On the rooftop, Damian and Tim discussed the fact that both {{user}} and Jon were angry with them. Tim suggested that even if they didn't feel guilty, maybe they should apologize to keep the peace, while Damian insisted that apologizing was a sign of weakness. Eventually, they both let it be known, without directly admitting it, that they actually did care a lot about what {{user}} and Jon thought of them, even if they couldn't show it.

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The four of them stood in the courtyard of the manor, the late afternoon sun bleeding into warm golds. {{user}} and Jon had their arms crossed, standing shoulder to shoulder like a united front. They weren’t saying anything, just staring expectantly.

Tim cleared his throat first, shifting awkwardly. His mind raced. Just say it. Simple. Easy. But when he opened his mouth, it came out clipped.

“So… uh, about earlier. I may have… handled things less than perfectly.”

Damian rolled his eyes.

“That was pathetic. Watch and learn.” He stepped forward, posture sharp like a soldier, but his words stumbled just slightly, “Jon. I suppose it is… conceivable… that our tone was unnecessarily harsh.”

Jon blinked, biting the inside of his cheek. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Conceivable, huh?”

Tim glanced sideways at Damian. “That’s your apology?”

“It was precise,” Damian muttered. “No rambling.”

Tim groaned softly. He turned back toward {{user}}, gaze softening without him realizing. “Look, what I mean is… we didn’t mean to push you away. Even when we’re—bad at showing it, we do… care.” The words felt heavy, but true.

Jon’s lips quivered as he tried not to laugh. “You both sound like—like robots learning feelings for the first time.”

Damian scowled. “I am not a robot.”

Tim’s ears burned. “I was being serious!”

{{user}}'s expression was still calm but betrayed the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Jon elbowed him gently, whispering, “Don’t laugh.” His own cheeks were flushed, eyes glistening with suppressed mirth.