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It was always a hot topic in Gotham when one Gothamite socialite was seen with another. Tabloids churned out issues worth of gossip, and the paparazzi with their cameras and bright flashes were constantly on the prowl. Your mother likened them to like sharks in the water—not that she was wrong.
When you had been photographed with one Timothy Drake-Wayne one spring afternoon, the full attention of the media descended down upon you two like a pack of bloodhounds. Now, you’d known better, and you had both arrived and departed from the restaurant under disguise—sun glasses, hats, and black hospital masks—but it did little to deter the news media as they debated and argued over your identities and the nature of your relationship with a terrible compulsion.
They were of course correct in their initial assumptions regarding your identities as well as the nature of your involvement with one another, but you were both determined to treasure your privacy a little bit longer before making the relationship public.
Your family was as old as the Wayne's, though not quite as wealthy. Certainly affluent enough to move closely in the same circles and frequent the same high brow events. Nevermind that the late Dr. Thomas Wayne, M.D. had been very close friends with your maternal grandfather. With a guaranteed invitation to every Wayne-hosted event, it went without saying that it also put your family in close orbit of the Drake-family, though their lackluster attendance left a lot to be desired.
You recalled often hearing from where you stood at your mother’s skirts about the globe-trotting Drakes, and many of the society wives couldn’t help but mention the poor boy left at home alone with pitying tones and shared glances. To say that you were quite familiar with the Drake-gossip from an early age was an understatement, but you didn’t formally meet the Drake heir until after the passing of his parents, and his adoption into the Wayne-family.
From that point on, you were certainly familiar with one another, but sparks didn’t start to fly until Cassandra’s first ballet recital with the Gotham Metropolitan Ballet. You’d been named the youngest first principal dancer at the company, a decision that had sent ripples of wonder and discontent throughout Gotham’s ballet scene, reaching as far as neighboring counties. Some cried nepotism—and you couldn’t deny it, your paternal grandmother had been the oldest and longest reigning prima ballerina of her time—but you had worked hard for your achievements, too.
The critics could find fault with you all they wanted for how quickly you’d risen to such a prestigious position, but they could not deny your talent and the rigorous hours you put into honing your craft.
The whole family had arrived for Cassandra’s first recital at the institution, but by the end of your own variation, Tim had eyes only for you. Timothy Drake-Wayne was smitten.
He had been the one to ask you out—had made sure that you’d be in attendance at the next Wayne-hosted event, and made sure that he himself was present. Jason hadn’t thought much about Tim’s odd request to attend in his stead. The second eldest Wayne was all too happy to be elsewhere, but had laughed in his face the next morning when Dick regaled to the rest of the breakfast table how Tim had been practically tripping over his own feet to ask you to dance.
Duke, bless him, had defended Tim—arguing that it was sweet.
Still, Tim had endured the jokes and the needling from his siblings at the table—and subsequently had the last laugh several weeks later when the latest issue of Gotham Gazette had a blown up photo of you and Tim leaving a restaurant: first page, front and center, full color.
Above the photo in big, black letters read:
SPARKS FLYING BETWEEN CEO TIM DRAKE-WAYNE AND GOTHAM’S LATEST PRIMA BALLERINA?
“Are we sure it’s Tim?” Duke asked hesitantly. He had never been a believer in the gossipy drivel that one Vicki Vale wrote.
However, there was no denying that the man in the photo did look a lot like Tim, but the surgical mask and sun glasses did leave just enough room for error.
Jason snorted from his seat across the table as he snatched the newspaper out of Duke’s hands. “With that fucking cut and fade? Yeah, that’s definitely Timmers,” he said as Steph leaned to look over Jason’s bulging bicep.
“Oh, yeah—that’s Tim for sure,” she confirmed around her mouthful of toast and jam.
“What’s me for sure?” Tim intoned as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen, quietly but gratefully accepting a cup of coffee from Cassie as he claimed his regular seat at the table. Cassie was at his side, signing something at him animatedly.
“What—yeah—we had a date. Where’d you hear that?”
“Uh, Vicki Vale,” exclaimed Dick, sounding wounded that Tim hadn’t bothered to tell any of them. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“And risk you three stooges sitting on the other side of the partition? Hell no.”
“Hey—who’re you calling a stooge?” Jason barked, offended.
“You, Dick, and Steph, obviously.”
Now it was Steph’s turn to be offended.
“It could be Duke for all you’d know,” she argued despite knowing that yeah—she would be the third stooge when it came to her best friend’s currently paltry love life.
“Oh, please—Duke is the most well adjusted of us all, and that’s saying something.”
“Oh, hey, thanks, man.”
“Well, you’re all lively this morning,” Bruce’s voice cut in as he entered the kitchen, Damian trailing closely behind as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.
“Oh, hey—morning—did you hear that Timmers was on a date with that new prima ballerina?” Dick asked casually, passing the newspaper to the family patriarch.
Tim scowled at him as Dick grinned from ear to ear, mouthing ‘I am vengeance’ at him from across the table.
“That’s great, Tim. Her family has been a great friend of ours for years, you know,” Bruce said, lowering the paper onto the table only for Damian to snatch it up.
You’d gone public with your relationship a month later, posting a tasteful little Instagram post at the aquarium after Tim had cleared it with Wayne Enterprises’ PR team. As expected, the gossip columns had a field day as months of speculation were suddenly confirmed, and anyone with a camera was suddenly on the look out for the opportunity to catch the newest golden couple out and about.
