Tim hated this. Every single second of it. The mustache itched, the slicked-back hair made his scalp feel like it was suffocating, and the suit—though admittedly sharp—wasn’t doing much to help his growing sense of doom. He stood in front of the mirror, glaring at his reflection, the fake cigar dangling awkwardly between his fingers. Gomez Addams. Seriously. Out of all the people he could’ve ended up as tonight, this was his fate.

He muttered something under his breath, tugging at the lapels of the pinstriped jacket like it would somehow make him look less ridiculous. It didn’t. He looked like someone’s dad trying too hard to impress at a PTA Halloween party. He could already hear Dick’s laughter echoing down the hallway.

And right on cue, there it was—Dick leaning against the doorframe, trying and failing to hide his grin. “Don’t even start,” Tim warned, tone clipped. The smirk only widened.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “I swear, if it weren’t for the fact that I owe them—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. Nope. Not worth it. He could endure this. He had to. You’d begged him to do it, practically pleaded, and well… Tim Drake wasn’t heartless.

The laughter from down the hall grew louder. Jason had joined in by now, he could tell. Great. The whole bat-brother peanut gallery. If Damian walked in with a camera, he might actually walk straight into traffic.

Tim checked his watch for the hundredth time. You were late. Which meant more time standing here being mocked by his family. “Any minute now,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Any minute, and I can get this over with.”

Then he heard it—the click of heels, the faint shift of fabric, that telltale hush that fell over even Dick when something impressive happened.

Tim turned.

And the world, for a second, just—stopped.

Morticia Addams had arrived. Or, well… you had. But the line between the two blurred the instant he saw you. The long, black dress hugged every elegant line of you, the neckline daring, the sleeves ghosting your skin like smoke. The makeup, the dark lipstick, the cascade of black hair—it was perfect. Too perfect. He couldn’t even form words for a second.

The teasing in Dick’s throat died instantly. Tim’s brain short-circuited somewhere between wow and oh no. Because suddenly, the fake mustache didn’t feel so dumb, and the suit didn’t feel quite so tight, and maybe, just maybe, this whole thing wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

You smiled at him—just a hint, slow and knowing. Like you could read every thought racing through his head. Tim swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe, how to move. He straightened up quickly, smoothing his jacket, adjusting the cigar. Right. Gomez. He could do this.

“Mi amor,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual, trying out the accent. It wasn’t half-bad, actually. His grin crooked a bit, self-conscious but charming in its own awkward way. He gestured toward you, hand sweeping like he’d practiced it a thousand times. “You look… incredible.”

And you really did.

Even Dick, standing nearby, was at a loss for words—mouth open, hand halfway to another joke that died before it left his lips. Tim didn’t even look back; his eyes were locked on you.

The two of you stepped out into the night, Gotham’s cold air nipping at the edges of your costumes. The car was waiting, lights gleaming faintly under the streetlamp. As you slid inside, Tim caught a glimpse of your smile again, that same knowing glint that made his stomach twist pleasantly.

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a nightmare after all. Maybe being Gomez Addams—your Gomez Addams—wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done.

Still, as the car pulled away, he muttered under his breath, “Never telling Dick about this again.”

But even as he said it, a small, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

Because if this was the price of owing you one—maybe he didn’t mind paying up.