Chapter Text
Ages:
Tim: 14
Jason: 19
Dick: 23
Bruce: 40
_______
Tim doesn’t realize that his breath has begun to catch and choke until Jason smooths a gloved hand across his back and the tears get sticky around the domino mask.
The domino mask.
Robin.
Everything from the past two years comes flooding back and Tim starts to tremble like a leaf. Shaky, his nails dig into Jason’s leather jacket and he buries his face into his older brother’s warmth, cementing himself as safe for the first time in— in well, years.
“It’s okay…” Jason soothes, but it’s not.
It’s not.
“Don’t,” Tim shakes his head, shifts his hands from the jacket to Jason’s chest, and shoves. The push launches his brother back with enough force to drag a gasp of air from his lungs and. “Don’t say that.”
Jason reaches for Tim again, almost pleading, but Tim— Robin side-steps out of the grasp.
“It’s not okay. It’s not. You’re not—” he presses his hands to his chest, trying and failing to gather his broken parts together. “I’m not okay.”
“Okay…” the older boy says placatingly, and Tim firmly ignores how wounded his brother looks. “You’re right. This is a lot. You probably have… have questions. So let me fix this. Let me make it right.”
It’s too calm. Tim replays every conversation he’s ever had with Jason in his head and never has Jason been so calm and docile. It’s wrong.
All of this is wrong.
“You— you don't get to just— just come back like—” Like nothing happened? Like Tim’s world hasn’t just popped back into existence on a random Wednesday night? Like all of this is somehow normal?
“You’re right,” Jason agrees, sounding strained. “Please— just…” again, he reaches out for Tim and again, Tim jerks backward. “Please don’t run away from me.”
“I’m not.”
He’s just… “I’m thinking. Can’t I think? Can’t I… I don’t know, have a minute?”
“Tim—”
“—It’s been twenty-six months! Twenty-six months of radio silence and you’ve been… what? Working with the League of Assassins?” Tim’s voice cracks in half, splintering as his hands come up to his face and rip the domino mask off. Wide, blue eyes break free from the white lenses and Tim scrubs at the tears leaking from them.
Jason’s voice is fiery, “You really think I’d work with them?”
Tim reels on him, feeling sick with encroaching nausea, “How many people have you killed?”
And that does it.
His brother shuts down, eyes a sickly green, and balls his fists. “Don’t— don’t ask me that. Ask me anything but that.”
“No. I’ve heard the stories about Red Hood. I’ve heard—” Tim actually shudders and Jason fights every instinct that says to reach out and wrap him up in an embrace. “Pissing off Batman and the Robin threats and. And do you hate me now? Is that it? Is that why you didn’t come back?”
“Hate you?” Jason shakes his head, and the movement is starting to feel like a familiar mimicry of a conversation they’ve had years ago. Back then, though, it had been Tim asking if Bruce and Dick hated each other. “Of course, I don’t hate you. Don’t say shit like that.”
“Then why all the Robin threats, huh? You had to have known it was me. Why track me down and— and break into Titans Tower and why do any of this?” he frantically gestures between them.
Jason shakes his head again and Tim fights the urge to call him a fucking bobble-head. “I never threatened Robin. I was. I was taunting Batman, yeah, sure, but I wasn’t threatening you. I just—” he takes an unsteady breath. “—it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. None of it other than the fact that— that I’m back now and I’m not leaving you again.”
It’s too perfect. Too much exactly what Tim has dreamed about for the past two years. He clenches his fingers into a fist and fights the urge to punch Jason again.
“How many?” Tim presses, louder now. His hands have begun to shake again, but he doesn’t bother hiding them this time. “Because I’ve been hearing things. I’ve been seeing things. Heads in bags, crime syndicates, execution style killings—”
“—Tim, no—“
“How many? You said you’d answer my questions, so answer them!”
His brother recoils, staring down at his hands like he can still feel the blood of his victims on them. “…Enough.”
“That’s not an answer—”
“—I said enough!”
Tim flinches at the venom in Jason’s tone, breathing hard and frantic, vision blurry with tears and Jason staggers back, eyes darting, hands twitching, trying and failing to meet Tim’s glare. “Shit. Tim, I didn’t mean to…”
Tim takes a step backward, twisting his body away. “Fuck you, Jason. You’re too late. I don’t…” His voice breaks. “I don’t want you here.”
