly, with the perfection you are taught and cling to as the perfect daughter of your parents. “I am fine, Alfred. Thank you. How are you?”
“I am delighted to have everyone under the same roof tonight,” Alfred says. “It is a rarity to have that these days.”
“Indeed.”
Damian says, “If you want Jason to grace his presence here often, you should tell him, Alfred. Why do I have to bear the brunt of your taunts?”
You laugh softly. “That was not a taunt.”
“It was,” Damian says, and you shake your head fondly. As always, when you both walk side by side, your arms are linked. The way Damian’s arm links with yours grounds him. It makes him remember he is Damian, just as much as he is an Al-Ghul and Wayne.
He feels a different type of duty when he stands next to you, an audacious and heartwarming one. It was debilitating to ponder it too much because this duty was so very unique in its creation. It was not cold, painful, or lonely. It didn’t have ties to or expectations from a legacy.
His duty to you simply came from that day he met you, trying to decipher what exactly you penned in your sleek blue notebook with such haste. Later on, he realized it was your planner, and you kept yourself busy to the brim all week. And something in him whispered—urged—to be there for you.
Caring for you is one of Damian’s purposes.
It makes him a better Robin selfishly. If he can selflessly devote his life to being a vigilante, because in that duty, Talia’s and Bruce’s love for him lives, then he can also selfishly devote himself to making Gotham safer for you. A safe Gotham keeps you safe. And Damian needs that with everything in him.
Sometimes, he finds himself agreeing with Jason over Gotham. Bloodshed was wrong in the life and values that Damian adopted. But retributive justice and fighting crime with blood did not sound horrid. It sounds like a consequence that would shake Gotham into discipline, but Damian also recognizes that the consequence would be short-lived. It would not protect you permanently, and with you, Damian always tries to find permanency. Always.
He looks back at you, as you sit beside him, playing with the silver fork in your hand, moving the rice around but not eating. His eyes narrow in displeasure at your quiet distress. It is noticeable not only to him but also to the entire family seated. Barbara, who is also visiting to spend some time with Dick and Cassandra, is exchanging a concerned look with Dick, perhaps wanting to do some detective work to get to the bottom of your silence.
Damian almost rolled his eyes. This family and its friends never quite communicate properly. It’s always tactics like these, and Damian understands it, because he himself is not good with words. Language is something sacred and unrelentingly difficult for him. He wants to use the same tactics with you right now, but he also does not want to resort to that. He wants you to speak to him like you always do, and Damian would wait if that is what you need.
Jason cleared his throat to speak, but Bruce beat him to it. Damian’s father looks at you, as your eyes are fixed on the plate perched before you. “Is everything alright?”
You look up at Bruce, dazed. You blink, processing his words. Then, you nod, smiling. “Everything’s alright, Bruce. Why do you ask?”
“You have not mentioned the book that Jason pestered you to read. You have not talked to Tim about work that you usually have many complaints about, and you certainly have not said anything about tonight’s menu to Alfred,” Damian speaks before Bruce can.
You look at Damian now, and you wince.
“Is something bothering you?” Jason questions, leaning forward, ready to tackle whatever your answer may be.
You shake your head. Bruce clears his throat, trying to be calm and supportive. “You can talk to us—all of us or one of us. We are… here.”
You lean back in your chair, your face a combination of a grimace and a polite smile. That alone is an indication that something is perturbing you, and the thing is that no matter how dysfunctional your best friend’s family has been, it has been that safe space for you. So, you speak. “Father has been setting up dates for me.”
The room goes completely still. Even Alfred, for once, is dismayed.
You sigh. “He says it is of utmost importance that I find a proper match soon.”
Jason glares at you, not at you, but at your parents. “That’s not necessary.”
Dick nods. He looks kind as he asks, “Are you unhappy with that?”
Damian feels his head pound at that question, indicating his coming out of that stillness that incinerated him moments ago. He stares at you, not knowing what to say. It is a travesty because Damian always knows what to say. But tonight, listening to what your parents’ intentions are, he does not.
Bruce says, far gentler than he is with his sons, a tone he reserves for Cassandra and Stephanie and now you. “Is there a reason for this insistence?”
“I asked, and he says it is the way of society,” You answer, and Damian scoffs.
Bruce purses his lips. It is the way of Gotham’s high society. Matches of the highest calibre are forged between families to ensure wealth and reputation stay intact or even further them. Bruce, himself, would have been persuaded into these matchmaking attempts if he had taken his social circle more seriously or if his parents were alive.
“That is a preposterous way of explaining why he wants his daughter to get married,” Damian bursts.
Dick and Jason stare at Damian, a knowing look crossing their faces. Stephanie asks, “So did you say no?”
Damian grows more distressed when you shake your head. Cassandra’s facial expression falters. You laugh nervously and then explain. “He is not wrong. I am busy with work and friends. It is perhaps time to take the next step in… life.”
