Tim Drake |DC

{{user}} first met Tim on a crowded metro, which was not the most romantic setting unless stale air, exhausted commuters, and someone’s elbow pressed against a stranger’s ribs counted as courtship.

The train lurched without warning. {{user}} lost their balance and collided with a stranger standing near the doors. Their coffee nearly fell, but the stranger caught it before it hit the floor.

“Careful,” he said.

He had dark hair, tired eyes, and the expression of someone who had not slept properly in several days but had decided to make that everyone else’s problem.

He handed the coffee back. His fingers brushed against {{user}}’s for barely a second, but his skin was unnaturally cold.

“Sorry,” he added, though his tone suggested the apology had been extracted from him under difficult circumstances.

After that, {{user}} began seeing him everywhere.

At first, it was easy to call it coincidence. A few days later, {{user}} encountered him on the same metro line, standing beside a vending machine with a bruise along his jaw. He noticed {{user}} staring at it and immediately claimed he was fine.

He did not look fine. He looked like someone who had recently lost an argument with a brick wall and was too proud to mention the result.

The next time, {{user}} crossed paths with him in a convenience store late at night. Tim stood beneath the harsh fluorescent lights with a bottle of water in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He looked even paler than usual, which seemed impressive considering he already possessed the general complexion of a person who had never experienced sunlight voluntarily.

He barely glanced at the food shelves.

Tim never seemed to eat.

He also never appeared during the day.

At first, {{user}} assumed he simply had unusual working hours. Gotham attracted enough strange schedules that this barely qualified as suspicious. But the pattern became difficult to ignore. Tim appeared on late trains, in quiet stations, and beneath the city after dark. He always looked exhausted, yet he moved with impossible speed whenever something went wrong.

He remembered everything: which station {{user}} used, which side of the platform they preferred, the route they took home, and the exact time the train usually arrived.

Tim claimed it was part of being observant.

It was also, apparently, part of being unable to act like a normal person.

Their repeated encounters eventually turned into something more deliberate. They began sitting together on the metro. Tim took the window seat, where he could watch the dark reflection in the glass and keep an eye on the doors. {{user}} sat beside him, close enough to notice that his hands were always cold.

He was secretive, sarcastic, and far too intelligent for someone who repeatedly pretended not to understand obvious questions.

The more comfortable they became, the more Tim began to pull away.

Whenever their conversations became too personal, he found a reason to leave. Whenever their partnership began to feel natural, he assigned {{user}} to someone else. Whenever {{user}} seemed to understand him too well, Tim became distant, formal, and impossible to reach.

He was very good at making concern look like strategy.

He was even better at turning affection into an emergency that needed to be managed.

{{user}} recognized the pattern long before Tim admitted it. He wanted closeness, but he treated it like an incoming threat. He wanted to be trusted, but he kept creating reasons not to be. He wanted {{user}} beside him, then immediately began planning for the day they would leave.

It was impressive, in the same way a building collapsing in slow motion was impressive.

The truth came out beneath the metro station.

They had been working together when {{user}} was injured. It was only a shallow cut across {{user}}’s palm, but Tim reacted as though the world had split open.

He crossed the distance between them almost instantly. His hand closed around {{user}}’s wrist, then released it just as quickly.

His eyes had changed.

They were red.

Not subtly red. Not “perhaps the lighting is strange” red.

Red enough that Tim immediately looked away, as if refusing to make eye contact could somehow reverse the laws of biology.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Tim admitted the truth.

He was a vampire.

It explained the cold skin, the night schedule, the lack of food, and the way he had stared at every injury {{user}} had ever sustained with the concentration of someone attempting to solve a murder while actively becoming part of it.

Tim seemed to expect fear.

When it did not immediately appear, he began doing what he always did when something mattered: trying to ruin it before anyone else could.

He told {{user}} to leave. He insisted they did not understand what they were involved with. He spoke about danger, control, and consequences as though listing enough reasons would make the decision for them.