Jason reels back as though he’s been shot and Tim feels his heart screaming inside his chest. Pounding bloodily against his ribs and aching, begging to be let out, begging to apologize, to take it all back. He didn’t mean it. All he’s wanted for the past two years was his brother back. That’s all he’s ever wanted!
“Oh,” Jason says, and there’s something in that one syllable that feels like a door slamming shut.
Neither of them moves.
“Oh, I get it.”
“That’s not what I—”
“No,” Jason cuts in, sharper now. Not yelling, but worse. Controlled. “No, I get it. You’ve got it all figured out, right? Black and white. Good guys and bad guys. Nice and clean.”
“That’s not—”
“Must be nice.”
Tim’s chest aches and the blood around his heart begins to spread to his lungs and he can’t breathe anymore. Can’t feel anything over the agony. He sucks in oxygen, but it turns wet and choked. How has this gone so wrong?
Tim wants to take it all back. He wants a redo. Wants to hug his brother again. Hold him tight and not let go until they are both crying happy tears and he wants to pretend that nothing matters more than his big brother being home.
Instead, he stays silent.
“I came back for you,” Jason says, his voice is rough and his eyes oscillating green and blue. “I’m sorry that I didn’t— that I didn’t. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I tried to come back sooner, but…” he shakes his head. “I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”
“Couldn’t.”
Tim grits his teeth, feeling grief pooling in his gut. Jason looks so earnest, so heartbroken, that Tim almost folds. Almost slumps forward and wraps his brother in the hug that he has spent years dreaming of. The hug that he didn’t get enough of earlier.
He shifts in place, fingers itching for an embrace.
The lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
And then the emergency system kicks back on with a low, mechanical hum, red bleeding out into harsh white as the Tower begins to reboot around them. Noises flood the Tower as the cameras begin to come back online and the doors and vents unlock.
Jason’s head snaps toward the ceiling, but Tim doesn’t look away from him. Keeps his eyes on Jason even when the intercom crackles to life. “—Robin? Report. Now.”
Batman.
Right.
He doesn’t speak for a moment, the correct words raw and dangerous in his throat, only choking deeper down his throat when Jason looks at him with rounded, pleading blue eyes.
“Report,” the gruff voice repeats, insistent.
Almost foreign, Tim’s voice crackles out, “This is Robin. We’re, um, it’s all clear. The Tower experienced a major power outage, but,” he looks to Jason. “But no threats were detected.”
“No threats?” Batman repeats through the comm, and Tim isn’t sure if he sounds convinced or not. “What caused the blackout? On my end, it looks internal.”
It does?
Well, fuck.
Tim swallows hard, looking at Jason with narrowed eyes as he exhales, “Yeah, sorry. It was me. I was trying to override the security systems, add in some of my own protocols and managed to trigger an emergency shutdown.”
“Tim—” Jason starts, but Tim flashes his hand out to silence his brother. The crime lord listens.
Batman is quiet for a moment, calculating, and Tim’s entire body seizes up in the wait before: “Understood. Are you…” brief hesitation and then the crack in Batman’s armor as Bruce (the Bruce from before Jason’s death) leaks out, “Are you okay?”
No.
Yes.
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure? Do you need me there?”
“No!” Tim winces at the heat in his own tone and then clears his throat, shaking his head even though he knows Batman can’t see him. The cameras will take at least another five minutes to be back in action. “No. I’m good. Everything’s okay here.”
Everything’s okay, except his dead brother is just staring him down, looking confused and hopeful and looking everything like the grown man that Tim wished for years he would’ve been able to grow into.
Everything’s okay, as long as Batman doesn’t chase Jason away by showing up at the Tower.
“Understood,” Batman repeats. Dead silence hangs in the comms for a beat and then, “Stay tuned. We’re figuring things out on our end as quickly as we can.”
“Yeah, right,” Tim mutters against his own violation. How fast can Nightwing and Batman really be working if they don’t even know Red Hood vacated Gotham hours ago?
Batman, of course, catches the quiet sarcasm and his voice is drained of humor when he deadpans, “What was that?”
“I said, yeah, I know. Thanks. Robin, out.” He clicks out of the comms before Batman can fish a confession out of him, and sighs in relief once his micro-expressions aren’t being listened to on maximum volume.
Jason stares at him, head tilting to the side slightly with a frown. “You didn’t turn me in.”
