You get a reminder email about your pottery class midway through the next week.
You had forgotten about it entirely, to be honest.
But the reminder brings your previous thought about inviting Tim to the forefront of your mind.
You still hesitate, though you do not know why. He tends to take the initiative on activities you two do, like the baseball game next week, the thought of which still makes your chest fill with warm fuzzies.
Maybe it's because it's... your thing. He's seen the stuff you've made, sure, but... no one has ever actually gone with you to a class.
(Or maybe, a voice like your brother's says matter-of-factly in your head, it's because you think asking him will be too similar to asking him out on a date.)
Maybe. Probably. Most likely.
But that's silly. You know that. You're friends.
Nothing more.
(And the thought aches like it usually does, but it assuages some of your nerves, too, at the thought of asking. Because it wouldn't be misinterpreted. No, not at all.)
You still deliberate, though, probably for too long, but it's fine because Tim seems distracted, too. News breaks of him stepping away from WE and people have all sorts of thoughts and feelings about it, of course.
You think they should focus on the new level of craziness unfolding in the city since Red Robin was announced to be stepping down, but whatever. He says he doesn't care what they think, that he isn't paying attention, but you think he must be, with how tired he seems sometimes.
(This is accompanied with some fresh bruises, some new aches and pains, a renewed exhaustion, of course, but bone-deep, like the kind of exhaustion after a long time. But like always, he says he is okay.
When you ask, he says he's taking some self-defense classes. More attention from the news surrounding him equals more potential danger. It... makes sense but something about it still doesn't sit right with you.)
Either way, your flip-flopping ultimately comes to a head on Friday, the day of the class.
Tim drops you off, since heavy rain is forecasted for the day and while you did in fact manage to survive biking to school when it was raining prior to your friendship with him, it doesn't mean it was, in any way, fun or pleasant. So, you don't say no.
It's easier, you find, to accept his kindness, to accept his offers for help. Easier with each day that passes to realize he is simply trying to make your life easier and that it's not some kind of commentary on your ability to take care of yourself.
He does worry, sometimes, but you think that is inevitable. God knows you worry about him, too. Turnabout is fair play and all that.
So, this is fine.
What happens later is not.
The Joker, who had previously broken out of Arkham Asylum and was unaccounted for by the GCPD and the Bats, finally made his appearance at a bank a mere five blocks away from Gotham Pointe. He promptly held everyone hostage for several hours.
You would later learn it was not for money, but simply because he 'hadn't seen Batman around lately.'
Whatever. You don't pretend to understand why people like him do what they do and you don't want to. The Joker's been terrorizing this city for nearly as long as Batman's been working here. Trying to understand why he does what he does is a useless cause. And as far as you're concerned, there is nothing, nothing, in the world that could justify the things that he has done, the blood that he has spilled. You've heard rumblings about his whole 'one bad day' thing and you think it's a load of shit.
One bad day and you lose it like the Joker? Well, all that means is you have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair. So, you know. Whatever.
Either way, it was a tense situation, one that landed the school in lockdown for the remainder of the school day.
It is... standard procedure to lock down the school if anything usual is going on near it. But of course, this is Gotham, and something unusual is usually always happening somewhere. So, there are limits, limits as to when, who, what, and why would cause the school to shut down.
If it's the Condiment King, nothing will happen. What's the worst he can do? Stain a couple uniforms?
Of course, this is not to say anyone is eager to let someone like him in close proximity with the kids at all. But if he's causing trouble at, say, the 7-Eleven a few blocks from here, they aren't going to lockdown the school.
The school is already thoroughly well-protected with its plexiglass windows that are, in fact, bulletproof and have metal sliding that come down during lockdowns, hidden metal detectors at each entrance that scan those that come in, along with regularly-patrolling security guards, generously paid by WE.
Sounds like a prison, right? Well. They did their best, when building the school, to hide all those things. The public knows but you don't imagine they know the full extent like you and the staff do. Like that the metal slidings could withstand a bomb, if needed.
No, that's not something you broadcast.
This is all to say that, even with that, you can't be too careful with certain individuals.
And if it's the Joker, who, when he is out of Arkham long enough, regularly threatens to blow up the schools in the city... well. That's all that needs to be said, right?
Five blocks. That's it.
It's tense because not only is he holding so many people hostage, but because the school is only five blocks away. No one wants to give him any ideas. No one wants to risk anything.
