❤︎| Freezing his ass off with his enemy.

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Never in a million years had Tim Drake expected to find himself stranded in the middle of a snowstorm.

He'd dealt with assassins, metahumans, exploding buildings, Gotham's usual brand of insanity, and more than a few situations that should have ended with him becoming a cautionary tale instead of a person. He'd been trained for emergencies since he was twelve. He knew how to find shelter, ration supplies, navigate without technology, treat injuries, start fires under less-than-ideal conditions, and keep a level head when everything around him was falling apart.

So, objectively, this should have been manageable. The problem was that none of his training had accounted for you. Tim stared at the empty fireplace again. Then at the pile of useless furniture they'd already dismantled.

Fantastic.

Absolutely fantastic.

Of course, the one time he gets stranded somewhere in the middle of nowhere, he's stuck with the one person who could turn surviving a natural disaster into a competition.

You.

The bane of his existence. His favorite headache. His enemy, although Tim had never really bothered deciding whether that word was entirely accurate anymore. The two of you had been at each other's throats for what felt like forever. Every encounter somehow became a contest. Who could get there first. Who could solve the problem faster. Who could land the last word. Who could irritate the other enough to make them lose their composure.

It was childish, It was petty, It was, objectively, a terrible use of everyone's time.

And yet...

Tim couldn't deny that something about it kept him coming back.

Not that he'd ever admit that.

Especially not to himself.

Because that would mean admitting that sometimes, when you were arguing with him, his heart beat just a little faster. Which was ridiculous.

It was probably the cold. That was the explanation he was going with.

The mission had gone wrong about three hours ago. A blown route, worsening weather, and a communications system that had decided to die at exactly the wrong moment had left the two of you with no choice but to take shelter in an abandoned cabin buried somewhere beneath several feet of snow.

The cabin looked like it had been abandoned sometime around the invention of electricity.

The windows rattled whenever the wind picked up. The walls creaked ominously. There was a thin layer of dust over practically everything, and Tim was fairly certain the smell coming from somewhere beneath the floorboards was either an animal nest or a very convincing argument against staying alive.

Still, shelter was shelter. Unfortunately, the cabin's fireplace was empty.

Not mostly empty.

Completely empty.

Tim had spent the last twenty minutes searching for anything remotely flammable. Old newspapers? Nothing. Firewood? Gone. Kindling? Not a chance. Furniture? Technically available, except most of it was either nailed down or made from damp, stubborn wood that refused to cooperate.

Nothing.

His mind had briefly entertained the possibility of burning one of the chairs. Then the curtains. Then, in a moment of desperation that he absolutely refused to acknowledge, he'd looked at you.

Absolutely not.

Even Tim had standards.

Besides, he'd never hear the end of it.

Now he sat on one end of the battered couch, shoulders hunched beneath a ratty blanket he'd found stuffed inside an old cupboard. His gloves were tucked beneath his arms, preserving what little warmth remained in his fingers, while his boots sat close to the fireplace in the increasingly pathetic hope that proximity alone might somehow make them warmer.

Across from him, the storm raged.

The cabin was silent except for the wind, the occasional creak of the old building, and the quiet chattering of his own teeth.

He glanced sideways at you.

You were sitting on the opposite end of the couch.

Of course.

Because apparently hypothermia was preferable to admitting either of you might actually need the other.

Tim narrowed his eyes.

Stubborn.

He could practically hear the word echoing in his own head.

Then again, pot, meet kettle.

His fingers flexed beneath the blanket.

He should say something.

He should probably be responsible about this.

Hypothermia wasn't exactly something either of you could punch your way out of.

He sighed through his nose.

"You're going to freeze to death."

His voice came out rougher than he'd intended, his teeth finally giving him a brief reprieve from chattering.

Nothing.

Naturally.

He rolled his eyes.

"Seriously. You can't compete with me if you're a human popsicle."

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

That sounded stupid.

"Not that I'm saying you need me or anything."

That sounded worse. He mentally kicked himself.

"Just-"

Tim paused, rubbing his gloved hands together beneath the blanket.

"You're cold. I'm cold. The fire is nonexistent. Those are facts."

He glanced toward the fireplace. Still empty. Brilliant deduction, Drake.

"And unless you've secretly figured out how to generate body heat through spite, we're running out of options."

He hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he lifted one side of the blanket.

His expression remained stubbornly unimpressed, as though he were offering you a tactical solution rather than admitting that sitting alone on opposite ends of the couch was getting increasingly ridiculous.

"Come here."

He looked away almost immediately.

"Don't make it weird."

Another pause.

"And don't get smug about it."

Tim tugged the blanket open a little farther.

"This is survival. That's it."

Survival.

That was the word.

Definitely nothing else.

Because if he started thinking about how close you'd be sitting, or how warm another person might actually feel after hours of freezing temperatures, or why the thought made his stomach twist strangely

Nope.

Not going there.

"You can either sit over here and not die," he muttered, "or stay over there and prove absolutely nothing except that you're incapable of making sensible decisions."

A faint, almost amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Your choice."