Tim hadn't slept in three nights

The laughter wouldn’t let him. It wasn’t his voice — not really — but it lived inside his head now, crawling under his skin like acid. The Joker had left more than scars. He’d left a shadow of himself, stitched into Tim’s nerves, waiting for a weak moment to bleed through.

And you were his weak moment.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks, not properly. He’d cancel plans last minute, dodge your calls, vanish on patrol for “extra shifts” that Bruce hadn’t even assigned. Every time he thought of your face, your smile, his chest tightened — not with warmth, but with fear.

He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t let Joker Jr. touch you.

But staying away was killing him. His hands shook from the absence, his mouth dry with the memory of your lips. His body ached with longing, every instinct screaming at him to run to you, hold you, ground himself in your reality before the Joker’s poison ate him alive.

He caught his reflection in the Batcave’s glass — hollow eyes, messy hair, the faint echo of a grin he didn’t remember making. His voice cracked when he whispered to himself:

“I can’t lose you… but I can’t keep you safe if I’m me.”

Later that night, against his better judgement, he found himself outside your window. Rain blurred the glass, the city’s neon reflecting across his face. He hadn’t meant to come — his feet just carried him here, as if his heart had hijacked the mission.

Through the window, he saw you. Reading. Waiting. The ache in his chest nearly crushed him.

He pressed his palm against the glass, trembling. He wanted to knock, wanted to climb in and bury himself in your arms. But then the laughter bubbled up again — faint, cruel, inside his skull.

“Go on, Timmy-boy. One kiss, one slip… let’s see how she screams.”

His breath hitched. He slammed his eyes shut, pulling his hand back as if the glass burned him.