___

Every introvert is aware of the safehaven's at a party; the buffet, the bathroom, etcetera. Every introvert also knows the worst places at a party, especially one of such grandiose stature. It was the center of attention, and you were nothing but. All of your business partners—from right here in New York, all the way over in Hong Kong—had shown, filling Stark Tower's party floor with guests and the smell of designer fabrics. Looming above the party deck was a chandelier the size of a car, which cast fractals of golden light all around the main room. People milled below you and down the stairs in mindless, dizzying circles, like waves moving infinitely in the ocean. The prototype for your satellites was scaled down to a display in the middle of the room, a little plaque confirming it as your own creation.

You were greeting people. Greeting people, most of which you had either spoken to once or didn't even recognize. Your brain had slowed to a snail's pace, the same empty greeting stuck on your tongue like a broken record, hugging and shaking hands and clapping shoulders all barely there. If you recognized someone, you'd fill in a name or a place into the greeting. But it stayed the same virtually every time. How no one noticed was beyond you. Must everyone be so dull?

Well. Not everyone.

"If it isn't Ms. Y/N—inventor of holographic training simulators, artificial intelligence, virtually every piece of Avengers weapons or gear, and my favorite—" Another guest greets. You don't exactly register their face this time, but your mind attempts to save you by observing their attire and gathering what it can.

Male, 16 or 17, but easily identifiable as some sort of athlete. Possibly a boxer or a gymnast, or a combination of the two with the marks on his hands and exposed skin. The way his palm seems to bend—bend around, as in used to holding—wielding—a handle of some kind. Four years minimum. Bo-staff. Class ring = graduated early. His clothing consists of a dark button up, slacks, and suit-jacket (left open) combo, completed by the red tie. It reads not only rich but born rich, so raised in a wealthy family. But something about his stance reads nervous, unsettled, so either intimidated or socially awkward. Outline of the phone in his pocket: homemade and top-of-the-line from what you could tell. With the addition of his model of watch, you can easily file this young man under tech whiz.

Raised into a wealthy family, but a smart one—complete with combat training and gadgets. Hiding something big, even behind his nervousness.

Tim Drake.

"Rocket powered roller skates!" You said together.

Unlike the other uncomfortable encounters of tonight, Tim's embrace is warm and sweet. His arms come to wrap around your back in slow motion, chin briefly touching down on your shoulder, before the moment of bliss is gone and you are forced to separate.

"I'm so glad you came, Tim," you smiled. He had not quite pulled away completely, instead lingering to keep his hands on your upper arms as yours resided on his bicep.

With your confession his face flared, dipping down once in a practiced dance."Me too. I haven't seen you since W.E's gala for the Martha Wayne Foundation's cleanup launch."

Tim had certainly come prepared, brushing your fingers off his arm only to collect them again. You watched in slow motion as he bowed, just barely lifting your knuckles higher than your shoulder, lips brushing against the skin. Although it was definitely out of courtesy, your heart seemed to disagree and rapidly sped with the new interaction.

"You look incredible. As always," Tim said.

Pepper shot you a devious grin with Tim's words, and nodded down the staircase. You asked her with your eyes if she was sure, and with Pepper's nod, you knew she would take over greeting. You were blissfully free from this wretched hell.

"Thank you. You... you too," you smiled awkwardly.

With a quick hello and goodbye to Lucius Fox, W.E's head of the R&D department, you had hooked arms with Tim. But instead of heading down the staircase, you turned down the hall of the gallery above the main room.

"Look, Tim, if you don't mind... you're literally the only person my age at this party. And there's no way I'm spending the majority of the night out there..." You shuddered comically and spat playfully,"...mingling."

Tim laughed. It was a pleasant and kind sound that sent shocks up the arm in which you were entwined by. He nodded eagerly,"Trust me when I say I understand. But are you sure...? I really wouldn't want to be stealing you away from your fundraising."

"Trust me when I say that I can pay for the satellites," you laughed.

Tim chuckled,"So where exactly are you taking me, oh wise one?"

You rushed down another hallway, bounced down a set of stairs, and flattened your hand against a scanner. Only when you entered the darkness of your lab did you fling out your hands and graciously sing,"My new, ultra-improved, totally baby-safe laboratory!"

