"Right in front of my salad”

year of the otp event 2025 April - pranks • "right in front of my salad” or right in front of his coffee. 

“So, I’m officially a partner—the second name on the door,” Tim announced, brandishing his mug at the glossy certificate perched atop a mahogany conference room table big enough to host a small wedding. Gotham’s skyline glared back through the floor-to-ceiling windows, unimpressed.

He kicked back in a leather chair, socked feet hovering just above the spot where his name—trailing right after Raveena Rathore—was etched: “In a private investigation agency, no less.”

Raven sighed.

 Without so much as a glance at the license, she corralled Tim’s legs and dumped them off the table, forcing him to abandon his precarious lean and face gravity’s reality. That, more than any paperwork, convinced Tim this wasn’t some elaborate Bat-family prank. Raven— no,  Raveena — had actually gone and made it official.

What on earth was she thinking?

Official partners huh, Tim mused. 

“Licensed for all of New York State,” Tim pressed on, undeterred. Raven’s only reply was to perch herself on the table, swipe his mug, and drain it with the kind of dedication usually reserved for exorcisms. Still, she kept her silence.

“At least we’re shooting for the stars,” Tim quipped.

Raven, who had long since graduated from Teen Titan to just Titan (early twenties, after all), huffed, a particularly familiar exhale of air. It was the same sigh she used when Tim suggested sparring after PT: world-weary, battle-ready, and utterly resigned to his per ported suggestion.

The type that spoke of surrender to the inevitable. An expression of put upon patience so familiar in his partner, that his heart softened. 

Tim wasn't even upset anymore.

He hoped it didn’t show. After all, she’d trained him to keep his mind locked up tighter than Arkham was supposed to be, just as his crusade was to eliminate any perceived weakness and thought her how to dodge a punch. [rubber bullet, arrow, actual bullet, batarang, and so much more]

“I want us to help people,” Raven finally said, her voice alight with purpose. Tim realised he was glad—relieved, even—to be her partner in obsessive mission. 

Raven, by her own action of registering the license in both their names, was a lone wolf no more.  Raven had chosen him, Time Drake to help her make a difference. “And I want us to be protected when we do it.”

Tim grinned at her use of “when.” With her compulsion to help and his need to investigate death, any puzzle, trouble was less a possibility and more a calendar appointment.

He didn’t bother pretending to be annoyed anymore. Raven was right, as usual. And honestly, this was peak Raven—turning a loophole into a license to snoop.

The police might not love nosy civilians, but with a license and a client, Raveena Rathore and Tim Drake could ask all the questions they wanted. 

If the answers were lies, well then Tim’s knack for reading micro-expressions and Raven’s supernatural empathy meant no secret was safe.

The clients might not always like the truth, but Tim knew neither Raven nor Tim would rest until they found it.

“A Fortune 500 CEO by day, private eye by night. My LinkedIn’s going to need a bigger font,” Tim joked.

“How could mere mortals possibly fathom the minds of the ultra-rich?” Raven shot back, gesturing to now-empty pilfered coffee mug.

“Possession is 9/10s of the law,” Raven quoted, as Tim raised an eyebrow at her audacity.

Tim snorted, refilled her coffee mug, got another one for himself and settled in. Raven moved to the story board—practically a mattress—already plotting out their latest case, all red string and wild theories.

And just like that, they were in it together—embroidered into the next big mystery.