Baldur's Bane

The Poetic Edda has one thing right: mistletoe is a pain.

The batboys and their mistletoe machinations.

Some stand under the mistletoe. Some have mistletoe thrust upon them.

There is no worse time to live in the city than during the holiday season. Traffic is more congested than usual, public transit is overcrowded with both travelers and their purchases, and outings have to be plotted with more precision than most military operations. And if the cutthroat soccer moms in retail lines aren't brutal enough, there's always an uptick in criminal activity, Gotham's villains cooking up more than just Christmas ham.

And speaking of Christmas ham—

"Where are you?"

Your grocery bags leave angry stripes on your arms as you manage to adjust your phone between your ear and shoulder. Not for the first time, you consider going hands-free. You're sure your boyfriend would hook you up with something considerably higher tech than a Bluetooth, though, so you don't mention your struggle.

"Sorry?" you say, lifting one overburdened arm to plug your other ear.

"Are you home?" Tim sounds out of breath. "Please tell me that's the television I hear in the background."

You look around at the holiday crowds in the shopping center. "Um. It's the television?"

Tim mutters something unintelligible. It might be a curse. "Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you."

You open your mouth to reply, any number of comments sitting on your tongue, but he's already hung up. He always forgets the niceties when he's stressed; you try not to take it personally. You also don't bother to ask how he knows your location, instead staring down at the dark screen of your GPS-emitting phone with something akin to betrayal.

Hero-types. Honestly.

Though he instructed you to stay put, you're sure Tim didn't mean for you to stand in the middle of foot traffic, so you move off to the side. There's a bench in sight of the complex's garland-wrapped stairs and accompanying escalators, and you gratefully sit, bags splaying around you. Your arms protest the sudden return of circulation. Nothing in your immediate vicinity strikes you as alarming—other than the weirdly breathy rendition of Santa Baby playing over the loudspeakers—and you consider checking your news feed to see what has Tim in such a tizzy. Is it another mechanical Santa gone rogue? Are the roads being converted to ice rinks via freeze rays?

How soon does this food need to be refrigerated, anyway?

You have a Christmas potluck at work to prepare for, and then a few last-minute gifts to worry about purchasing before you can even think about settling back and enjoying the holidays. Just sitting here listening to increasingly bad covers of Christmas songs has you feeling antsy.

In your distraction, you almost don't notice the creeping greenery.

There's no shortage of people-watching to be done in the heart of Gotham, the city drawing people from all walks of life. You're playing the old stand-by game, How Many Hero Shirts (twelve so far, and one shirtdress with bat symbol print,) and you can't help but note that there're a lot of handsy people out today. There's a couple making out on the escalator, stumbling as their steps level out with the floor. Two others bump into a column near you, locked together in a passionate embrace. You're starting to feel like a voyeur, actually, your eyes darting around to see more coat clad figures succumbing to… what? Holiday spirit? Where's the sense of decorum?

Your eyes meet the scrunched gaze of a kid, probably eight or so, whose parents are getting a little too friendly nearby. Both of your expressions say the same thing: what the hell? Or, in his case, heck.

And then you see the mistletoe.

"Only in Gotham," you mutter. There's no one in hearing range (who isn't otherwise engaged) to hear you let loose a string of colorful words, and you gather up your bags, heedless of Tim's previous warning, and make toward the nearest exit. The greenery stretches along the walls and vaulted ceiling of the complex, spreading ever further even as you watch. The skylights are quickly being overtaken, the natural light choked out by waxy leaves. It's unmistakably mistletoe, berries hanging in clumps of both red and white, although you've never heard of it growing as a vine. It's beautiful… and ominous. Somehow, you don't think the glimmering substance drifting off of the leaves like clouds of golden pollen is anything as innocuous as craft glitter.

Your nose itches, and you valiantly repress a sneeze.

There are other shoppers rushing past, and only some of them look aware of the possible danger. A pinch-mouthed woman with an oversized purse marches past, glaring at the living décor, and you realize that some of the pedestrians are just willfully ignorant. Apparently, some things are more important than Poison Ivy's (because who else could it be?) newest gambit, although you can't imagine what. Maybe Kirklands is having a sale.

A sudden tug scatters your thoughts of country chic bargains, and you're dragged into an emergency exit hallway before you have a chance to protest.

"Sorry for the ambush, but we have to go." It's Tim. Of course it's Tim.

You note that he's in civilian clothes, eyes unmasked, and you open your mouth to question him, but he half-turns, looking around with suspicion, and you see a peek of red beneath his coat. Ah. You'd bet anything that if you checked his pockets right now, you'd find a domino mask.

"That's awfully sloppy for you," you tease, nodding to his outfit when he meets your gaze with a quizzical look of his own.

He looks down, then hastily buttons his coat.

"I didn't exactly have time for a full costume change," he says, mouth flat, but eyes crinkling up. He lifts your bags from bloodless fingers and jerks his head toward the glowing exit sign. You'd ask about the alarm on the door, but you're almost certain that he came in this way.

"Are you going to or from an engagement?" You're careful with your phrasing even when you think you're alone; it never does to assume around here. Not when the walls have eyes and ears.