Your voice is so unnatural that Damian fumes. You do not sound happy. Even enthused in the slightest. You sound resigned. That is what your parents do to you. They presented a checklist for you when you were of age to understand expectations and responsibilities, and ever since, you have abided by them. You don’t know a world outside it, and Damian doesn't know how to show that there is one. It is a bit hypocritical, but Damian does not care. Perhaps he can and is tied down by legacies, but you cannot. You are supposed to be free and do whatever you want.
“But is that what you want?” Jason asks because he regards freedom as the most important aspect of life. Jason knows death, and he knows how it is to be caged. He does not wish that on anyone, let alone you.
You stay silent. In that silence is the answer. Everyone in the room sees your struggle, and you realize that. Your cheeks pinken because you do not want to embarrass yourself by looking weak, as if you cannot even bear what your parents want for you. You put on a brave smile and nod. “Yes. I think this is good for me.”
Dick and Jason exchange looks. Tim looks down at his plate and then at you. “I will conduct checks. Whoever it is, I expect their name.”
Stephanie looks at Damian, then at you. “Be careful.”
Cassandra gauges you, but then she softly says, her eyes averting towards Stephanie. “If you can let that person see you, you have made your choice.”
See you.
Damian glares at Cassandra. For whatever reason, he hates her statement—the underlying advice. But that glare is wiped off his face as you turn your head to look at him. You look at him like his words matter the most in a roomful of people that clearly adore you. You look at him like you need him, so Damian holds back every ounce of anger he feels, and says, his hand reaching out to hold yours. “I am here.”
And you entwine your fingers with his. You sigh and whisper. “Thank you.”
For the rest of the night, after dinner, he takes you to the library and reads to you, watching you relax, as an ache fills his chest.
“Thank you, Dami,” You whisper as you slot your head into the crook of his neck, and you imagine him running his fingers through your hair, the movement cajoling you into sleep.
Your first date is with a banker. He is a few years older than you, but that is not troubling. He is a good man, or at least that is what your parents say. His parents are a part of Gotham’s most elite, just like yours. It’s a good match if decided on. That is the consensus.
You stare at your reflection. The black dress, the matching heels, and the small clutch you are carrying suit you. Your mother walks into your room, as always disregarding your privacy. You can hear her laughter and another person’s footsteps.
Your mother says, “She is excited.”
Are you?
Are you excited? You think again, and you feel exhausted because you have no answer. You stiffen as you hear Damian’s voice instead of your father’s. You did not anticipate his presence, so you turn around to exit the vanity room, which connects to your bedroom and bathroom.
“Dami,” You breathe in relief, his name a lifeline you cling to.
The boy you met is now a tall young man with the same intense eyes and gentleness that fills your heart. He stares at you right now, with those same eyes and approaches you. He curls his fingers around your upper arm with the same gentleness.
“You look beautiful, my dear,” Your mother gushes. Her words make you wince, and Damian moves to shield you from her line of vision. He says, his voice clear. “She still has to finish getting ready.”
Your mother laughs. “Oh, yes. And prepare her, Damian. She does not know the ins and outs of courtships. Give her a few tips, son.”
And she departs, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
Damian pulls you closer. He frowns at the Bobby pins keeping your curly hair up. He knows how much you hate bobby pins, just how much they pain. You always complain about them before a gala, but you let your mother pin them tonight.
Damian says, “You abhor bobby pins.”
“I do.”
“You put them on."
“I did.”
“Your head hurts when you put them on."
“They do.”
Damian tilts his head like he wants to yank each one off your head. He would love to make that decision for you on your behalf, but he does not allow himself to. That restraint is something you are used to, but it sometimes still surprises you, because you were always told Damian Wayne did not believe in restraint.
So he asks, “Do you want me to remove them?”
Your throat works. You do not know what to say. There is the answer, the true one: yes. But something stops you. Something always does, holding you and your voice in its tight grip.
So you sigh. You shake your head, and Damian, instead of removing those pins, gently pats your head and then rubs your nape. That action makes you come closer to him. It makes you hug him, and you sigh into his chest, covered by his button-down.
“I am nervous,” You admit to your best friend.
Damian says, rubbing your nape with one hand while the other wraps around your middle. “I know.”
“I don’t know anything about dating, courtships, love,” You say.
Damian stiffens. His hand that was on your nape comes around to cup your chin. He pulls you back with that action, his voice steady and yet again everything that matters. “You are allowed to pace yourself. Do not let anyone deny you that liberty.”
“Pace myself?” You repeat a part of his words. Pacing yourself in this seems like a loss, too. How do you pace yourself in a race that demands your heart?
His hand descends to your shoulders. Both of your shoulders were grabbed gently, while he says, “I beg of you.”
You stare at him, frowning slightly at the wrecked tone he uses. Damian Wayne does not beg. He does not use those words. He commands. He rules. He gets his way, and he wins. That is his legacy, his right even. But right now, he is proffered a young man requesting—begging—you to listen to him. “One must not indulge in any decision that is unwelcome. I am asking you to heed that.”
“I will,” You say, because you always listen to Damian.
Damian nods as if he is satisfied. He steps back, and you hate the loss of his touch on your skin. You hate that he is not crowding you, holding you, and towering over you. And that hatred of losing his touch, his nearness, floors you, redness pooling on your cheeks and neck. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t be like this.
