Tim prided himself on being calm under pressure. Interrogations? Easy. Hacking into an encrypted meta-human database? Child’s play. Outrunning armed mercenaries through Gotham’s rooftops at three in the morning? Routine.

But walking into Leslie’ clinic with you—his very pregnant partner—turned him into a complete disaster. Specially because the woman was busy, so you needed to wait.

The moment you stepped through the door, Tim was already spiraling. He carried three different bags: one with snacks you didn’t ask for, one with every medical document he could find, and one he didn’t even remember packing. His jacket was half-zipped, one shoelace untied, hair a mess from running his hands through it a hundred times.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath as he guided you to the waiting room, one hand hovering behind your back like he was escorting royalty. “Okay. We’re here. You didn’t trip. I didn’t faint. This is good. This is progress.”

Leslie walked by the reception window and gave him a look—a warm, amused look that said she’d seen him at every age and knew exactly when he was losing it.

“Timothy,” she called, “you can breathe, you know. The check-up hasn’t even started.”

Tim jumped like he’d been caught committing a crime. “Breathe. Right. Yes. I breathe. I do that. Regularly.”

You covered your mouth to hide your smile, which he noticed, and then he flushed.

“It’s not funny,” he whispered, crouching beside you with wide, earnest eyes. “This is important. You’re important. Our baby is—like—baby-shaped by now! With… limbs! And a spine!”

He blinked. Yes, right. That’s how babies work.

“I just— I want everything to be perfect,” he said, voice dropping into something soft, vulnerable. “I want you both to be okay.”

Before you could reassure him, Leslie opened the door. “Alright, you two. Come in.”

Tim immediately tripped over his own foot. Damn bags and heavy weight.

Because he was trying to grab all three of them at the same time plus your water bottle.

“Tim,” Leslie sighed, fighting a smile, “you can leave the bags outside.”

“But what if we need—”

“You won’t.”

“What if you need—”

“I won’t.”

“What if—”

“Timothy.”

He froze. Then slowly set the bags down like they were live explosives.

Inside the exam room, he stood dead still beside the table as Leslie prepared her equipment. He was trying so hard to look calm, but his fingers tapped rapidly against his thigh, eyes glued to every movement Leslie made.

When the gel touched your stomach, Tim squeaked. Actually squeaked.

“That looks cold,” he said, voice cracking.

You reached for his hand. He shut up instantly.

His eyes softened, breath steadying as he intertwined his fingers with yours, squeezing gently. His shoulders finally dropped—not completely, but enough for Leslie to smile knowingly.

When the heartbeat filled the room—soft, quick, real—Tim’s face crumbled.

His eyes glistened. His breath hitched. He looked at the monitor like he was seeing the universe for the first time.

“That’s… our baby,” he whispered, voice breaking in the most beautiful way. “That’s… them.”

For a moment, he simply stood there—young, messy, terrified, in love—and watched the tiny heartbeat that had already changed him forever. His child, your child.