Tim smiles, but the expression feels tumultuous on his face. “How could I?”
They stare at each other for a long minute before Jason nods slowly and a small smile flickers across his scarred, older face. Cautious, hopeful, he attempts, “Are you going to tell him the truth?”
Slowly, as though the very word may strike him down in a beam of blasphemous lightning, “No.”
Testing fate, “Why not?”
“Because,” but Tim doesn’t know. Not really. All he knows is that: “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. Not again. Not after I just got you back.”
He doesn’t need to explain how letting Batman know Jason’s identity as a fully fledged crime lord is a bad idea. That is, assuming Batman doesn’t already know. Tim is going to be pissed if he finds out that Bruce knew Jason was alive and didn’t tell him. Pissed.
Tim doesn’t actually need to, but for old time’s sake, he attempts a smile and says, “Secret for a secret?”
Jason grins, but it's a sad, lonely expression, “And what secret am I keeping for you?”
Tim scoops up the domino mask off the ground and bunches it in his fingers. “Well, Robin’s secret identity, of course. The OG secret.” And when he holds the mask above his eyes and sticks his tongue out at Jason, he expects to see more playfulness coloring his older brother’s expression.
“Oh,” Jason laughs a stilted laugh and nods. “Of course.”
A heavy beat of silence stands in between them like a stone wall. “Are you okay?”
His older brother shrugs one shoulder, his lips playing with conflicted emotions that he seems to be struggling to nail down. “I don’t like it,” he admits with a tremble. “I don’t like you as Robin.”
The admittance feels like a physical blow and Tim stumbles back as though he’d been struck. Feeling raw and exposed, feeling as though the one thing he did in Jason’s honor has been rejected, he warbles, “What do you mean?”
Jason winces a little, backtracking slightly, “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” Jason furrows his eyebrows and curls his hands into tight fists. “It’s not that you’re a bad Robin. You— you’ve been a great Robin. It’s that I hate you had to be Robin in the first place. Nobody—” his voice cracks into what almost sounds like a whine “—should’ve ever had to be Robin again.”
Tim once again battles the urge to wrap his big brother in a hug, his fingers stretching pathetically at his side. A little helplessly, he asks, “What do you mean?”
The crime lord’s eyes darken into a messy green shade. “B should never have let anyone back into that costume. Not after what happened to me. Not after what everyone let the Joker get away with.” There is inhumane dissent in Jason’s tone and Tim feels both chilled to the bone and strung open and exposed at the venom.
“The Joker?” Tim says, knowing.
He’d found the files regarding Jason’s death over a year ago and he’d read them no matter how badly Bruce and Dick had pleaded and he knows, but he is still sick at the thought. He still feels pathetic, flip-flopping rage in his ribcage next to his heart because he knows and he let Jason down when he, too, did nothing about it.
Maybe if he’d been less focused on trying to figure out every possible way to bring Jason back to life, he could’ve focused on revenge.
Jason’s gaze rakes over Tim, almost distant, before he grunts, “Yeah.” Then he gives his head a quick shake, knocking some of his rage loose and allowing gentle blue back into his eyes. He gestures at the ceiling. “You know, those cameras are going to be live any minute now.”
“Ye of little faith,” Tim sniffs, turning to the control panel and diving into the mainframe with a flurry of keyboard clicks. Within seconds, he gets the feed to loop indefinitely and turns to Jason with a playfully arrogant grin. “See? No longer a problem.”
“You’re quick,” comes the impressed admittance.
“Quicker than B?”
Jason smiles, faint and real. “Probably. Maybe even faster than Nightwing.”
“Psh. Maybe? We’ve competed. I win every time.”
“Oh, have you now?” Jason’s voice takes on a playful, teasing tone and Tim puffs his chest out in response to the doubt.
“Bet I’m quicker than you.”
Jason grins, but before he can challenge Tim to a duel, the kid feels himself replaying what his brother had said about the Joker like a broken record. And there’s something so wrong and untrue about the statement that he can’t help but ruin the moment with a hesitant, “You said nobody did anything.”
His brother’s face falls and Tim instantly regrets his choice of words. Hates himself for never being able to let a subject go naturally.
“Baby bird, it’s fine. You’re just a kid and I’m glad you never—“
Tim shakes his head, “—No. That’s not where I was going with this. What I’m trying to say is that somebody did do something.” His gaze darkens, a bit haunted at the memory, “Somebody did.”