“Rooh Qalbi.” You hear Damian’s voice, looking up. You furrow your brows, not completely registering what he said. He sighs. “Your suitor is here.”
“Suitor?” You giggle, and Damian smiles just a bit.
“Yes,” He nods. His jaw tenses, looking out the bedroom door, downwards at the entryway of the large home you reside in. “In an inadequate choice of a vehicle, an ill-fitting suit, and an utterly detestable arrangement of flowers.”
“Hey,” You say, taking his arm as he leads you out of your room.
“I am being transparent, as is my intention, always with you.” Your cheeks warm again, listening to his words. Damian discreetly juts his chin towards the flower bouquet the banker holds as he talks to your mother. You cringe a little. You are not a fan of red roses, as romantic and symbolic as they are.
Damian shakes his head. “A man who does not adequately account for his potential bride’s predilection.”
You smile a little at the way Damian looks disappointed. You tilt your head and place a friendly kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dami.”
You descend the spiral staircase, Damian right behind you, as he mutters under his breath about the safety in the heels you are wearing.
The banker looks at you and kisses your cheek, hugging you from the side. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” You say. When the banker gives the flowers to you, you expect to be touched, regardless of what floral arrangement you picked out. You look up at him, wanting to feel a spark of something. But you don’t. It’s too early. You tell yourself that.
Damian and the banker shake hands. Damian nods along to whatever he says, as your mother laughs. “These two have been best friends for years, son. Don’t be fooled by how calm Damian is right now. If you want to be in my daughter’s life, you have to win his heart too.”
The banker laughs. Then, he extends his hand to take yours.
You look at Damian.
He blinks at you, and you breathe. You can get through this.
Your date was horrible—too many numbers, money, and social events conversations. You did not gel with the banker at all. You were not what he wanted, and he was not what you wanted.
So your parents set up another date. This time, the prospect is a vice president of a conglomerate. You do not have any hopes that this date will fare better than what happened with the banker. It will be boring, tedious, and lacklustre. You know it, but you agree.
You pick out the heels that go well with the floral, flowy, red dress you chose tonight. They are block heels, and you sigh as you sit on your bed, taking them into your hands. You do not realize that you are not in the room alone until Damian pries your hand away from the heel.
“Hey,” You say, looking up at him.
“No bobby pins tonight?” He asks, his lips formed into a wry smile.
You shake your head. “I wanted to keep my hair down.”
His eyes flicker towards your hair, intensely gazing at the way your curls sit loose against your shoulders. “You look beautiful.”
“Yeah?” You bend your head, blushing.
Damian nods. “Resplendent. Divine. Beguiling. Would you like me to beseech you with more verbiage, or do you believe me?”
“Dami,” You mutter, shaking your head. Then, you gasp as he bends on one knee. Damian’s gestures often shock you, because they are far different from the reputation he holds, the way he behaves with people, family or strangers, and the weight his name holds.
As his fingers curl around your ankle, making you stifle another gasp, you watch. He makes you wear both block heels, saying. “Do not stroll at a painfully fast pace; you will fall.”
“And you won’t be there to help me up,” You laugh, thinking about the first time you wore a pair of block heels. It was at an event organized by Gotham Academy. And you almost took a tumble, if not for the way Damian caught your arm and stayed by your side firmly, present the entire time.
Damian tilts his head. He assesses you with his gaze. You almost frown at the way he looks at you. You take pride in the way “I will always be there.”
You still. You do not expect those words, and now that you have them, you don’t want to let them go. They settle in you like a well-hidden pearl in the shell of a mollusk.
He tugs at a hair strand fondly, a reverent action reserved just for you. “It is a vow I abide by. It will always be that way.”
“Why?”
“Because you—“ Damian’s eyes roam over you. “You are important. Every vow to you made is of unwavering dedication and paramount respect.”
“Dami.”
“Rooh Qalbi.”
Your eyes widen.
You are pulled out of the unexpected despair and confusion you feel when you feel Damian’s fingers trace your cheek and the line of your jaw. The action causes his other hand to tighten around your ankle. Your breath hitches, but you hide it well enough.
“Forgive me for repeating this, but you are not obligated to partake in anything that holds no appeal to you.” He says, his eyes flickering to the family portrait that was framed and placed on your nightstand.
“Your decisions should always be a matter of your discretion. No one else’s,” Damian continues.
“What if I don’t know what I want?”
Damian smiles slightly. His fingers cup your chin, while his other hand gently places your heel-clad foot on the ground. “You will. I will be there to witness it.”
His unwavering belief in you makes you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him. His arms go around you, pulling you closer, and you smile against his shoulder. For a second, you wonder what it would be like to march up to your parents and tell them that you don’t want this. You imagine Damian looking at you as you decide to put your wishes first instead of the expectations.
But you are reminded of the words uttered to you for years. Gotham society. Education. Marriage. Children. The importance of maintaining status. The importance of abiding by duties, especially a duty that is tied to the family name.
