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It was, by all accounts-
....a completely unremarkable Tuesday.
Tim had spent fourteen hours in the field, followed by three more in front of monitors that left his eyes burning and his neck stiff. He'd downed two energy drinks and a cup of coffee that had gone cold hours ago. His bones ached in that particular way that meant he'd be feeling tomorrow's injuries before he even woke up.
But none of that mattered the moment he walked through the door of the apartment he shared with Salix in Osaka.
Because there, sprawled across their gray sectional couch like he owned the universe itself, was his boyfriend.
Salix was barefoot, legs folded into some impossible pretzel shape that would have sent a normal human to the emergency room. His black hair was loose—rare, a privilege reserved for home, spilling across the armrest in sharp, layered waves with that long braid trailing over his shoulder. A half-empty mug of something that smelled aggressively sweet sat on the side table. Some nature documentary played on the television at low volume, forgotten.
And he was wearing a shirt.
Not just any shirt.
A dark gray henley, soft from years of washing, the top two buttons undone to reveal the pale column of Salix's throat. It was slightly too broad through the shoulders, the sleeves a little too long, cuffing at his wrists in a way that was entirely deliberate on the shirt's part but accidental on Salix's.
Tim froze in the doorway.
His shirt.
Or rather—not just his.
Tim knew his own wardrobe. He knew the weight of this fabric, the way the seams sat. He'd stolen this shirt from Bruce three years ago during an overnight stakeout that had gone sideways and ended with Tim shivering in a warehouse while Bruce draped his jacket and then his spare henley over him before dragging him back to the Cave.
Bruce had never asked for it back.
Tim had never offered.
It smelled like home—or what Tim had decided home should smell like before he'd ever found it. Warm. Safe. Something solid beneath chaos.
And now Salix was wearing it.
"That's my shirt," Tim said, still standing in the doorway.
Salix didn't open his mismatched eyes—one brown, one blue, both currently hidden beneath lashes that had no right being that long. "Mm."
"That's Bruce's shirt."
"Mmm." A slow, deliberate stretch. Salix's spine arched like a cat's, the henley riding up just enough to show a strip of pale stomach. Then he settled again, eyes still closed, expression utterly serene. "It's comfortable."
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where did you even—"
"Closet."
"Our closet?"
"Your closet." A pause. "You left it in the back. Behind the winter coats. Hadn't worn it in months." Salix finally opened his eyes, the brown and blue fixing on Tim with that particular softness that made Tim's chest feel weird. "You weren't using it."
"That's not—" Tim exhaled sharply. "Babe. That shirt belongs to Bruce Wayne. The man you have an alterous friendship with. The man you call 'My Night' and 'Treasure' and"—Tim's eye twitched—"'Quýt,' which is a tangerine, by the way."
Salix tilted his head. "He's sweet."
"He's not a tangerine."
"He's sweet," Salix repeated, as if that explained everything. He plucked at the henley's collar, bringing it to his nose briefly, and Tim watched the micro-expression flicker across his boyfriend's face—something content, something settled. "It smells like him."
Of course it does.
Tim dropped his duffel bag. Kicked the door closed. Crossed the room in five long strides and loomed over the couch, which was a useless gesture because Salix simply looked up at him with those impossible eyes and reached out to hook a finger through Tim's belt loop.
"You're mad," Salix observed.
"I'm not mad."
"You're doing the thing with your jaw."
Tim consciously unclenched his teeth. "I'm processing."
"Mm." Salix tugged him down. Tim went, because he always went, collapsing onto the couch beside his boyfriend. Immediately, Salix rearranged himself—pretzel legs unfolding, body curling into Tim's side like a cat claiming a warm spot. The henley bunched. Salix pressed his face against Tim's shoulder. Inhaled.
"You smell like Gotham," Salix murmured. "Rain and exhaust and blood. Yours?"
"Not mine. Most of it."
"Mine now." Salix's fingers curled into the fabric of Tim's jacket. "You're home."
And just like that, the irritation faded.
Not completely—it never did with Salix. The man had a talent for doing things that made Tim's brain short-circuit in twenty different directions at once. But the sharp edge of possessiveness dulled into something warmer, something Tim had learned to recognize as his version of what Bruce apparently got to experience.
Salix marking him wasn't physical. Not in the way other supernaturals marked territory. Salix's scent was soap and perfume and lotus petals—clean, deliberate, chosen. But when Salix curled around him like this, when Salix breathed him in and called him home—
Yeah. Tim was marked.