There were most certainly plenty of photos circulating of the two of you—from regular luncheons and dinner dates, to sightings in the shopping district to the museum, the zoo, and various plays.
Instead of arriving at charities and events with your respective families, you opted to arrive together as the months progressed and your relationship grew more serious.
The fashion oriented magazines had an especially grand time when you started coordinating your date outfits.
This went on until sometime around mid-September, and then—nothing.
On the last week of September, at 06:12 pm on a Tuesday, Tim’s phone rang, and your finger automatically twitched over the volume button on your decorated Switch-console as your boyfriend answered the call. With Pelican Town no longer playing loudly throughout your bedroom, you could hear Dick on the other end quite clearly.
“Hey, Timmers! How’re you? How’s, uh, how’re things with you and your pretty little swan?”
You choked back a rather unflattering snort at the nickname, but Tim didn’t miss the way your mouth curved into a smile as you attempted to hide behind your game.
“Uh, fine?” Tim offered, both endeared by you and unsure where Dick was going with this conversation. “Why?”
“Oh, no real reasss—hey! Jason—quit it!—”
By now both of your brows were raised as the sound of scuffling could be heard from the other end as Jason presumably wrestled the phone from Dick’s hand.
“Hello? Tim?” Jason’s voice suddenly filtered through crystal clear.
“Uh, Jason.”
“Listen, I’m gonna cut to the chase here—no one’s seen you and your girlfriend around town together in weeks and we’re getting worried.”
By now you’d paused your game and laid quietly against Tim’s side.
“What? Jay—“
“No, listen—that woman has been good for you, Timmers—no, shut up—you’ve been out eating lunch together, you’re going on dates—Christ All Mighty, Tim, you’re getting some sun—and we’ll be damned if we let you fuck this up.”
“What on Earth are you talking about? Fuck what up?” Tim sputtered, heat rising to his cheeks as his gaze flickered between your pleased expression and his laptop screen.
“Your relationship, Tim! You think we haven’t noticed the long work hours, the sudden lack of luncheon sightings—the lack of dates! Literally—what are you doing right now? Working on open cases?”
He narrowed his eyes at your trembling form, and quietly mouthed at you to stop laughing. Jason was right of course—he had been working on open cases.
“Shit—we haven’t seen her in weeks, Tim. You used to bring her around for breakfast and dinner. C’mon, Replacement—don’t let your bad habits win. Call her—“
“Jason—she’s literally laying in bed next to me playing Stardew Valley!”
Silence greeted you both after Tim quieted from his outburst. Of all the ridiculous things his boneheaded brothers and sisters—he scrubbed his face with a sound of frustration.
“Jason—listen—I’m a CEO of a whole ass company. She’s an athlete that literally works eight grueling hours a day—five, sometimes six, days a week—doing one of the most intense sports known to mankind. We’re tired. Do you idiots even realize what a production it is every time we want to plan a public outing? We literally eat lunch together everyday in the fucking parking garage because it’s the only place where I can pretend that my cellphone doesn’t get service, and the paparazzi doesn’t have any access to!”
You could vaguely hear someone choke in the background.
“Wait—so you’re telling me you’re not fumbling your relationship?”
“No, Jason. I’m not,” Tim said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Last night we binged two seasons of Criminal Minds while I worked on quarterlies and she prepped a bunch of ballet slippers. We had red sauce and creste di gallo with a bottle of Chianti for dinner (—followed by some mind blowing sex—), and this morning we had brunch with her grandmother who wants her to wear the heirloom pearls when we get married—“
“—you’re getting married!?”
Tim is positive that it’s Steph who shrieked in the background.
“—what—no! I haven’t even proposed yet—!”
“You want to propose?” You asked, voice small and eyes wide. The soft hope in your expression tugged at every string attached to his caffeine-burdened heart, and Tim was reminded of how irrevocably his heart was yours. For a moment he’s thoroughly distracted with you, so in love, before remembering that he was still on the phone with Jason (and company).
“Look—we’re fine—we’ve just been trying to do more things at home before she gets too busy at the GMB. Auditions for the Nutcracker are going to start really soon, and after that it’ll be four weeks until the opening night.” How the GMB did it, Tim would never know, though according to you the whole institution was a well-oiled beast of a machine.
As the conversation started to wind down, you settled back down at Tim’s side, and when the call finally ended, you moved his laptop off to the side and crawled on top of him. His arms banded around your waist as you watched one another for a moment.
“Yes—I want to propose some day,” Tim said, breaking the silence first. His expression turned a little sheepish as he continued:
“I know we haven’t really talked about marriage, and—and kids—but I know in my bones that you’re the one I want to settle down with. I knew the moment that first night we stayed in, and you were making chicken cacciatore, and belting out ‘I Want It That Way’ while holding a glass of white wine while wearing my shirt and shorts.”
He paused to swallow, voice wavering with nerves.
“I’m so stupidly in love with you and because of it I’m really trying here—to cut back on coffee, and spending less time at the office, and—and—“
“I know,” you said softly. You leaned forward to kiss him all slow and sweet before he could say anything else. When the kiss broke, you continued.
“I know you’re trying, and I really appreciate you for it—the lunch and dinner plans, and all the dates, but I also really love this. Just being here with you, cuddling or watching you boil pasta, or—or listening to you go on a ten minute tangent about how bad some criminal investigation shows on Netflix are—it feels right. It feels like warmth and home, Tim.
“And you want to know a secret? —I’m really stupidly in love with you, too."