You break the hug, feeling like an imposter. You feel unworthy of Damian’s trust. You don’t look at him as you wear a beautiful sling-back purse that Damian actually bought for you a while back. When you hear your mother’s voice saying your date is here, you move.
But you feel Damian’s hand curl around your wrist, halting you.
You look back at him. Damian moves forward.
He questions, his voice slightly gruff, much like his father’s is. “You will permit me the honour of knowing when you are apprised that your heart has been taken to someone’s advances?”
You stare at Damian. He wants to know when someone has your heart. He calls gaining that knowledge an honour.
Your throat works, but you manage to nod. You whisper, “Yes, I will.”
You turn around and, yet again, descend the spiral staircase. This time, your date does not bring red roses. He brings tulips that you like. You do not know, but somehow Damian made the man aware, by word of mouth, that you are more taken with tulips than with roses.
But what you know is the thundering in your ears and the way your heart beats. You know the gnawing realization growing in your chest, making you even more dispirited.
The realization that your heart may be someone else’s already.
You just cannot bear to think of who.
The vice president of a respected, established conglomerate also turns out to be an ill-fitting match. This time, it is not your fault. It is because of your parents that you muffled any expression of dissatisfaction after your date with him. Your parents invited the man to dinner, and they found him gauche and irritating. His table manners made your father sigh. That sigh said everything.
This time, you got ready at Wayne Manor. Your first date is to a Wayne Gala. A peculiar choice, but with how busy you and the angel investor from the West Coast are, it made sense to use the gala as a location for the date.
Stephanie and Cassandra hover over you, helping you get ready, as Barbara stares knowingly at you from her wheelchair, ready and excited. You look at her through the mirror.
“What?” You ask, a little miffed tonight. Your mother decided on a gown for you tonight that you did not approve of. It is beautiful. The olive green is not your favourite shade of green, but it is acceptable. The real issue is the material. Scratchy, irritating, and unpleasant.
“Nothing,” Barbara says, shaking her head, as Cassandra does the finishing touches to your makeup.
You could not object to your mother when she called, and now you are paying the price for your silence. You look beautiful, though, you try to tell yourself, as if the extreme discomfort is worth the beauty.
Cassandra clasps a diamond necklace around your neck, something Stephanie selected for you. That is what you think until Stephanie bends down and says, looking at you through the mirror. “Damian knows you.”
“What?” You ask, frowning.
Stephanie laughs, while Cassandra whispers, “Damian sent this jewellery piece for you two hours ago. He said you would like it.”
“He also told us only to let you wear it if you approve,” Barbara says. She moves forward, situating herself next to you, and leans back. Assessing you, she asks, “Even though Stephanie asked already, do you approve?”
It is on your tongue to viciously say: Does it matter?
But you tilt your head, not wanting to make the girls targets of your ire, directed at your mother, looking at yourself. Your hair is styled in a not-actually-messy braid. And the diamond necklace sits around your neck with an elegance that makes your breath hitch.
You do approve, and something in you twists at the thought of being asked that. That never happens, not often. Yes, within the walls of Wayne Manor. Yes, with Damian. Yes, with his family, who always welcomed you.
But not at home.
You furrow your brows, trying to remember the last time your mother or father asked you if you approved of something. If you wanted something. If you were okay with something.
You stand up. “Yes, I look gorgeous.”
“That is true,” Stephanie says. Cassandra pats your head like you are a child. You and Damian are the babies of the family, much to the displeasure of both of you. Barbara squeezes your hand, and you smile at her. She tips her head in a knowing gesture that frazzles you, but you don’t show it.
They soon depart the room while you take one last look at yourself. You can do this. You will be okay. You think reassuringly and turn around.
Of course, Damian is standing in the entryway of the room you are in. Of course, he knocks on the ajar door, knowing you are inside. Of course, you ask him to come in.
And of course, he looks at your gown and immediately says, “You are uncomfortable.”
You stay silent.
“Are you not?” He asks, looking angry, not at you, but at himself. He looks at you like he wonders if he can no longer read you.
And you don’t want him ever to think he doesn't know you. So you nod. “Yes, I am uncomfortable.”
His jaw clenches, but he does not say anything.
You tilt your head. “Are you not going to ask me to wear something else, Dami?”
Damian moves forward and stands right in front of you. He wraps an arm around your middle and tugs you closer. “Every decision has to be yours.”
You stiffen, filled with gratitude and anger due to those words.
You hate that he reminds you that you have choices—that you can make them. You detest that he gives you the space to do so instead of simply commanding you to.
You want him to tell you what to do and how to be. But Damian never does that. He is, well, your Dami. He was the boy who listened to you and is now the man who wants you to know that your decisions should be your own.
You look away from him, and he asks, "Would you like to change?”
You already know that if you want to change into a separate gown, there will be countless comfortable options awaiting you.
But your ears reverberate with your mother’s shrill commands over the phone call that took place about the gown. You shake your head, and you feel your best friend’s fingers flex on your back.
Damian steps back. “Alright..”
You look at him.
“Thank you,” you say. You are thanking him for everything, but you point to the necklace as an excuse.