Jason’s voice hardens, “Last I checked, the Joker is still alive.”
“But Di—“ Tim glances at the monitors and frowns. They could be being listened to. “Nightwing did something. He…“ he flounders. “He, um, he beat the Joker to death.”
The room feels stripped of all sense for a moment and Tim, dizzy, wonders if this was the right thing to say. Why, why, why does he always say the wrong things? Why does he never think?
His mother, berating, “Watch your mouth, Timothy.”
His father, tired, “You know, Tim, some things are better left unsaid.”
And yet.
Jason, younger and dead serious, “Brothers don’t lie to each other.”
It’s a long minute before Jason says anything, and once he finally does, it’s slow and deliberate. “He did what?”
Tim nods and rubs at the hairs standing up on his neck. “Yeah. It was—“ his frown deepens. “I don’t remember when it was. But he did. He thought the Joker killed me—“
Fiery rage interrupts Tim’s nervous rambling, “Did that green bastard touch you?”
“No! No. His goons— it doesn’t matter. But he told Nightwing that…” he weighs the memory in his head, and it’s so heavy that it hurts. “He said that I was dead. And Nightwing just… he just lost it. Kept punching him over and over again. By the time he realized I was okay, it was too late.”
He remembers grabbing Dick’s arm and yanking it back desperately and he remembers crying out, begging his older brother to stop.
He remembers Dick not believing that Tim was real. Remembers him getting that glazed-over look whenever he thinks that he’s looking at Jason’s ghost.
(He remembers feeling as though he’s just lost the last brother he has to rage)
A little breathlessly, Jason asks, “But the Joker is…?”
And shit.
Tim really didn’t want to share this part. He’d been hoping Jason would just. Well, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but this sucks. A thousand possible lies blur in his mind until all that comes out is the truth: “Batman.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
The Tower must drop ten degrees in the face of Jason’s wrath and the electric green of his eyes has Tim taking a timid step backward. Those are Pit eyes, through and through. Those eyes, Tim realizes, are Ra’s al Ghul’s.
“Jay?”
“You’re telling me… you’re saying that B brought him back?” Jason’s voice sounds more like a monstrous growl than anything like Tim’s big brother. “That fucking bastard!”
When Jason strikes out and his fists aim for the monitors, Tim yelps out a pathetic, “Wait!”
But it’s too late.
Jason’s fist comes down hard and fast and the entire Tower screams in response. Screens flicker. Alarms sound. A steady red light overhead bursts into existence, battling the white main lights for control and turning the room a messy pink.
His brother doesn’t stop. Instead, he draws his fist up and slams it back down with a grunt. “Fuck you, old man! Fuck you and your stupid motherfucking rules!”
Tim flinches back, shouting, “Stop!”
It falls on deaf ears and Jason delivers another armored punch to the metal. Tim reaches for Jason, then draws back when his brother faces him with a look that could kill thousands. Another punch to the console and the Tower’s hum turns to a shriek.
“Jason! Please! You’re scaring me!”
Everything stops.
(At least, everything important)
Jason stops cold in his tracks and the green in his eyes melts into the warmest, most horrified blue he’s ever seen. “Shit—“ Jason gasps, backing away from Tim and the monitors in newly awakened horror. “—I’m… I’m so sorry.” He stretches his hands over the broken monitors and recoils his fingers in dread.
Tim shakes his head, moving on with a roll of his eyes and feeling his staccato pulse echoing in his ears. “Shut up. It’s too late for apologies! We have to go!”
Dazed, “Go?”
Frantic, “Yes! Go! You fucked the system up again, and no way is Batman going to let me lie to his face a second time about why!”
It clicks for Jason then, and the man nods swiftly before retrieving his helmet from the ground and slamming it back over his head. The voice modulator is back when he says, “Ever ride a motorcycle?”
A wide, excited smile cracks across Tim’s face.
__________
The motorcycle, as it turns out, is every bit as cool as Tim anticipated.
Jason takes them to a small, 24-hour cafe on the outskirts of California. It’s dingy, and three neon letters flicker out, but Jason swears they serve the best espresso in the state.
“I don’t actually drink coffee that much,” Tim admits when they take their seats. He’s stripped into civilian clothes, having left his Robin costume folded neatly on his bed at the Tower, and feels terribly mismatched with Jason, who is still donning his full Red Hood gear sans the helmet.