So, you, Ms. C, and fourth period end up sitting in the classroom, lights off, doors locked, backs pressed against the walls, for several hours.
The metal slidings on the windows effectively cut out the light. Not that there was much today, the sky overcast with dark clouds just waiting to pour at the right minute.
You are a little bit worried, by nature, but Ms. C is cool as a cucumber. And the kids are fine, too. Gotham natives, they are not phased by much, which is... sad, in a way, but helpful, you suppose, in times like these.
Standard procedure demands that you do not talk at all but it's, like, three hours of this, so that doesn't last very long. They do keep their voices down to whispers, though, giggling softly among each other.
You don't do much other than shush a few who get too loud and count the minutes as they pass. Halfway through, some of the kids start to doze off. You don't blame them. Sitting still and not doing anything at all makes you sleepy, too.
But ultimately, all of you are fine. The school is untouched by the time the police apprehend the Joker and free the hostages. But you later learn that multiple people had died — shot, by him, of course, in his final moments of freedom before he was taken down.
It's a harrowing kind of loss of life that is, unfortunately, common here. Names are memorialized, bodies are buried, a rogue goes to prison, then they break out, and it happens all over again.
Still, you feel vaguely off-kilter as you and Ms. C send off the kids to their parents, who hold them tight despite their whines about the affection.
Some kind of emotion rises up in you and you cross your arms, looking away.
"You should go," Ms. C says, sounding, for once, present in the moment.
"Sorry?"
She nods towards the doors. "Get back to class and turn on your phone. I'm sure some people are worried for you."
"Right," you say, hesitating, then nodding. "Thanks. I'll see you on Monday."
A dip of her head, then her hazel eyes are back on the kids. Police officers stand nearby. Lazing, more like, leaned against patrol cars, smoking cigarettes and exchanging jokes with each other. You roll your eyes when you turn away. They should be more vigilant, but as a general rule, the police are not reliable. And here in Gotham? Simple wastes of space and taxpayer money, you think.
You get back to the class, grabbing your things from your desk that sits opposite of hers. Another part of the procedure for lockdowns is that phones remain off. There are, of course, exceptions and those are likely self-explanatory, but in most cases, if not in immediate danger, then they need to be off. No need to cause panic and all that.
Turning on your phone reveals several missed calls from your parents and brother. Some from a few hours ago when lockdown started, then from a couple minutes ago. You are... admittedly disappointed to see only a single missed call from Tim, from a few hours ago.
But at the same time, he is a logical sort of guy. If he called you when the lockdown started and you didn't pick up, you imagine he must've concluded your phone was off and saw no use in calling you again. He was sharp like that.
Though, now that the Joker was arrested and the hostages were free and it no doubt made the news...
You shake your head. It's silly to worry over something like that. Especially with what happened today.
You pack your stuff and give your parents a call, soothing their fears. Your brother is with them, too, all of them worried out of their minds. They figured out quickly that Gotham Pointe is only a couple blocks away from the bank.
"— just scary. I mean, don't you..." your dad trails off and you understand what he didn't say. Don't you want to come back already?
"Working in a school in this country is dangerous as a general rule," you say gently. "So, it wouldn't change much, would it?"
"Wouldn't change much? At least — at least we don't have the Joker! Or Scarecrow! Or Two-Face or Black Mask or —"
You cut off your dad. "I get it. But... I just... I don't know."
"You could get hurt," your mom says, disapproval clear in her voice.
"I can take care of myself, Mom."
"Not against people like the Joker," she responds tightly.
You sigh heavily, pushing open the doors that lead out to the employee parking lot. Overhead, dark, angry grey clouds hide away the sun. Sharp winds tug at you, warning of the oncoming storm. Already, a few droplets of rain land on your face. Gotham, upset at the loss of life. Or maybe knowing it would happen, with how the sky has been like this since you woke up. And now that it's happened, she's ready to let it go.
"I don't want to argue about this today, guys. People died. I know. But I'm fine, okay? Let's just focus on that..." You trail off a little abruptly, your eyes doing a preliminary scan of the parking lot — a habit you've picked up since living here — and you jolt to a stop as you spot Tim and his car, with him leaned on the hood, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
"How are you getting home?" your brother asks, changing the subject.
"Tim," you say distractedly — both an answer and an involuntary call to the person in question; his head lifts and even if there is quite some distance between you, your heart clenches at the look on his face. "And he's here right now. I need to go."