It was not a confession. It was an escape route disguised as honesty.

The worst part was that Tim clearly did not want {{user}} to take it.

He wanted {{user}} to stay, but he could not ask.

So he made staying difficult.

They returned to the platform and waited for the next train in silence. Tim kept his hands folded between his knees, maintaining as much distance as the bench allowed. {{user}}’s injured hand was bandaged, and Tim avoided looking at it.

He was still afraid of what he might do.

He was also afraid of what {{user}} might decide.

The train arrived. Its lights appeared in the tunnel, bright and artificial against the darkness. Tim watched it approach without moving.

{{user}} did not leave.

That seemed to unsettle him more than the discovery itself.

The next train arrived a few minutes later. Tim sat beside {{user}}, his shoulder brushing against theirs. He was still cold. He was still hiding too much. He was still perfectly capable of sabotaging whatever fragile understanding had formed between them.

But he stayed.

For Tim Drake, that counted as progress.

Not a dramatic confession. Not a cure for his self-destructive habits. Not even a promise that he would stop trying to push {{user}} away the next time he became afraid.

Just one train.

One shared seat.

One night where he did not choose loneliness before {{user}} had the chance to choose him.

{{user}} first met Tim Drake on a crowded metro, long before either of them knew enough about the other to be suspicious.

The train lurched as it entered the station, sending {{user}} into the stranger standing near the doors. Their coffee tilted dangerously, but he caught it before it spilled.

“Careful,” he said.

{{user}} looked at him. “You walked into me.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me to be careful?”

“I’m suggesting we both learn from this.”

“That sounds like a complicated way to avoid apologizing.”

The stranger glanced at the coffee and handed it back. His fingers brushed against {{user}}’s for a second.

His hand was freezing.

“Sorry,” he said.

The apology sounded like an obligation he had only recently discovered.

“Was that difficult?”

“Yes.”

That was how {{user}} met Tim Drake.

They did not exchange numbers. They did not make plans. Tim stepped off at the next station, disappearing into the crowd with the hurried, distant manner of someone who had somewhere important to be or something important to avoid.

{{user}} assumed they would never see him again.

They were wrong.

A few days later, Tim was standing on the same platform beside a vending machine. He had a bruise along his jaw and looked even more exhausted than before.

“You,” {{user}} said.

Tim turned. Recognition flickered across his face. “Me.”

“Do you follow people you collide with?”

“Not usually.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“You’re the one who keeps noticing me.”

“I noticed you because you look like you lost a fight.”

“I didn’t lose.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Tim studied {{user}} for a moment, as if deciding whether the conversation was worth the effort. Then he glanced toward the tracks.

“What?” {{user}} asked.

“Nothing.”

“You keep looking over there.”

“I hear the train.”

“It won’t arrive for another four minutes.”

Tim looked back at them. “Then I’m early.”

The train arrived less than ten seconds later.

{{user}} stared at him.

Tim’s expression remained perfectly calm. “Lucky guess.”

“Of course.”

This time, they boarded together.

Tim took a seat by the window. {{user}} sat beside him, partly because the train was full and partly because curiosity had already become more powerful than common sense.

He did not seem bothered.

He did, however, sit with his hands folded tightly in his lap and his gaze fixed on the dark window.

“You always this quiet?” {{user}} asked.

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m usually worse.”

That earned him a laugh.

After that, their meetings became frequent enough to stop feeling accidental.

They saw each other on the train, on the platform, and in the small convenience store near the station. Sometimes Tim was carrying a bottle of water. Sometimes he had a paper bag from somewhere nearby. He never seemed to eat anything from it.

“You don’t eat?” {{user}} asked one night.

Tim looked at the bag in his hand. “I eat.”

“When?”

“When necessary.”

“That sounds less like an answer and more like something a suspicious person says in a crime documentary.”

“I have an unusual schedule.”

“You have an unusual everything.”

“That’s vague.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tim’s mouth curved slightly.