"I'm in the middle of an engagement," he says, emphasis on "engagement." He hoists the bags up higher, readjusting. "Did you buy rocks, by any chance?"

You trail behind, through the door and into a service alley. There's a sleek car there, parked no-doubt illegally.

"They were on sale," you say, rolling your eyes. "If you can't handle them, I can take them off of your hands."

The car's tiny trunk pops open, the parcels quickly wedged inside. Tim turns with a tiny grin and a raised eyebrow. "I think I got it."

"Baby."

"Oh, are we doing pet names now?" His grin grows, widening to near shit-eating proportions. He leans against the rear bumper, keys spinning in his hand, and you want to wipe the self-satisfied look off his face.

Preferably with your face.

Something must show in your expression, because Tim's smile flickers and he's suddenly in your space, eyes shifting from warm to analytical. He reaches up and brushes your shoulder, and you glance in surprise to see a fine dusting of golden powder puff beneath his fingertips.

"Well," you say, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. "That's… probably not good."

Tim's mouth is a hard line. "Nothing life threatening, but—" He rubs his fingers together, the dust dissipating. "I'm taking you home."

You're ushered into the low-sitting sports car, Tim sliding into the drivers seat a half second later. There's no music to distract you from your growing anxiety, and no police scanner either. Tim, when you glance at him, looks distracted, though his eyes are on the road, and his driving smooth as he slips through traffic. Your eyes keep slipping to his mouth, and you berate yourself for it. You're as bad as the shoppers in the—

Wait.

"Did Poison Ivy infect the city with sex pollen?"

Tim grimaces, eyes flicking to yours and then away. ""Sex pollen" is a bit of an overstatement. There's certainly some kind of aphrodisiac element to the plants, but we don't think it's anything strong enough to break through preexisting reservations."

"So people aren't jumping each other in the street right now?" You look out of the window as if to check, but you've already passed the last of the spreading greenery. There were several blocks infested with it, though.

He looks uncomfortable. "I didn't say that."

"Shouldn't you be out there?" Not that you aren't thrilled to be out of the thick of it—who knows when the plants might start to choke their victims with something more than pollen—but your boyfriend is kind of an important person to the city.

"I was—actually, I was one of the first on sight." He shifts in his seat, taking the turn into your apartment's parking.

You stare at him.

"Are you—?" Realization dawns. "You weren't wearing anything over your face."

Tim parks the car, but leaves it idling. "…No."

You lean over, turning his chin so that he's looking you in the eye. His pupils are blown.

"Oh my god," you say.

"Like I said, nothing life threatening." He shifts in his seat again. "Just—uncomfortable."

You almost laugh, but—no, that would be mean. And frankly, hypocritical, because you're feeling "uncomfortable," too.

You regard each other for several breaths.

"Well," you say at the same time Tim says, "Do you—?"

You both stop, and then, with a mental shrug, you decide to just go for it.

Your seatbelt clicks open with a startlingly loud crack, and you let it sling back toward the window even as you duck under the low roof of the car and shimmy over the console. It's not a car designed for spontaneous lap-sitting, but you think you can make do. Tim, quick on the uptake, slides the seat as far away from the wheel as it will go—not very—and immediately brackets your hips with his hands.

"We could just go insi—" he starts, but you cut him off with a press of your lips. He doesn't protest after that.

The angle isn't great, and there's a little movement as Tim tries to lean the seat back, but you ignore the twinge in your neck and move your mouth against his, his lips softening into compliance. You curl your fingers over his shoulder, your other hand traveling up to grasp dark strands of hair, drawing a little sound from him when you tug. You draw back and he reels you back in, one kiss turning into a flurry of not-quite closed mouth kisses. You breathe a sigh against him, happy to have him here, regardless of the circumstances, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding sweetly against yours.

You're a little more frantic now, and a lot less reserved. The pace of your kisses quickens, your breaths coming in short pants. Beside you, the window is fogging. Tim's hand slips beneath your shirt, palm like a brand over your spine. You shift, bringing your bodies closer, and your hips press into his, and oh—

"I think," Tim rasps, breaking away with a gutted sound, "that we need to get out of this car before we get arrested for public indecency."

You run your thumb over his lower lip, and he turns his head to nip at it.

"You want to do indecent things to me, Tim Drake?" You mean it to sound coy, but it sounds more like a plea.

Tim reaches behind you to open the door, his chest pressing against yours. Cold air rushes in, but that's not what has you shivering.

"I have a list of indecent things I'd like to do to you," he says in your ear. "Would you like to go alphabetically or chronologically?"

It's probably the nerdiest dirty talk you've heard in your life, but you're already clambering out, Tim hot on your heels.

"Oh!" you say, starting to turn. "The ham."

Tim makes a sound not unlike a growl. "Forget the ham; you're coming over for Christmas dinner." His hand is on your lower back, already guiding you away.

You open your mouth to protest—it's not for you, it's for the potluck—but then his words sink in.

Coming over for—

Oh. He's inviting you to the manor. With his family. Of superheroes.

You stumble up the stairs to your apartment in a sort of daze, but then Tim is commandeering your keys and bundling you inside, mouth on your neck, and then—

And then you don't do much thinking at all.