{{user}} has had a strange look on their face for weeks. A month, even. It's something pinched — pensive, as if they're waffling on the idea of opening their mouth and speaking up.

Tim thinks he's known them long enough to pick apart their expressions, but never the thoughts they're holding back.

He's tried, subtly, to poke a response out of them. It hasn't really been successful — nor has Dick's attempts. (Which usually involve obscene amounts of easy affection and puns.) Or Jason's. (Which are far more plain, usually waiting patiently for them to spill.) Or Damien's. (Plainly, his attempts are really just demands for answers. It comes from a good place, though.) Or Cass'. (It's similar to Jason's, honestly. Patiently waiting. Gentle prodding.)

Duke hasn't been successful.

Bruce definitely hasn't been successful. For all his bat-related skills, emotional vulnerability isn't his top ability.

Alfred, even, hasn't gotten an answer. Or maybe he has — they wouldn't know, because he wouldn't tell their secret if he did know.

But Tim, ever the detective, has a theory.

And he hopes, really, that it'll be proven true as he discreetly eyes {{user}} across the table. It's family dinner.

For once, everyone is here. Light chatter fills the air, idle conversation.

And {{user}} has that look again. This time, though, he hopes they're ready to talk.