His brother gives him an odd look, “You don’t? How the hell do you stay awake for work? I practically lived on coffee when I was your age.”
Tim laughs softly, gaze fixated on Jason, trying his best to cement it in his skull that this is real. This conversation is real. Jason is back. “Energy drinks,” Tim finally remembers to respond, a lopsided smile playing at his lips. “Or soda. I love Zesti Cola.”
“Zesti?” Jason scrunches his nose. “Don’t you know that stuff rots your teeth?”
“I’ll send you the dental bill,” Tim deadpans before shifting his gaze to the approaching waitress. He flashes her his best smile, showing off the pearly-white teeth his parents have paid hundreds of dollars for. Jason, catching exactly what Tim is showing him, holds up his hands in surrender and gives the waitress a small grin of his own.
The waitress, Grace, has a smile so saccharine sweet that it puts both of them to shame. “Good evening. What can I get started for you two?”
Jason orders in before Tim can, “One large black coffee and a hot chocolate for the kid.”
Tim’s face burns with embarrassment, and he throws his brother the most dangerous look he can. Refusing to risk the waitress asking if he wants sprinkles and whipped cream like he’s a baby, he catches her attention with a small wave. “I’ll actually do a large cup of Zesti, please and thank you.”
She nods and scribbles on her notepad, “Anything else right now?”
“Hungry?” Jason asks, and Tim expects to see a mocking look on his brother’s face, so he’s stunned into silence for a moment when all he sees is genuine concern. He shakes his head. Jason looks back at the waitress. “That’s good for now, thanks.”
Grace smiles again and sticks her notepad into her apron pocket. “I’ll bring those out shortly,” she says warmly before turning away and heading over to the kitchen.
Tim relaxes into the booth chair, fixing Jason with a narrowed glare. “A hot chocolate,” he huffs, shaking his head in a combination of amusement and annoyance. “Don’t you know I’m not eleven anymore?” Puffing out his chest slightly, he proudly adds, “I’m a teenager now. Just like you.”
Playfully, “Oh, so you’re all grown up?”
“That’s right,” Tim nods firmly. “No more PeeWee sports and Capri-Suns.”
Jason raises his eyebrows in faux horror. “No more Capri-Suns? Well, shit, it’s no wonder you look so depressed. Gotham’ll miss you, kid.”
The joke lands strangely on Tim’s brain and while he cracks a suitable smile, it’s hard to ignore how his heart aches at the comment. Somehow, as though there aren’t two years of distance between them, Jason notices. His expression softens just barely, and when he speaks, his tone is less biting than before: “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Tim shrugs, looking down at his hands. “No, it’s okay. I know,” his voice warbles around the words. “It’s just. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
Any trace of Jason’s previous teasing energy morphs into warm worry, “Tell me, Timbit. What’s happening in that too-big brain of yours?”
Silent for a moment longer, Tim avoids any eye contact. Then, quietly, as though his voice might betray him, he starts with, “They diagnosed me with depression after you died. I don’t… I don’t take meds for it or anything, but, yeah. I don’t know. Sorry for ruining the moment, I’m not used to…” he gestures vaguely between them, watching curiously as Jason angles himself closer. “This. Anymore.”
Jason sighs softly, and when he shakes his head, Tim feels his heart pitter-patter nervously against his ribcage. He preps himself for just about any kind of response, but all Jason says is, “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
Tim shrugs. Nods. Admits that “This feels like a dream.”
His older brother leans back in the booth and runs a hand through his black (and white?) hair. It takes Tim a moment to connect the hair change with the Lazarus Pit, but once he does, a crushing sense of guilt overcomes him. Jason should never have had to go through that. “Sorry. I’m not trying to ruin the moment, or anything. I’m happy you're here. Like, really happy.”
Gently, Jason says, “You don’t have to explain yourself. I get it. Feels like a dream to me too,” he laughs, but it's dry and mirthless. “Or maybe a nightmare.”
“A nightmare?”
“Well, yeah. Once Bruce can’t reach you at the Tower, he’s going to come scrambling down here, probably with Dick, and I swear to Krypton if I have to deal with them tonight, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
Grace comes back then, setting two large drinks down in front of the boys, excusing herself with a smile and a small nod. Tim jumps at the chance to caffeinate, grabbing his cup and sipping at the foam. “But you came to me.”