Damian tilts his head. “You look beautiful.”
You blush and bend your head.
“You look handsome, too, Dami,” You say, and he smiles, offering you his arm for you to link with.
The serenity of this moment is something you cling to, and you hope it will get you through the night.
Damian hates your date. The angel investor is a little shit. He is utterly unworthy of you. Yet, he holds your hand and leads you to the esteemed guests of this evening.
Damian’s hand tightens around the glass tumbler he holds. His eyes have been tracking you the entire night. He sees the exhaustion that clings to you in the way you walk, in the way your hand shakes around the champagne flute you hold, and in the way your laugh sounds hollow.
That gown is causing you so much trouble with its material and seams chafing against your skin. If you were not on a date, Damian would have convinced you to ditch this social event and take you back to the manor where Alfred would be. With folded pajamas and warm tea.
But since you are on a date, Damian is relegated to being a witness to your agony, unable to do anything until you say that you would like his impudent intervention.
Damian does not want to be one of those people in your life who talks over you, disregards your voice, and muffles your wants. He promised himself to not only keep you safe and secure from harm’s way but also to keep you happy.
Happiness is not always smiles and laughter. It is also the security of making a choice. Happiness also resides in the freedom that comes from deciding on purely your own accord.
And he won’t take that away from you.
“You know, you’re staring,” Jason says.
Damian glares at Jason, “Why are you present here, Todd?”
He shrugs. “Bruce told me to show up.”
“My father’s inability to make a sound decision does keep astounding me despite its commonness,” Damian grumbles, and Dick claps a hand on his shoulder.
The action is sympathetic, which grinds Damian’s gears. He does not need sympathy!
Damian averts his gaze from Jason to look back at you. You seem to be in a deep conversation with a Gothamite who is also in angel investing.
Damian suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. That action is reserved for crass individuals. But he is so close to doing it, because he cannot believe your parents would choose this man out of all of the choices that could be made.
Angel investing as a career is risky. He is from the West Coast, not used to Gotham. Damian could think of so many other reasons why such an alliance between you and him is a bad idea. For you—for your safety, well-being, and happiness.
He is not right for you. But Damian is not the one who has the final say on this. It has to be you.
So he watches.
And watches.
And watches.
Soon, you are exhausted from the talking, smiling, and indulging that the Gothamite elite demand of you. You excuse yourself swiftly and head towards the grand balcony that is connected to the gala’s main hall.
Damian instantly follows, and his face softens as he watches you perched against the railing, looking at the view of Gotham.
Then, he frowns. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he removes his blazer and places it on your shoulders. There are times when he cannot be bothered to wait for your choices, and this is one of them. He is not going to let you get a cold. It’s just not happening.
“Dami,” You gasp. You tug the blazer closer to your chest, putting your arms through the sleeves.
Then, you frown. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No, I am not,” Damian answers, and he means it.
You nod. Damian asks, “Are you alright?”
“I am,” You say. Damian does not believe you, but he does not call you out on it. You shift closer to him and rest your head against his bicep.
You both look at the view of Gotham.
“It’s beautiful,” You murmur, and Damian looks at you.
“I agree.”
You don’t notice that he is not talking about Gotham’s view, and he does not tell you.
“How is he?” Damian questions.
You shrug, and that is how Damian tells you that you are utterly exhausted. You don’t shrug, not often.
“I do not think he is the one.”
Good. But Damian does not say that aloud.
“I want to put an end to this,” You say. You sound a bit frustrated. “I just want them off my back.”
You mean your parents.
Damian shares, “Perhaps, acquiescing to their demands is not as suitable as you deem it is. Perhaps, a course of defiance is.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “Defiance?”
“If you must.”
“Defiance,” You repeat, looking at him.
“Defiance.” Damian repeats.
You let out a sigh and rest your head back on him. You close your eyes, and Damian just cannot help himself. He bends and grazes his lips on the top of your head, on your hairline, and then on your forehead.
It’s too much. Damian can tell from the way you tilt your head and stare up at him. You tell him, "I wanted to wear your shade of green. It’s my favourite, not this olive green.”
Damian stares at you. He is too proper to have his jaw hang in surprise, but he is close to it. That is not a statement he expected, and now that he has heard it, he cannot stop himself from imagining it. You in green. In his green, as you said. The green that makes up one of the colours of his suit.
Damian lets out a haggard sigh and leans forward, almost resting his head against yours.
Your noses almost brush, and you let out a small laugh, teasing. “I have the Wayne heir tongue-tied.”
“That is the effect you have on me, Rooh Qalbi,” Damian utters the words as if they were sacred truth.
His words do affect you, too, because you blink rapidly. You go on your toes, slightly unbalanced due to your heels, and rest your head against his. Noses brush. Eyelashes meet a little.
It is remarkable how, in a fraction of a minute, everything changes. One second, you were resting your head against his arm as you always did. Like a best friend. Like the girl who consumes his thoughts, meaning behind actions, and priorities every minute, but then now, you are pressed against him, your hands cupping his face, while his arms go around you.
