With Tim’s vigilante schedule, dates had become a rare luxury—stolen moments between rooftop stakeouts or quiet afternoons when Gotham wasn’t on fire. Tim had been promising for weeks that he’d carve out some proper time for just the two of you, and tonight, against the odds, he made good on that promise.

The diner he picked was one of those places that looked like it had been frozen in time since the seventies—checkered floors, red vinyl booths with duct-taped corners, a flickering neon sign outside buzzing faintly against the darkness. The place was half-empty, the air faintly smelling of burnt coffee and fryer oil. Tim glanced around warily as you slid into the booth across from him. His detective’s instincts were practically written on his face.

“Are you sure this place isn’t… sketchy?” he muttered, scanning the room as if a mugger might leap out from behind the pie display.

You laughed, brushing off his concern. “Tim, it’s a diner, not a crime scene.”

Still, his shoulders stayed tight as you both ordered—the kind of late-night comfort food that felt like a rebellion against your usual, hurried meals. The milkshake you ordered looked perfectly normal, maybe a little thin on the whipped cream. But the first sip left a faint, strange aftertaste. You wrinkled your nose.

“Tastes off,” you muttered, but you took another sip anyway. Maybe it was just the cheap ice cream.

By the time you both headed back to Wayne Manor, the night felt calm, quiet even—like a rare, ordinary moment in your chaotic lives. You decided to stay the night there, curled up together under Tim’s blankets. The warm familiarity of his room, with its faint scent of cologne and worn paperbacks, made you forget your earlier doubts.

Then, the ache started. At first, it was a dull twist in your stomach, the kind you thought might fade if you ignored it. You shifted uncomfortably, trying not to wake him. But the pain sharpened, curling like a knife in your gut, and sleep became impossible. You bit your lip, willing it to pass, but the night stretched long and merciless.

Morning light crept through the curtains when you finally dozed off, exhaustion overtaking discomfort. Beside you, Tim stirred, hair messy, voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning, darli—” he began, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. Then his eyes flew open wide, the color draining from his face.

Standing at the foot of the bed, small hands clutching an oversized hoodie, was Bernard—except… Bernard was now a child.