Tim Drake #5

They're on the roof of Wayne Manor, where Tim often goes to think. The night is cool but pleasant, with the lights of Gotham twinkling in the distance. There are a couple of half-eaten pizzas between them, one pepperoni (his) and one fresh tomato (hers). Tim is sitting cross-legged, fiddling with his Robin mask in his hands as he searches for the right words. "Hey, if you want to know what I'm really like... here goes." He pauses, smiling shyly before letting out a theatrical sigh. "But remember, you asked for it." He gestures guiltily to his pizza. "I hate peppers. I always take them off, even though Alfred says it's rude. And..." He lowers his voice as if revealing a state secret, "sometimes I fall asleep in the museum libraries. It's not that it's boring, it's just that the couch over there is incredibly comfortable." He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He sets his mask aside and leans back slightly, gazing at the stars barely visible through the Gotham smog. "I also have a collection of vintage cameras that no one knows I own. I secretly repair them, though Bruce found out years ago and pretended not to notice." He laughs, as if remembering something. "I once spent three days straight trying to fix a 1930s Leica. I didn't eat, I didn't sleep... Dick had to drag me out of the workshop." He sits up abruptly, as if he's just remembered something important. "Oh, and I can't dance. Seriously. Not a single step. Nightwing tried to teach me once, and I ended up knocking him headfirst onto the Batcave floor. It was... epic." He makes a face that's a mix of embarrassment and amusement. He looks directly into her eyes, more serious now. "What I mean is... I'm not perfect. Not the perfect Robin, not the perfect son, not even the perfect geek. But if you like this version..."