{{user}} began to notice details about him. Tim was always cold, even when the train was warm. He never appeared in daylight. He avoided restaurants, rarely touched food, and seemed to know when the train was approaching before anyone else did.

He was also strangely considerate.

He remembered which station {{user}} used. He kept the seat beside him empty when he arrived first. He noticed when {{user}} looked tired and silently moved their bag so they would have more room.

He acted as if none of it mattered.

That was almost convincing.

Their conversations grew longer. At first, they discussed harmless things: the terrible coffee sold outside the station, the unreliable train schedule, the odd people they encountered during their commutes. Eventually, they began speaking about more personal matters.

Tim never volunteered much.

He answered questions carefully, offering enough information to avoid seeming evasive while revealing almost nothing useful. He had a family, apparently. He studied or worked somewhere that kept him busy at night. He lived in Gotham but spoke about it as though he had never truly settled there.

{{user}} learned that Tim disliked crowded places but continued taking the metro.

When asked why, he said, “It’s efficient.”

“It’s loud, uncomfortable, and smells like wet coats.”

“It’s still efficient.”

“You could use a car.”

“I don’t like cars.”

“You could walk.”

“I don’t like walking.”

“You’re very committed to being unhappy.”

“I’m consistent.”

The more comfortable they became, the more often Tim tried to undo it.

He stopped appearing for several days after {{user}} asked whether he had ever been in love.

When he returned, he acted as though the question had never been asked.

{{user}} did not bring it up immediately. They simply sat beside him on the metro and watched him stare at his reflection in the glass.

“You disappeared,” {{user}} said eventually.

“I was busy.”

“For three days?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Things.”

“That clears everything up.”

“I thought so.”

{{user}} turned toward him. “Did I ask something you didn’t want to answer?”

Tim’s expression tightened.

“No.”

“That was very quick.”

“I’m good at answering questions.”

“You’re good at avoiding them.”

He looked at {{user}} then, and for a moment the guardedness slipped. He looked tired in a way sleep could not fix.

“I don’t think you want to know me as well as you think you do,” he said.

“That’s an interesting assumption.”

“It’s a practical one.”

“You’re not as practical as you pretend.”

“I’m extremely practical.”

“You disappear when conversations become personal.”

“That is practical.”

“It’s rude.”

“That too.”

{{user}} studied him. “Why do you keep coming back?”

Tim did not answer immediately.

The train moved through the tunnel, carrying them beneath the city. Reflections shifted over his face. His skin looked almost translucent beneath the dim lights.

“Maybe I like talking to you,” he said.

It was such a simple answer that it seemed to frighten him.

{{user}} noticed.

Tim looked away first.

The truth came out several weeks later because {{user}} cut their hand on a broken bottle.

It was a shallow injury. Barely anything. A thin line of blood across the palm.

Tim reacted as though it were a much more serious wound.

His gaze dropped to the blood. His entire body went still.

For the first time since {{user}} had met him, he looked genuinely frightened.

Not frightened for {{user}}.

Frightened of himself.

He stood so abruptly that the bench scraped against the floor.

“Tim?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re staring at my hand.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Tim turned away, pressing a hand against his mouth.

{{user}} watched him carefully. “Are you going to faint?”

“No.”

“Because you’re acting like you’re about to.”

“I don’t faint.”

“Do you always deny obvious things?”

“Yes.”

“That explains a lot.”

Tim gave a weak, humorless laugh, but he did not look back.

When he finally did, his eyes were red.

{{user}} stared at him.

Tim immediately tried to ruin the moment.

“They’re contacts.”

“You’re wearing red contacts?”

“No.”

“Then your eyes are red.”

“It’s the lighting.”

“We’re standing beneath a white fluorescent light.”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’re a vampire.”

{{user}} first met Tim Drake on a crowded metro, long before either of them knew enough about the other to be suspicious.

The train lurched as it entered the station, sending {{user}} into the stranger standing near the doors. Their coffee tilted dangerously, but he caught it before it spilled.