Damian wants to have you in his arms like this for as long as he lives. He will continue living with care and caution if it means having you in his arms. You are pressed up against him, cocooned in his embrace, and he feels like he has had a taste of heaven. Does it exist? He wonders. It does. He believes now.
You make him a believer. You make him an even more worthy man. You make him question the line between right and wrong. You make him wonder what the difference is between a wound and a healer, because to him right now, he holds both in his arms.
“Dami,” You whisper.
“Noor Eini,” he whispers.
The line between being friends, as close as you both are, and something else blurs. The line erases. It is eradicated before the way Damian—your Dami—holds you and the way you—his qalbi—melts into his hold.
Damian leans forward, too, minimizing the remaining little space between both of you. It is an action that spurs from want and desperation he refuses to name, still, that he refuses to admit to.
And then a loud crash jolts you both apart.
A sound from afar. An aggrieved cry of irritation from nearby staff. The sound is plates clattering to the ground. You both realize that.
Damian reaches for you, tearing his gaze off the area where the sound loudly reverberated. You take a step back. Pain shoots up Damian’s spine. No. He panics internally. He feels you slip away. He watches you slip away.
You shake your head. “I am sorry.”
“No. Do not apologize.”
“I have to!”
“You do not have to!”
And then you run.
It has been four days since you agreed to marry the man you spent time with at the Wayne gala. Your parents were shocked. After all, you had only been on one date with him. You barely knew him.
But you said yes, and he also agreed to the alliance. It would be beneficial. Two families, one from the East Coast and one from the West Coast, are now one family thanks to this marriage. It is huge news for the country's elite.
Your parents are delighted. Your future in-laws expect an heir within the first two years of marriage. Your soon-to-be fiancé expects you to be a proper conduit in making useful Gothamite connections that would propel his influence on the East Coast, too.
Everything is perfect.
Except for the way you carry yourself.
You are sullen, uninterested, and resigned to a fate you prepared for since your childhood.
You stare at Damian’s blazer, which you had dry-cleaned and folded. It is on your bed. Every day, you wear it for a few minutes. Every night, you get it washed, dry cleaned, and folded again.
It has been four days since you talked to him—since that gala evening. You wonder how he is, never having spent that many days apart from him, not even during your college years.
You shouldn’t have crossed the line like that. You glare at the ceiling after tilting your head back. How could you do this? How could you—
But you wanted to. That is the truth that resides low in your belly. You wanted to kiss Damian that night. You wanted to sink into his embrace and never let go. You wanted to be held by him for as long as you lived.
But then your parents’ voices rang in your ears, on a loop, in a mashup overlapping both. It was hideous. It was scary. It frightened you, because you imagined Damian standing beside you, as not just your best friend but something more.
You would be a burden. Your parents would eat him alive with their expectations. Your family name will be another weight he will carry. Your everything will be an ankle weight that plunges him to oceanic depths that are unbearable.
Damian does not deserve that. He deserves someone who can make choices without their parents’ voices ringing in their ears. He deserves in-laws who support him, not pressure him. He deserves kids—a family—born of choice and love, not pressure and expectation.
“Are you marrying him?” You jolt out of your thoughts at the sound of Damian’s voice.
Your head snaps in the direction of your bedroom door. Your mother appears behind Damian. “Damian is here, sweetheart.”
You try to smile. “I see that.”
“I was just telling our dearest son-in-law that he has to impress Damian now since you have complied,” She says and laughs.
You flinch, and Damian stays silent, standing sturdy like a wall.
Your mother, who does not notice the tension, says, “I will send refreshments.”
Her idea of a refreshment now is a weight loss snack and drink until you have the fairytale wedding, in a gown that fits you like a glove—utterly unbreathable.
“You are marrying him.” This time, the words do not end in a question mark. They are a statement.
You nod. “Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“It is my duty.”
“You do not love him.”
“No, I do not.”
“You love someone else.”
You flinch. You shake your head.
“Are you lying?” He asks
Damian’s question makes you teary-eyed.
Yes. “No.”
Damian flinches, but that does not stop him from approaching you. You grab the blazer from your bed and shove it into Damian’s hands. You regret the action immediately because the garment has become a source of comfort for you over the past few days. Now, you are losing it.
If Damian notices that his blazer smells like you do today or how it looks slightly wrinkled, he does not mention it. Instead, he reaches out to tangle his fingers in your hair. “Do you desire this?”
No. “Yes.”
His fingers descend to curl around your nape, making you look at him properly. You gasp as you see his eyes filled with tears. You loathe yourself. You are hurting the one person who truly matters.
I am so sorry, Dami.
Damian kisses your forehead. “Be happy, Rooh Qalbi.”
You close your eyes, and your hands curl in his shirt.
He kisses your forehead again.
Then, he is gone.
Every decision has to be yours.
These words play in your mind as you sit at the long dining table. Your fiancé sits beside you. His parents are seated opposite you, and they look pleased. They are in deep conversation with your parents, who are just as pleased.
Your entire home is filled with congratulatory bouquets, gifts, and cards. Gotham’s high society is aware of this partnership. What is left is a front-page announcement in the newspaper, which will run next week. That will make things official. And that will commence a powerhouse of a familial alliance.
