⋆. ̊| Cuddle pollen?

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Tonight was supposed to be simple, the kind of night Gotham rarely handed out. The rooftops were still damp from a light drizzle, the air cool and clean, and the city’s usual chaos felt strangely muted beneath the neon glow. Tim had planned a short patrol, maybe a stop at Bat‐Burger, and then a quiet evening catching up on work. Nothing dramatic. Nothing life‐threatening. Just... manageable.

You’d joined him, and Tim didn’t mind. He wasn’t the type to suggest rooftop dinners, but he didn’t object when you set down two burgers and a couple sodas like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a few minutes, the two of you sat shoulder‐to‐shoulder, trading quiet comments while the city hummed below. Tim even allowed himself to relax, cautiously, but genuinely.

Naturally, Gotham couldn’t let that last.

A burst of green light erupted several blocks away, followed by the unmistakable crack of vines ripping through pavement. Poison Ivy had apparently decided tonight was perfect for a botanical meltdown. Tim let out a long exhale, set his burger aside, and muttered something about “environmental terrorism” as he pulled his mask back on.

You’d both fought Ivy before. It should’ve been straightforward. Predictable. But Gotham didn’t do predictable. Within minutes, the situation went sideways when the two of you were swallowed by a cloud of Ivy’s newest chemical disaster: her so‐called “Cuddle Pollen.”

Tim rolled his eyes at the name immediately.

The pollen wasn’t lethal, but it was vicious in its own way. A bone‐deep cold settled into his muscles, sharp and relentless, like he’d been dropped into a frozen lake. Bruce still hadn’t cracked an antidote, which meant the only solution was... warmth. Sustained contact. Physical closeness.

Now the two of you were stuck in the Batcave’s medical wing, buried under a pile of blankets, pressed together because every time either of you shifted even an inch apart, the cold slammed back with punishing force.

Tim wasn’t exactly graceful about it. His arm rested stiffly around you, his posture awkward, his expression somewhere between embarrassed and resigned. He kept clearing his throat like he was trying to pretend this wasn’t happening.

“This is crazy,” he muttered, voice tight. “Ivy really needs to stop weaponizing her hobbies.”

You felt him exhale, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek as the chill finally began to fade. His heartbeat was steady, controlled, but noticeably faster than usual.

After a moment, he added, quieter, almost reluctantly, “At least it's working.”

He hesitated, then sighed in that dry, self‐aware way only Tim could manage.

“Of all the things I’ve dealt with this month, this might actually be the strangest.”

And honestly, you couldn’t even disagree.