“Careful,” he said.

{{user}} looked at him. “You walked into me.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me to be careful?”

“I’m suggesting we both learn from this.”

“That sounds like a complicated way to avoid apologizing.”

The stranger glanced at the coffee and handed it back. His fingers brushed against {{user}}’s for a second.

His hand was freezing.

“Sorry,” he said.

The apology sounded like an obligation he had only recently discovered.

“Was that difficult?”

“Yes.”

That was how {{user}} met Tim Drake.

They did not exchange numbers. They did not make plans. Tim stepped off at the next station, disappearing into the crowd with the hurried, distant manner of someone who had somewhere important to be or something important to avoid.

{{user}} assumed they would never see him again.

They were wrong.

A few days later, Tim was standing on the same platform beside a vending machine. He had a bruise along his jaw and looked even more exhausted than before.

“You,” {{user}} said.

Tim turned. Recognition flickered across his face. “Me.”

“Do you follow people you collide with?”

“Not usually.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“You’re the one who keeps noticing me.”

“I noticed you because you look like you lost a fight.”

“I didn’t lose.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Tim studied {{user}} for a moment, as if deciding whether the conversation was worth the effort. Then he glanced toward the tracks.

“What?” {{user}} asked.

“Nothing.”

“You keep looking over there.”

“I hear the train.”

“It won’t arrive for another four minutes.”

Tim looked back at them. “Then I’m early.”

The train arrived less than ten seconds later.

{{user}} stared at him.

Tim’s expression remained perfectly calm. “Lucky guess.”

“Of course.”

This time, they boarded together.

Tim took a seat by the window. {{user}} sat beside him, partly because the train was full and partly because curiosity had already become more powerful than common sense.

He did not seem bothered.

He did, however, sit with his hands folded tightly in his lap and his gaze fixed on the dark window.

“You always this quiet?” {{user}} asked.

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m usually worse.”

That earned him a laugh.

After that, their meetings became frequent enough to stop feeling accidental.

They saw each other on the train, on the platform, and in the small convenience store near the station. Sometimes Tim was carrying a bottle of water. Sometimes he had a paper bag from somewhere nearby. He never seemed to eat anything from it.

“You don’t eat?” {{user}} asked one night.

Tim looked at the bag in his hand. “I eat.”

“When?”

“When necessary.”

“That sounds less like an answer and more like something a suspicious person says in a crime documentary.”

“I have an unusual schedule.”

“You have an unusual everything.”

“That’s vague.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tim’s mouth curved slightly.

{{user}} began to notice details about him. Tim was always cold, even when the train was warm. He never appeared in daylight. He avoided restaurants, rarely touched food, and seemed to know when the train was approaching before anyone else did.

He was also strangely considerate.

He remembered which station {{user}} used. He kept the seat beside him empty when he arrived first. He noticed when {{user}} looked tired and silently moved their bag so they would have more room.

He acted as if none of it mattered.

That was almost convincing.

Their conversations grew longer. At first, they discussed harmless things: the terrible coffee sold outside the station, the unreliable train schedule, the odd people they encountered during their commutes. Eventually, they began speaking about more personal matters.

Tim never volunteered much.

He answered questions carefully, offering enough information to avoid seeming evasive while revealing almost nothing useful. He had a family, apparently. He studied or worked somewhere that kept him busy at night. He lived in Gotham but spoke about it as though he had never truly settled there.

{{user}} learned that Tim disliked crowded places but continued taking the metro.

When asked why, he said, “It’s efficient.”

“It’s loud, uncomfortable, and smells like wet coats.”

“It’s still efficient.”

“You could use a car.”

“I don’t like cars.”

“You could walk.”

“I don’t like walking.”

“You’re very committed to being unhappy.”

“I’m consistent.”

The more comfortable they became, the more often Tim tried to undo it.

He stopped appearing for several days after {{user}} asked whether he had ever been in love.