You stare at the ring that is in the jewelry box, placed between you and your fiancé. It is a pink diamond. Totally swoonworthy and beautiful. Your mother gushed over it, while your to-be mother-in-law said you are lucky that you have a partner who is not stingy. Your father and to-be father-in-law discussed how large yet classy-looking rings heighten a man's status in society.
It is a beautiful ring. You agree.
It is just not a ring you envision for yourself.
The man sitting beside you is not even the man you envision for yourself.
You are in a yellow sundress. Your hair is tied up in a soft white bow, and your fiancé laughed, saying how your hair needs Keratin treatment to look presentable in magazine photos whenever the wedding happens. It was a misguided attempt at humour.
You close your eyes for a brief second. What you envision is clear. A diamond ring. It is large, of course, but the design is classy and a bit more sleek in appearance. You imagine your best friend beside you, murmuring Rooh Qalbi in your ear. That wry smile that makes him even more handsome graces his face. You imagine the Waynes surrounding you. Their vigilante charm peeks through the classic Wayne charm, making the dinner even more enjoyable.
You open your eyes.
Every decision has to be yours.
This is your decision. But you are unhappy. You look at your parents, who do not even realize you are unhappy. You look at your fiancé, who will make you wear that pink diamond ring soon. You see the same life that played out with your parents and with you in this man.
You both will get married. You both will have a child. That child will be just like you. Unable to say no. Unable to make a decision that does not hurt. Unable to look at their parents and not wonder why they don’t give a damn.
You flinch. You do not even dare to be improper in your thoughts, and here you are, berating your parents like this…
But it feels refreshing. It feels honest. It feels good.
You lick your lips, an iota of freedom touching your soul and making you feel unbelievably delighted.
Every decision has to be yours.
Damian Wayne.
You are her decision. You are her choice.
You will explain to him. If he still wants you, you will sink into his embrace and never let him go. The simplicity of this want takes you aback.
Damian is your choice. Not just because he is the boy you met years ago, not just because he is your best friend, but because you love him.
You stand up, hands and arms shaking.
Every decision has to be yours.
You are making your decision now.
“Sweetheart,” Your mother frowns. Her eyes show disapproval in the way you abruptly stood up. It is improper. She wants to say that, but you cannot care right now. “Do you need something?”
“I cannot proceed with this engagement,” You say.
You look at the man who was minutes away from becoming a fiancé. “I apologize.”
And you bolt.
You run in your painful sandals, a yellow sundress that flails around when you move fast, and your diamond earrings that juggle around, bright and shiny. You are drenched from the rain that ensues the moment you exit your large residence. You are exhausted. Your parents are screaming.
Everything is a mess, but you are, for once, just happy.
When you reach Wayne Manor, you expect to be shunned. You expect Alfred to berate you from the entrance for breaking Damian’s heart. You expect his brothers to loathe you. You expect Bruce to be disgusted by the sight of you.
But you forget they are your family, too. You forget they consider you their family.
Alfred smiles at you warmly. “Miss, can I offer you a towel?”
“Yes, but not now.” You say. “I need to see Damian.”
Alfred looks like he wants to argue, but Jason and Tim stop him.
Bruce nods, staring at you. “He is on the balcony of one of the guest rooms.”
Again balconies? You shake your head fondly and run. When you find the room he is inside, you heave a sigh of relief.
For a second, you dread talking to him. How could you possibly fix this? But you have to do this, because you love him. So you move forward as stealthily as possible.
Damian is, as Bruce said, on the balcony, looking out at the view the manor offers. He holds an umbrella over his head, and he looks like he is seeking serenity from Gotham, which is a peculiar choice but one you understand perfectly.
You take a deep breath. “Dami.”
Damian turns around. He looks shocked. Then, his eyes roam all over you. He glares at you, and you take a small step back, wondering if he hates you. He would not be in the wrong if he did.
But then you realize that he is glaring at you for the way you are drenched. He stalks forward, covering you with the umbrella. He takes off the blazer that he definitely wore to Wayne Enterprises and puts it around your shoulders.
You want to cry from happiness. You missed being drowned in the fabric of his blazers.
“What are you doing?” Damian questions harshly. “How dare you put yourself in harm’s way like this? You will catch a cold!”
“How—“
“I defied my parents today.” You share, and Damian instantly quiets.
He processes your words and opens his mouth, but you interrupt him. “But I still don’t know how to say no. Not to them, not to many others. I just know how to say yes. Except with you, of course, but that is different.”
Damian frowns. “Diffe—“
“I was always trained that I have to study, get married to a man, and have kids,” You explain. “Study what upholds the family name. Get married to a man who furthers the family name's legacy. Have children like a proper woman would. You know all this, but I have to tell you, so you understand.”
Damian nods. “Rooh Qalbi, of course, I do under—“
“I don’t want you to be engulfed by my parents’ wants.”
“I assure you, I am not engulfed by anything other than the desire to see you happy.”
Your face scrunches in equal parts, in pain and happiness.
