Chapter Text
The Nest is his, now. Or as close to his as anything in Gotham ever will be.
Tim sits hunched in the blue glow of his monitors, every screen alive with code or mapwork, firewalls running in quiet endless loops. It smells like warmed metal and solder in here, faintly chemical under the recycled air. Wires tangle under the desk like roots. He’s rerouted most of the old systems by hand—no back doors, no uplinks to Oracle’s grid, no way for Bruce to peek in. Not anymore. The Nest is closed-circuit. Autonomous. Private.
The pill bottle waits at his elbow. He stares at it for a long time, jaw tight. His fingers drum against the desk, the rhythm betraying him. One-two-three-four. On five, he tips the cap and shakes a pill into his palm.
He swallows it dry.
The backlash is immediate.
Poison. Poison. Weak little bird. You love me better when I’m raw. When I’m loud. You can’t cage me with chalk pills and half-doses. You need me—
The ghost of the pill sits like a coin at the base of his throat, spreading metal through his bloodstream. It tastes sterile, numbing. He hates that part. Hates more the way Flashy fought him when it went down—how the voice clawed and jeered, promising nightmares, promising blood—and then, just like that, nothing.
What’s left isn’t peace. It’s the absence of something he almost knows how to navigate. A blank wall where chaos used to be. Tim flexes his hands. They feel steadier. Too steady. The world sharper at the edges, his pulse a smooth drum. A Talon clarity. He doesn’t know if he likes it.
The knock is three soft raps against reinforced steel. Cass doesn’t wait for the door; she’s already inside by the time he glances at the cameras. Black and simple. Ready. “We go.”
Tim grabs his gear, no wasted words. They fall into the rhythm that belongs to them alone: two shadows cut loose from the rest. Gotham waits, soaked in neon and grime.
The city is restless, neon smearing against low cloud. They move in tandem, rooftop to rooftop, the rhythm of patrol so ingrained it almost feels like muscle memory. Tim takes comfort in the lines of it: calculate, angle, cover. Cass carves through the dark like she was born from it.
It should feel normal. Familiar. But tonight there’s a distance inside him, like glass between skin and bone. Movements too clean. Thoughts too sharp. He feels like he’s tracing the outline of his own life instead of living it.
Cass notices. Of course she does. She always does.
Halfway through the sweep she pauses on a rooftop ledge, watching him land beside her. No words at first, just the tilt of her head, the searching in her eyes.
“You’re off.”
Tim pulls his cowl back just enough to breathe the cool night air. “I’m fine.”
Her silence lingers. Weighted.
“I’m fine,” he repeats, a little too quick.
She doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Cass—she can read you down to the breath in your lungs, but she doesn’t force it. She just files it away, watching.
When they’re done, Tim suggests food. Cass only nods. The diner is a hole in the wall with buzzing lights and grease-stained menus. They order quickly, barely speaking, and leave with two paper bags warm against Tim’s gloves.
Back at the Nest, the smell of salt and fryer oil fills the dim space. Cass drops cross-legged on the couch, carton in hand, already halfway into her burger. Tim sits beside her with his own, fries cooling on the coffee table. They eat in companionable silence, the kind where chewing and the faint crinkle of paper is enough.
When the food’s gone, Tim flicks the TV on. A movie neither of them cares about hums to life. Cass leans back, shoulders loose, eyes flickering with the glow. Tim lets himself sink into the couch cushions, quiet pressing in on every side.
Flashy is gone. The city is quiet. Cass is here.
It should be peaceful.
It almost is.
Tim shifts, restless in his own skin. His bones feel heavy, his head stuffed with cotton. The food sits in his stomach like ballast, the movie flickering forgotten in the background. He pushes up from the couch with a low grunt.
“Shower,” he mutters, more to himself than to Cass.
She glances up at him but doesn’t move, just nods.
The bathroom fills with the sound of running water. Steam clouds the mirror, beads along the edges of the sink. Tim strips slowly, clothes leaving faint indentations on his skin. He steps into the spray and lets the heat wash over him.
At first it feels good—cleansing, grounding. Then it becomes too much. The water is noise, pounding against his shoulders, seeping into his ears. He crouches down, lowers himself to the tile floor. Cool porcelain against his back. Knees pulled up tight.
He closes his eyes.
The minutes pass. He doesn’t count them. He doesn’t move.
The water slips from warm to lukewarm, from lukewarm to cold. Still, he stays. His skin prickles, then numbs.
Who knows when, but the door opens. Soft steps on tile. Silence before the curtain moves.
“Tim.”
Her voice cuts through everything. Steady. Not asking.
He doesn’t answer.
The curtain rustles. Cass crouches, her face haloed with spray, hair darkened to ink. She takes him in, quick assessment from head to toe, and then twists the handle. The water stops midstream. The sudden quiet is louder than the spray ever was.
She reaches for a towel, shakes it out once, and lays it over his shoulders. Her hands are efficient, sure. She pulls him upright, and though his limbs protest, he follows her lead.
Cass dries him carefully, methodical but gentle: rubbing water from his hair, down his arms, over bruised ribs. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t fill the silence with anything unnecessary. Just works until the chill has eased from his skin.
When he sways, she steadies him. Guides him into soft sweats and a t-shirt, pulling fabric into place with small tugs, patient until he’s clothed again.
She leads him from the bathroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Back to the bed. He doesn’t resist. The mattress gives under his weight, the blanket drawn up around him. His muscles loosen all at once, leaving him hollow.
Cass sits on the edge of the bed, watching him with her quiet, unreadable gaze. One hand rests lightly on his shoulder, anchoring him.
“Text me,” she says. “Morning.”
Tim blinks up at her. The words lodge somewhere deep, sharp and soft at once. He nods.
Cass bends, presses a kiss to his cheek. Brief, featherlight, but it leaves a warmth where the cold water hadn’t touched.
Then she straightens. Slips away toward the door, silent as she came.
Tim lies still.
The Nest hums faintly around him, the echo of water still in his ears, but his cheek burns with the memory of her touch.