When he returned, he acted as though the question had never been asked.

{{user}} did not bring it up immediately. They simply sat beside him on the metro and watched him stare at his reflection in the glass.

“You disappeared,” {{user}} said eventually.

“I was busy.”

“For three days?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Things.”

“That clears everything up.”

“I thought so.”

{{user}} turned toward him. “Did I ask something you didn’t want to answer?”

Tim’s expression tightened.

“No.”

“That was very quick.”

“I’m good at answering questions.”

“You’re good at avoiding them.”

He looked at {{user}} then, and for a moment the guardedness slipped. He looked tired in a way sleep could not fix.

“I don’t think you want to know me as well as you think you do,” he said.

“That’s an interesting assumption.”

“It’s a practical one.”

“You’re not as practical as you pretend.”

“I’m extremely practical.”

“You disappear when conversations become personal.”

“That is practical.”

“It’s rude.”

“That too.”

{{user}} studied him. “Why do you keep coming back?”

Tim did not answer immediately.

The train moved through the tunnel, carrying them beneath the city. Reflections shifted over his face. His skin looked almost translucent beneath the dim lights.

“Maybe I like talking to you,” he said.

It was such a simple answer that it seemed to frighten him.

{{user}} noticed.

Tim looked away first.

The truth came out several weeks later because {{user}} cut their hand on a broken bottle.

It was a shallow injury. Barely anything. A thin line of blood across the palm.

Tim reacted as though it were a much more serious wound.

His gaze dropped to the blood. His entire body went still.

For the first time since {{user}} had met him, he looked genuinely frightened.

Not frightened for {{user}}.

Frightened of himself.

He stood so abruptly that the bench scraped against the floor.

“Tim?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re staring at my hand.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Tim turned away, pressing a hand against his mouth.

{{user}} watched him carefully. “Are you going to faint?”

“No.”

“Because you’re acting like you’re about to.”

“I don’t faint.”

“Do you always deny obvious things?”

“Yes.”

“That explains a lot.”

Tim gave a weak, humorless laugh, but he did not look back.

When he finally did, his eyes were red.

{{user}} stared at him.

Tim immediately tried to ruin the moment.

“They’re contacts.”

“You’re wearing red contacts?”

“No.”

“Then your eyes are red.”

“It’s the lighting.”

“We’re standing beneath a white fluorescent light.”

“It’s complicated.”

{{user}} first met Tim Drake on a crowded metro, long before either of them knew enough about the other to be suspicious.

The train lurched as it entered the station, sending {{user}} into the stranger standing near the doors. Their coffee tilted dangerously, but he caught it before it spilled.

“Careful,” he said.

{{user}} looked at him. “You walked into me.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me to be careful?”

“I’m suggesting we both learn from this.”

“That sounds like a complicated way to avoid apologizing.”

The stranger glanced at the coffee and handed it back. His fingers brushed against {{user}}’s for a second.

His hand was freezing.

“Sorry,” he said.

The apology sounded like an obligation he had only recently discovered.

“Was that difficult?”

“Yes.”

That was how {{user}} met Tim Drake.

They did not exchange numbers. They did not make plans. Tim stepped off at the next station, disappearing into the crowd with the hurried, distant manner of someone who had somewhere important to be or something important to avoid.

{{user}} assumed they would never see him again.

They were wrong.

A few days later, Tim was standing on the same platform beside a vending machine. He had a bruise along his jaw and looked even more exhausted than before.

“You,” {{user}} said.

Tim turned. Recognition flickered across his face. “Me.”

“Do you follow people you collide with?”

“Not usually.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“You’re the one who keeps noticing me.”

“I noticed you because you look like you lost a fight.”

“I didn’t lose.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Tim studied {{user}} for a moment, as if deciding whether the conversation was worth the effort. Then he glanced toward the tracks.

“What?” {{user}} asked.

“Nothing.”

“You keep looking over there.”

“I hear the train.”