“I am happy with you, Dami. So happy.” You explain. “I just got scared, and I apologize for that.”
Damian shakes his head, but you continue, grabbing his hands. “I don’t know if chocolate is actually my favourite ice cream flavour. Mother always got that one for me.”
“I will bring you every ice cream flavour that exists. You will learn what you prefer, Noor Eini,” Damian promises.
You laugh softly. “I also do not know if I actually hate movies, or if it is because Father never let me watch any. He was always more keen on documentaries.”
“We will have a movie marathon, Beloved.”
Beloved. That is new, but you loved hearing it. You want more of it.
“I do not really like pink diamonds,” You blurt, and Damian smiles at you in the soft way he only reserves for you.
“Then, I shall only buy jewellery with diamonds.”
You laugh softly again, downcasting your eyes and tilting your head downwards.
Damian boldly tips your chin upwards as his fingers go under it. “Every demand you have will be fulfilled. Every desire you hold is of utmost importance. Everything you regard as a priority is a promise that I will satisfy.”
“Damian, I don’t know myself properly.” Your chin wobbles as you share. “All I know right now is that I am yours.”
Damian’s breath hitches, and you find it easier to speak. “I have to—I want to rewrite—everything I know about myself. Well, mostly, everything. I want to disregard that checklist I have known since I was a child. And I know all of this is tiresome. I know it sounds like you are holding a fraud, and that is tedious and loathso—“
Damian kisses you, effectively shutting you up.
Your hands curl into the fabric of his button-down, as his hands slot against your hips. The kiss is magnificent. It is everything, and everything you were unable to say pours into the kiss. You realize belatedly that Damian is also doing the same. The man who uses language with softness instead of a weapon for you decides to forego language for touch, and it is the single most divine action you have been at the receiving end of.
Damian moves back a little. You smile against his lips, letting out a sigh. Damian smiles back. His hand comes up to tuck a hair strand behind your ear. He whispers, “You are mine. I am yours. That is of paramount consideration.”
“You’re mine?” You question, a little dazed.
“Yes, Hayati.” He nods. “I will humble myself before you, as I am yours. If you must, you can break me if that is what you desire. Although I must admit, your engagement did almost threaten my composure. It called my sensibilities and sanity into question.”
“I want you to be happy. I want you with me,” You say. “I am sorry, Dami.”
Damian shakes his head. “I will humble myself before you. Not you. Never offer contrition to me or anyone, Hayati.”
You smile, kissing him again.
“Whatever choice you make, I shall remain by your side. Perpetually,” Damian murmurs.
“I love you. You have my heart, Dami.”
“I love you, too, Rooh Qalbi. You have everything that makes me.”
And those words hold a promise within them that Damian will forever honour.
btw i want to say that the entire tumblr community banding together is what got these changes reversed so i hope u all realise the power of a reblog and start reblogging posts instead of just liking them this is the reblog website so hit that button right now
I BETTER SEE ALL THE FANART ALL THE FICS ALL THE HYPE ALL THE COMMENTARY ALL THE BRAINROT ALL THE OCS ALL THE SELF INSERTS ALL THE EVERYTHING I NEED IT ALLLL
COMPLICATED ── .✦ texts with mark grayson. | previous parts here.
includes:: smau, fem!reader, fwb!mark grayson, bestfriend!mark grayson, tw situationship!! /hj, allusions to ptsd / being assaulted, mentions of difficulty eating, mentions of debbie, mentions of anissa; MUST READ PREVIOUS PARTS FOR THIS SMAU TO MAKE SENSE.
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extras:: if it wasn't clear, we switch to mark's pov near the end; his contact for reader is 'my goat.' the pfp is random, sorry lol i had a hard time choosing one that could remain ambiguous for all types of readers >.< also to clarify if anyone's confused, reader is a civillian and, besides being friends with eve and rex (well.... maybe not anymore) and KNOWING of that world-- she has no real connection or understanding of it; hence her reaction to the attack.
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loren's thots:: i reached flow state writing this and it made me realize how long ive been away sooo i (once again) apologize for my absence. i have HELLA lore tho,,, if anyone's interested........... let me know the direction you want to see the rest of this series go in!! should dear reader forgive mark in the next part? should he grovel some more? should something entirely different happen???? you let me know!!!!! xx
--♱ main m.list. | tag list.
People who think Tim would do drugs when he was the PSA Robin like ???
This boy thought everything was laced with fentanyl. The first time he saw Dick high, he cried and ruined said high. At the rip age of 23 he’s had one gummy, freaked out, and sworn off it.
Bernard, a chef, mocks his boyfriend about being “the most sober man alive.”
Bruce, who did all of that, is fascinated by the fact that Tim is that much of a freak while sober. At least Bruce had the excuse of drugs when he was a young man jet setting around the globe with his situationship.
Hell, considering Damian is the Millennial/Gen Z Robin, I’m sure Damian has done more drugs than Tim
Unfortunately, my sister will die today if I don't get her the right medication. Her anemia has reached a critical stage, her body is gradually deteriorating, and she can no longer bear the pain.