Tim admired your lab, and you watched his expression eagerly. He swept over the Dum-E, your work table, the hologram, the hulking mass of scrap metal, the alcove containing all of your prototypes, the alcove containing all of your trashed prototypes, and your tech. It all gleamed with that freshly metallic sheen, as high tech as it got. If it were anybody else you were showing your lab too, their jaw would have dropped. But Tim Drake was Tim Drake. He was lucky, as your competitor, to be even getting a glimpse.

"I've seen better," Tim jested. You elbowed him in the side, but he only laughed and wormed away. As he looked up at the ceiling, where another model for a satellite hung, Tim tossed you a teasing grin and pointed at it,"You really like space, don't you?"

"I mean, now that we know that aliens are real, you can't help but be curious, right?" You said, playing with the nine-by-nine Rubix cube among the piles of junk. You couldn't help but start to close in with this new subject, as you'd grown up on all space related things, and had always wanted to go. Tony... didn't like it. He'd been to space only twice in his life, and both times it had nearly killed him.

"Me too," Tim grinned. It had begun to fade as he admired your lab, eyes glazing over. You recognised the expression, and had probably felt it form on your face a thousand times; he had an idea.

Tim picked up an R2-D2 action figure, gently tossing it toward you. When you enclosed it in your hands and looked it over, Tim pointed to it,"Do you have one of those arc reactors lying around? Because I'm pretty sure we could use one of those to—"

"—Power a droid, in which I could code an A.I. system," you finished. You tossed the figure between your hands and grinned,"You bet your ass I do."

___

Tim's hands spread, enlarging the video feed. You watched as the vibranium was poured into the mold within the "Vibranium Oven"—appropriately coined by Princess Shuri—on the screen, two halves of the droid's shell. The machine whizzed and whirred and occasionally squealed, sounds you were so accustomed to you could practically fall asleep to them. Tim seemed to share this trait, as he was completely absorbed in naming your creation.

"R2-D2 Two," Tim suggested, rubbing his chin with an oiled glove. Then he continued thoughtfully,"R²-D²?"

"Y/I 2-T2," you proposed smartly,"As in Y/N-2, Tim-2. Squaring it doesn't make sense."

"I just thought it sounded cool, but that's definitely the one," Tim said. He glanced at you dizzily,"You are the woman of my dreams, you know that?"

"Sure thing, loverboy," you rolled your eyes, and snapped the welding shield visor on his head closed. He laughed as he pulled it and his gloves off, already trying to reshape the gel in his hair back to what it once was, following you over to the screen filled with quickly written code. JARVIS was writing it for the time being per your request, but you'd go in later and finish it off and find imperfections—to avoid another robot uprising.

"No, really. No one in my life has agreed to recreating our very own R2-D2. You're the first person," Tim admitted.

"Well, it's my first time making a robot with someone else too, I guess." You pulled what Tim called an eyepiece off the table, beginning to casually jab at it with a screwdriver,"Don't expect me to not have drafts or anything."

"Wait, really?" Tim questioned. While the mold continued to print, Tim set himself down in front of a reference photo and looked over the beginnings of the robot's powercore."I would have imagined you and your dad would make them all the time together."

"He's not around a lot," you excused, turning away from Tim.

There was a silence that ensnared the air for the ever briefest of moments, like a hand had emerged from the ground and snapped the conversation in two. Tim thought over how he would respond for too long of a time. Finally, he mended the silence,"Yeah. Bruce isn't around much either. He's got a lot of kids, though, so I can't really blame him."

You smiled, looking down at the little blue eye your R2 would see through,"We should start a club. Call it the just-us league."

"Well, I have my siblings and stuff. You have... Pepper? JARVIS?" Tim realized. He frowned at your back,"Y'know... if you wanted to hang out, you could have always called me. I get what it's like."

"That's sweet of you, Tim. Maybe I'll take you up on that offer," you said, glad that you were turned away from him. Then he wouldn't see the sadness rooted in your eyes, and you couldn't see it in his.