They sense the urgency in your voice and let you go with warnings to be careful and to tell them when you get back. You agree distractedly, starting for him. He does the same.
Tim looks... Well, he looks exhausted. The wrinkle between his brows is present as ever but deeper today, accompanied with this... harrowing look in his eyes that makes your heart ache.
He says your name as he nears you, relief dripping from the vowels, along with something else that makes your throat tighten. You shoulder off your bag, dropping it to the ground just as he tugs you into his arms, holding you so tightly it edges on painful.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out why.
So, you wrap your arms around him, too, hugging him back as tightly as you can, burying your face in his shoulder.
"Are you okay?" you whisper.
He doesn't say anything, just presses his face to your hair and takes a deep breath.
You two stay like that for a while. Long enough for you to think something else must be bothering him. Or maybe not. You don't know, don't know how to contextualize what happened today. The school was fine. It was just a precaution. There was a chance the Joker could've set his sights on you but the same could be said for any of the other places in the area.
You can't help but think of Ms. C, too, a Gotham native, someone who's lived here her whole life; how she was... mostly unbothered throughout everything. Even when the call came from the office, letting her — and you — what was going on. That the danger wasn't imminent, exactly, but the threat of it was real enough to keep the school in lockdown for the second part of the school day.
Tim is a Gotham native, too. Born and raised.
But you suppose that doesn't have to mean anything. That people have different ways of handling different things.
You don't have an issue with it. You don't. You're just... worried. About him.
You constantly worry about him. About how tired he gets sometimes, about the mysterious bruises he sports, about the days where he is subdued and quiet, carrying the burden of something you cannot see or understand. It's not work, it's not his family, it's not his friends, it's something else. You aren't stupid. You notice it, you notice every little thing because he is someone you pay attention to, because he means too much to you for you to dismiss the little stuff that picks at you.
Even if he says it's nothing.
Especially because he says it's nothing.
(Because you know it is a lie.)
"Tim," you whisper, voice muffed by his shirt.
He bends further, seeming to curl himself around you, his face dropping to your neck. You hold onto him, shivers racing down your spine at the warm exhale of air against the sensitive skin of your neck, at the faintest brush of warm lips.
Something occurs to you and you stiffen up in his arms. He loosens his grip abruptly, but you hold onto him, pressing closer, the thought, the realization choking you.
"Tim, you weren't there, right? You weren't — the bank — Joker —"
He tightens his hold again, in an instant. But it takes him a second to answer. A horrible, horrible second, full of anticipation.
"No," he finally mumbles, practically shaping the words into your skin with how close he is, how his face is tucked into your neck; heat swallows you whole, the touch of him overwhelming, distracting, with the fragrant scent of eucalyptus. It takes concerted effort to focus on his words and if he notices how you lean more of your weight onto him, your knees a little weak, he doesn't say anything.
Not about that, anyhow, not as he continues speaking in the next second.
"No, I wasn't. I was at home. I was... You didn't answer your phone."
"I'm sorry," you murmur, reaching up to slide your fingers into his hair, giving into an impulse, a want, a desire, that has plagued you so frequently; the wish to sink your fingers into the soft strands of hair. To see if they are as soft as they look.
Now, your fingers gliding along silky-soft strands of dark hair, you find they are.
He shivers. He must be cold. With the storm on the horizon, temperatures are lower than usual and the increasingly sharp winds don't help.
You ignore your own shiver that wants to break out at the feel of a sharp exhale of breath on your neck.
"Come on," you murmur, fingers reluctantly sliding away from his hair and to his shoulder, rubbing small circles there. "Let's get to the car, okay?"
Tim moves back slowly, almost reluctantly, but he doesn't unwind his arms from your waist, keeping your bodies close as he looks down at you. The blue in his eyes is more stormy than calm, turmoil obvious. Over what, you aren't certain.
His brows furrow sharply again. You can't help yourself.
Strands of hair brush the backs of your fingers, fingertips lightly skimming his forehead as your thumb finds the wrinkle between his brows. It smooths out instantly under your touch. The look in his eyes makes your stomach swoop like you missed a step.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reaching up to take your hand in his. Then he's — leaning —
It takes considerable effort to keep your breathing measured as he leans his forehead against yours.
More than anything else, though, it feels... terribly vulnerable. Mostly for him.
Nothing more is said.