Jason grabs his coffee but doesn’t take a drink yet, his gaze too intently fixated on Tim, “I came back for you. You can hate me for being gone so long, I’d understand, but you were the person I fought for. The person who brought me back from the edge and gave me a mission. You, Tim. Not Dick. Definitely not Bruce.”
“Oh,” Tim doesn’t know how to respond.
The young teen decides, “Dick missed you— a lot. I think… I think he’s worse off than he lets anyone believe. Sometimes it scares me.”
“It scares you?” Jason prompts, and Tim shrugs. Nods again. “What do you mean?”
In lieu of a response, Tim takes a long sip of his Zesti, prompting Jason to taste his own drink, finally. Quietly, mostly to himself, he mumbles, “Damn, that’s good stuff.” Tim gives him an amused look, and Jason laughs softly. “What? It’s the best coffee in Cali, hands down.”
“That’s why I stick with Zesti. It tastes the same everywhere.”
Jason deadpans, “No, it doesn’t.”
Tim folds, “No, you’re right. It doesn’t. It’s pretty good here, though.”
Before the moment can slip too far away, Jason catches it in his hands and passes the reins back to Tim. “What’s Dick been doing?”
Shrugging, Tim takes another sip of his soda. “I don’t know. The usual. Crime-fighting, making out with people, fighting with Bruce, being all I’m-the-great-Dick-Grayson-and-I-run-this-place.” He frowns and curls in on himself slightly. “I don’t know. He’s getting better. Slowly. I think he’s even in therapy.”
“Therapy?”
“I know,” Tim agrees. “It surprised me, too.”
Jason’s thumb smooths over his mug. Cautiously, he asks, “How about you? Did you ever do therapy?”
It’s a difficult question. Tim wishes he could escape it. But to escape it would mean leaving Jason behind, and Tim never wants to let his big brother out of his sight again. He forces a long exhale out and sets his half-drank Zesti on the table. “Kinda? My dad suggested it after the whole depression diagnosis last year, but I only went to one session. It’s not my thing.”
Seeming genuinely interested, Jason prompts, “Why not?”
It feels like an interrogation. Tim pushes through anyway. “Is it conceited to say I’m too smart for them? Like,” he rubs at the residual adhesive around his eyes from the Robin mask. “Every time he said something, I could just tell he was repeating nonsense from a conglomerate of self-help books, and it was just so… dumb.”
Jason grins but tries to hide it by taking a long drink of his coffee.
“What?”
“Sorry,” Jason says, trying not to laugh. “But conceited? Conglomerate? Kid, it’s no wonder you thought they were dumb. You’re basically a walking dictionary.”
“Oh, shut up,” Tim crushes his straw wrapper into a small ball and flicks it at Jason, hitting his square in the forehead. “Those are normal words, Jason. It’s not my fault you’re uneducated.”
“Wow.”
Again, a little more defensive, “What?”
Jason shakes his head, feigning disappointment to cover up his amusement. “Playing the poor card with me? That’s low and you know it, Mr. Fancy Pants Boarding School. Just remember, I have more years of school in my repertoire than you do, and I’ve been legally dead for two years.”
Tim squints at Jason, unsure how it feels to be joking about Jason’s death, about the most traumatic thing Tim has ever experienced, but then he laughs and nods. “Okay, fine. Fair enough. Play the dead boy card. See if I care.”
“Dead man card,”
“You’re still a teenager.”
“But I’m also an adult, Timberlina. Put some respect on my age, I worked hard for it.”
They both smile, but there’s a shift in the air that has the mood settling into something low and cold. Tim drinks more of his Zesti and avoids eye contact, while Jason’s smile slowly morphs into a soft frown. Neither of them speaks for a long moment before Tim says, “I missed you, Jason.”
Jason looks up, and Tim catches the faintest trace of tears in his eyes. His heart aches at the sight, but Jason just says, “Yeah, buddy. I missed you, too.”
Tim finishes off his soda and sits back in his booth. “We have so much to talk about.”
Jason grins. “I have all the time in the world.”
And the world might be going to shit around them. There might be a robbery a couple of blocks over. Batman and his plethora of vigilantes might be flying to California to track down a runaway Robin. Tim might be the runaway Robin, and he knows he’s about to be in endless amounts of trouble.
But he doesn’t care.
He has his big brother back.