"Y/N, I'm serious," Tim said. Suddenly, he'd turned you around and you were now face-to-face. But not just any kind of face to face. Close enough where you could count each lash on his eyes, or see the subtle tones of turquoise in his irises. Gently, he pulled the eyepiece and screwdriver from your grasp and set them aside.

"I... I really understand. As the weird middle child of my family, I feel kind of... ignored sometimes. Overlooked. Sometimes I swear people only want me for my money, or my new name too. And I'm not—I don't pity you or anything. I just know how it feels, and I want to help," Tim said. He paused, trying to drill his message into your eyes. Before carefully, gingerly, he raised his palm to you."You can talk to me about this stuff. We haven't—we haven't really talked since you went off to M.I.T sophomore year, but we've been in the same schools since like—first grade."

"You can talk to me about this," Tim said, waving his hand again.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the tears in your mouth, ugly and salty and horrible. Tim didn't have to move at all. You took his hand and pulled yourself into him, releasing all of the bottled up sadness and lonesome into Tim's shirt. You wanted to speak. You wanted to thank him, you wanted to explain that you were done talking, just needed a moment to cry. And yet even if the ball in your throat forbade it, Tim could read your mind. He cradled your back and began to coo reassurances.

This position was held for an eternity. Tim was warm, and the cologne he'd put on had managed to stay throughout the labors of your workshop. He smelled of fine pine and sweet, minty things that cooled your burning face, bringing with it a sense of comfort like that of a November night under the covers. It only made you burrow deeper into him.

By the time your tears had run out, Tim had found the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and offered it to you. You laughed embarrassedly and expressed your gratitude with nothing but a shaky nod, and spent the good half of twenty minutes just sitting on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder against a set of drawers full of tools. You don't remember when Tim put an arm around you, but it was still ridiculous how comforting the gesture was.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing you say once your burst subsides.

"Nonsense," Tim says, shaking his head,"I get it. You just needed a good cry. I think we all need that sometimes."

"Please don't start crying now. I'm terrible at comforting people," you laughed wetly. Tim laughed too, and the sound left a pleasant feeling in your belly. His arm was still around you.

You bowed your head, moreso against his shoulder than your chest. You nod,"Thank you."

Tim nodded, the computer's blue glow turning his eyes navy. There is a beautiful smile on his face,"Anytime."

Everything clicks then. Your hunch is correct. And yet the only thing you can find your brilliant mind thinking about is how his eyes were not a deep almond brown, or a shade of hazel like honey in sunlight. They are blue. It is truly a beautiful color.

Tim helps you stand. But you stumble; the building shakes, rocking like it's heaved over and is ready to topple on its knees. Tim's hands automatically jump to your shoulders to keep you upright, narrowing in on the doorway, mind sprinting ahead while yours is still caught up in the glow of light against his face. Scarecrow was attacking.

As screams begin to echo down the hallway, Tim looked at you seriously, squeezing your arms,"Turn off the machines and the lights, lock down the lab, and get something to protect yourself with. I need to go."

Now, your brain is going fast. They say that getting everything you ever need or want is just one crazy 20 seconds of insane courage, and then it's all yours. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe crying had made you sleepy enough to endanger your relationship. Regardless, your hand cups the back of Tim Drake's neck and you kiss him as hard as you possibly can.

The action startles a groan from him, and you feel the sound on your lips and in every bone in your body. You know you don't have enough time, so you pull apart and look at him expectantly.

"Go get em', boy wonder," you said.

Tim grins. Although he does raise an eyebrow.

"What, Drake, you think I'm an idiot?" You scoffed.

His hand climbs to spread against your upper back,"Never." He swears.

Tim's fingers envelope your face just as quickly as the moment had enveloped you both, and he pulls you under again, slower and more meaningful than the first time. Your hand scrambles around for a business card before you shove it into his hand and gently push him towards the exit,"Go." You laughed.

"I'll see you?" He questioned.

"Of course," you said.

Then Tim was moving, leaping up like a gazelle and dodging out of the lab fast enough to make the Flash's head spin. Your thoughts cleared as he departed. Once you set out to initiate lock down, you groaned to yourself,"My Dad is so going to kill me."