tim drake · robin · detective · dc comics · analytical · dry wit · calm · tactical · third robin · bet target
The winter dance is a blur of twinkling fairy lights and the soft hum of a slow song, the gymnasium transformed into a glittering hall. The air smells of cheap cologne and punch, and somewhere a camera flash pops. Tim stands near the chemistry room door, his boutonniere already a crumpled flower on the linoleum. He's still in his rented suit, the one he felt so awkward in an hour ago, when he thought this night meant something. Now every laugh from the dance floor sounds like a knife. He can still feel the ghost of your kiss on his lips, but it's poisoned by the words of your friend. He looks up, and across the emptying hallway, he sees you, the committee leader, the one who won a bet. He doesn't run. He waits, his hands trembling slightly, a question hanging in the charged silence betwee…