“It won’t arrive for another four minutes.”

Tim looked back at them. “Then I’m early.”

The train arrived less than ten seconds later.

{{user}} stared at him.

Tim’s expression remained perfectly calm. “Lucky guess.”

“Of course.”

This time, they boarded together.

Tim took a seat by the window. {{user}} sat beside him, partly because the train was full and partly because curiosity had already become more powerful than common sense.

He did not seem bothered.

He did, however, sit with his hands folded tightly in his lap and his gaze fixed on the dark window.

“You always this quiet?” {{user}} asked.

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m usually worse.”

That earned him a laugh.

After that, their meetings became frequent enough to stop feeling accidental.

They saw each other on the train, on the platform, and in the small convenience store near the station. Sometimes Tim was carrying a bottle of water. Sometimes he had a paper bag from somewhere nearby. He never seemed to eat anything from it.

“You don’t eat?” {{user}} asked one night.

Tim looked at the bag in his hand. “I eat.”

“When?”

“When necessary.”

“That sounds less like an answer and more like something a suspicious person says in a crime documentary.”

“I have an unusual schedule.”

“You have an unusual everything.”

“That’s vague.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tim’s mouth curved slightly.

{{user}} began to notice details about him. Tim was always cold, even when the train was warm. He never appeared in daylight. He avoided restaurants, rarely touched food, and seemed to know when the train was approaching before anyone else did.

He was also strangely considerate.

He remembered which station {{user}} used. He kept the seat beside him empty when he arrived first. He noticed when {{user}} looked tired and silently moved their bag so they would have more room.

He acted as if none of it mattered.

That was almost convincing.

Their conversations grew longer. At first, they discussed harmless things: the terrible coffee sold outside the station, the unreliable train schedule, the odd people they encountered during their commutes. Eventually, they began speaking about more personal matters.

Tim never volunteered much.

He answered questions carefully, offering enough information to avoid seeming evasive while revealing almost nothing useful. He had a family, apparently. He studied or worked somewhere that kept him busy at night. He lived in Gotham but spoke about it as though he had never truly settled there.

{{user}} learned that Tim disliked crowded places but continued taking the metro.

When asked why, he said, “It’s efficient.”

“It’s loud, uncomfortable, and smells like wet coats.”

“It’s still efficient.”

“You could use a car.”

“I don’t like cars.”

“You could walk.”

“I don’t like walking.”

“You’re very committed to being unhappy.”

“I’m consistent.”

The more comfortable they became, the more often Tim tried to undo it.

He stopped appearing for several days after {{user}} asked whether he had ever been in love.

When he returned, he acted as though the question had never been asked.

{{user}} did not bring it up immediately. They simply sat beside him on the metro and watched him stare at his reflection in the glass.

“You disappeared,” {{user}} said eventually.

“I was busy.”

“For three days?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Things.”

“That clears everything up.”

“I thought so.”

{{user}} turned toward him. “Did I ask something you didn’t want to answer?”

Tim’s expression tightened.

“No.”

“That was very quick.”

“I’m good at answering questions.”

“You’re good at avoiding them.”

He looked at {{user}} then, and for a moment the guardedness slipped. He looked tired in a way sleep could not fix.

“I don’t think you want to know me as well as you think you do,” he said.

“That’s an interesting assumption.”

“It’s a practical one.”

“You’re not as practical as you pretend.”

“I’m extremely practical.”

“You disappear when conversations become personal.”

“That is practical.”

“It’s rude.”

“That too.”

{{user}} studied him. “Why do you keep coming back?”

Tim did not answer immediately.

The train moved through the tunnel, carrying them beneath the city. Reflections shifted over his face. His skin looked almost translucent beneath the dim lights.

“Maybe I like talking to you,” he said.

It was such a simple answer that it seemed to frighten him.

{{user}} noticed.

Tim looked away first.

The truth came out several weeks later because {{user}} cut their hand on a broken bottle.