Not when he finally pulls back and leans down to pick up your bag, not when the two of you slide into the car, just as the skies open up and the rain pours, lightning arcing through the sky, earth-shaking rumbles of thunder following after.
Traffic is congested around the bank, leaving you to take the long way round, though that still takes a while, with all the traffic of those leaving work and the general chaos of the area.
Tim is quiet throughout most of it.
He has the local radio on, though a few taps of his finger to the expensive touchscreen display switches it to satellite, to GNN.
"— confirmation that six people died at the bank, shot and killed by the Joker right before Red Robin was able to apprehend him. Two of those who died were, sadly, children. Police believe there were no connections between the victims and the Joker."
You swallow. You hadn't heard anything about two of the victims being kids...
Rain drums on the windshield. Tim white-knuckles the steering wheel, jaw set, staring ahead, his gaze darker than before.
You switch it back to the local station. He doesn't stop you.
And after another moment of hesitation, you reach for him, brushing your fingers over his right hand clenched around the wheel. His knuckles sport a few scars, which you can feel, raised, bumpy skin, scars silvery compared to the pale of his skin.
After a second, his fingers unclench from the steering wheel and you loop yours through his, pulling it into your lap. Your other hand covers his, thumb stroking back and forth.
The car rolls to a stop at a red light. He takes a deep breath. He still doesn't look at you, but you catch the deepening of the furrow between his brows, the twitch of the muscles around his mouth until his lips part, like he is about to speak. But in the next moment, he thinks better of it.
You can't deny your curiosity but you know better than to pry.
Neither of you speak, or move, until you arrive at Rose Oaks.
Protected from the pouring rain and sharp winds in the parking garage, it is quiet after he shuts off the car.
You hold onto his hand, squeezing it, your other hand pausing in the ministrations of stroking the back of his hand.
"So," you start. "It's... maybe a little in bad taste but I have a class tonight..."
He shakes his head minutely. "You should go. The Joker's off the streets. Not that all the danger is gone but..." he lets out a sharp exhale, glaring out the windshield, a sullen look on his face. "At least he is out of the picture."
You nod. "Yeah. It's just that..."
He finally looks at you, gaze softening. "I can drive you there, if you want."
You smile faintly at where his head went at your hesitation. "It's not that. It's just, for this class, they said we could bring someone with us. I can't say it's... totally selfless, mostly because if we take someone, we get an extra slot for the kiln for today's class and they also get one. But... I think you should come. It's — it can be therapeutic. And after everything today..."
His eyes lower to your clasped hands, thumb sliding over the back of yours. "I'm not very artistic."
"Don't have to be. You don't have to create an exact replica of the, I dunno, Millennium Falcon —" he smiles, which is what you wanted "— it can just be anything. I mean, honestly, you don't even have to make anything. They have some pre-made stuff you can paint. Or if you wanna channel your inner six-year-old and mess with the clay, that's cool, too. Literally no one is going to judge. A lot of people go to the classes for a lot of different reasons."
He takes a long moment to think about it.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles.
"Alright," he says. "I'll try it out."
"It'll be fun," you promise.
You'll try your best to make it so.
Or at the very least, to get his mind off everything.
If anything else, you think, no matter about you, you want that.
You always want to ease his burdens if you can. Even if you don't know what they are. But right now, in this moment, as he seems so weighed down, it is the strongest you've ever felt.
Something like protectiveness. A wish to hide him from the bad of the world. To give him a break, a place to relax.
You don't know if it's possible, if it'll even work, but...
You have to try.
━━━━━━ author's note
1. there is always a question i have when writing about how much, exactly, people know in the dc universe. like the joker's 'one bad day' thing. we know about that. but do the people? i went with yes here. of course, there could be an answer for it in the comics that i just. haven't seen. so if thats the case... my bad. but otherwise. yeah.
2. when tim is just about to speak in the car after hearing the news, he was going to ask reader whether she thought red robin still deserved to step down and take a break. but he thought better of it.
(because if he had, reader definitely would've gotten suspicious and it wouldn't be that much of a leap to connect the two, not with her growing awareness of the bruises and the burden on him that comes from something other than WE and his family)
thats it for those notes! so, this chapter is a bit short! at least to my standards LOL sorry about that but keeping this and the next chapter together would make it. Long. so this is what we ended up with! i still think it's satisfying since we had some... nice moments, i would say. next chapter is even more fun. a lot of the upcoming stuff is fun. i can't wait for you guys to read it!