He'd known it from the first breakup. The second. The seventh, when he'd sworn he was done, when he'd walked away convinced he could be normal and date someone who didn't have a city's worth of villain exes and an unnervingly close friendship with the Batman.
He'd lasted three weeks.
Now, thirteen breakups later, Tim had accepted his fate.
"You're not keeping the shirt," Tim said, but his hand had already come up to card through Salix's hair.
"Hm." Salix's breath warmed the hollow of Tim's throat. "I could give it back."
"You won't."
"No." A ghost of a smile against his skin. "I won't."
Tim sighed. "You're impossible."
"You love me."
"Against my better judgment."
"Mm." Salix tilted his head up, pressing a soft kiss to Tim's jaw. "I love you too. Even when you're being territorial about fabric."
"I'm not being—" Tim stopped. Looked down at the henley. At the way it hung off Salix's frame, slightly too big, slightly Bruce-shaped. Then he looked at his own hand, which had somehow migrated to Salix's hip, thumb brushing bare skin where the shirt had ridden up.
"Fine," Tim muttered. "Maybe a little."
Salix's laugh was quiet—almost silent, just a soft exhale and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. It was Tim's favorite sound, and Salix knew it, and that was how Tim kept getting manipulated into things like this.
"You can have it back tomorrow," Salix offered. "After I wash it."
"Don't you dare wash it."
The mismatched eyes went wide with mock innocence. "Whyever not?"
"You know why."
"I don't," Salix said, and his voice had dropped, gone softer, more intimate. "Explain it to me."
Tim looked at him—at the shirt, at the skin, at the way Salix's pupils had blown just slightly. At the small, knowing smile that said Salix understood exactly what he was doing.
"You're a menace," Tim said.
"You like it."
"I love it." Tim kissed him, soft and slow, and Salix hummed against his mouth. "You're still not keeping Bruce's shirt."
"Technically," Salix murmured between kisses, "it's yours now. You stole it."
"I'm going to steal you to bed in about thirty seconds."
"Promises."
---
Forty-five minutes later...
And several rounds of entirely unrelated activities that left Tim sweating and Salix looking infuriately pristine—Tim's phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He reached for it blindly. Squinted at the screen.
Bruce: Is Salix wearing my henley?
Tim stared at the message.
Then he looked at Salix, who was curled against his side, the gray henley now discarded somewhere on the floor, replaced by nothing at all.
Tim: How did you know
Bruce: Alfred mentioned the laundry count was off. And then Selina sent me a picture.
Tim: Selina was in Osaka??
Bruce: Apparently. Salix didn't kill her.
Tim: She's not a villain.
Bruce: She stole a car.
Tim: That's Tuesday for her.
Bruce: Tim.
Tim: Yes
Bruce: The shirt.
Tim looked at the floor. At the gray henley. At the way the fabric pooled like a puddle of Bruce's existence in the middle of their bedroom.
Tim: I'll mail it back
Bruce: Keep it. Just tell him to stop scent-marking my belongings.
Tim: He says you can't prove it was him
Bruce: I can prove everything. I'm Batman.
Tim: He says "Batsy wouldn't narc on me like that"
Bruce: ...
Bruce: Tell him I'm keeping the lotus tea he left in my kitchen.
Tim: He says "that's fine, I have more"
Bruce: Of course he does.
Tim put the phone down.
Salix was watching him from the pillow, head tilted, that cat-like curiosity written across his features. "He's not actually mad."
"No," Tim agreed. "He's not."
"Good." Salix reached out, traced a finger down Tim's chest. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
And really, what was Tim supposed to do?
He turned off the light.
---
Three days later...
A package arrived at the apartment.
Tim opened it to find a brand new henley—identical to Bruce's, but in deep red instead of gray. A note was tucked inside, written in Alfred's precise handwriting:
"Master Bruce thought you might appreciate a shirt that hasn't been through international theft. Do try to keep this one in your own closet.
—A. Pennyworth"
Beneath it, in much messier script:
"Give Salix my regards. Don't let him steal this one too. —B"
Salix, reading over Tim's shoulder, plucked the red henley from the box and held it up to his face. Inhaled.
"It doesn't smell like him," Salix said, almost disappointed.
"That's the point."
"Mmm." Salix folded the shirt neatly—then tucked it into his drawer instead of Tim's.
Tim didn't even bother arguing.
---