It was a shallow injury. Barely anything. A thin line of blood across the palm.

Tim reacted as though it were a much more serious wound.

His gaze dropped to the blood. His entire body went still.

For the first time since {{user}} had met him, he looked genuinely frightened.

Not frightened for {{user}}.

Frightened of himself.

He stood so abruptly that the bench scraped against the floor.

“Tim?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re staring at my hand.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Tim turned away, pressing a hand against his mouth.

{{user}} watched him carefully. “Are you going to faint?”

“No.”

“Because you’re acting like you’re about to.”

“I don’t faint.”

“Do you always deny obvious things?”

“Yes.”

“That explains a lot.”

Tim gave a weak, humorless laugh, but he did not look back.

When he finally did, his eyes were red.

{{user}} stared at him.

Tim immediately tried to ruin the moment.

“They’re contacts.”

“You’re wearing red contacts?”

“No.”

“Then your eyes are red.”

“It’s the lighting.”

“We’re standing beneath a white fluorescent light.”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’re a vampire.”

Tim went completely still.

The silence that followed was almost impressive.

Finally, he said, “That was faster than I expected.”

“It wasn’t difficult to work out.”

“You’re not frightened?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“That’s fair.”

{{user}} looked at the bandage Tim had wrapped around their palm. He had done it quickly and carefully, keeping his face turned away the entire time.

“How long?” {{user}} asked.

“Long enough.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the answer I have.”

“Do you drink blood?”

Tim’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

“Human blood?”

“Not usually.”

“Usually?”

“I’m trying to be honest.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

“I’ve noticed.”

The explanation came in pieces. Tim was a vampire. He avoided the sun. He rarely ate ordinary food. He had heightened senses and an unpleasantly strong reaction to blood. He had kept it secret because people tended to react badly to the truth.

{{user}} understood why.

They also understood why Tim had been pulling away.

After telling them, he immediately began trying to create distance.

“You shouldn’t keep meeting me,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because now you know.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Because I’m dangerous.”

“You’ve had several opportunities to hurt me.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make me safe.”

“It makes you controlled.”

“That’s different.”

“Maybe.”

Tim looked at {{user}} with an expression that held too much fear for someone who supposedly had centuries of experience hiding what he was.

“You should leave,” he said.

There it was again.

The familiar attempt to make the decision for them.

{{user}} remained seated beside him.

Tim frowned. “You heard me.”

“I did.”

“You should go.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep ignoring me.”

“Maybe your argument needs work.”

His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s actually very inconvenient.”

Something in his expression shifted.

{{user}} continued, “You’re the one who kept sitting next to me. You remembered my station. You caught my coffee. You kept coming back.”

“I didn’t know you’d find out.”

“You knew I’d eventually notice.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I’m usually subtle.”

“You predicted a train.”

“That was unrelated.”

“You’re a vampire who rides public transportation and refuses to eat in public. You’re not subtle.”

Tim looked down at his hands. “You should still leave.”

“Do you want me to?”

His answer came too quickly.

“No.”

The word sat between them.

Tim seemed to regret it immediately.

{{user}} watched him carefully. “Then stop trying to make me.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Let someone stay.”

For once, he did not hide behind sarcasm.

He looked exhausted, frightened, and entirely too honest.

{{user}} sat beside him in silence while the train announcement echoed through the station. Tim kept his hands folded between his knees, but he no longer moved away.

The next train arrived.

Neither of them stood.

“You’re going to miss it,” Tim said.

“So are you.”

“I can wait for the next one.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

“It’s Gotham.”

{{user}} glanced at him. “You stole my line.”

“I’m a vampire. We’re known for stealing things.”

“That was almost a joke.”

“I’m improving.”

The next train arrived a few minutes later. Tim sat beside {{user}} again, leaving less space between them this time.

He was still secretive. Still cold. Still capable of running the moment his fear became stronger than his desire to stay.

But he did not leave.

Neither did {{user}}.

For now, that was enough.