Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART 1

He hasn't been spending much time in the Cave lately.

But today, Steph leaves on his work phone the message all hands on deck, in a firm enough tone that makes it difficult for Tim to ignore. For once, she's playing the middleman between Bruce and the rest of them, which is unusual enough in itself; Bruce is hardly ever on good terms with more than one of them at a time, and frankly Steph isn't typically that person.

It's only when his bike comes to a halt in the back of the Cave that Tim realizes he's vastly underestimated the gravity of the situation. All of them are present—save for one whom Tim won't even dare think about—including Dick who's supposed to be off-world last he heard. 

He, Steph, and Duke are huddled behind Bruce at the Batcomputer, while Damian stands off to the side, arms crossed and restless. Cass sits perched nearby, of course the first to notice his approach, but she gives him an unreadable expression instead of her usual smile.

Tim's already-elevated heart rate ratchets up even further. What's wrong—where is he?

The 'who's injured?' refuses to unstick from the back of his throat, and instead what comes out is, "What's the situation?"

None of his contingencies will matter in a moment, his mind screams, unfair, unable to be turned off, never letting him rest. If no one tells him within the next five seconds whose body it is they need to bury, he's going to turn to stone.

Steph and Damian are frowning at the computer, but Dick turns towards him with a tight smile. "It isn't that anything's happened—yet," he says, before he lowers his voice and continues. "It's April 27th tomorrow."

It takes a beat for the words to register, which is a beat too long; Tim files that delayed reaction, carefully compartmentalizing, squeezing the feeling of inadequacy into a little room in the back of his head and throwing away the key. He feels it clouding his mind, compromising his judgment and reaction time. How long has it been? Over forty-eight hours without sleep this time? More?

Although Dick's frown deepens, Tim's already moving on, brushing the mistake away like second nature. "What's Hood doing?" he says, to the point. He stalks forward to the rest of them but stops just as he gets a partial view of the screen.

"He's heading there," Barbara's words come from the speakers, and although they aren't hidden behind Oracle's mechanical voice they're hardly any less blunt.

"Here?" Steph says sharply. "Why?"

"Tt," Damian makes his noise of disdain that, while only mildly irritating at the best of times, now grates harshly on Tim's nerves. "It is obvious. Hood means to make a scene, as he always does when he involves himself with us."

"ETA: four minutes," Barbara warns.

Dick curses under his breath. "Steph, Duke, get out of here. Damian, go upstairs too. He'll only feel cornered if he sees all of us here."

Tim feels far away and blank. Bruce hasn't said one word so far—Tim can't even see his face.

Protests come immediately from Steph and Damian while Duke sets his jaw stubbornly, and of course Cass doesn't leave either. Barbara signs off now that she's said her piece. Dick is growing increasingly frustrated at being ignored. It's escalating. Another argument amongst a sea of them, rushing to the surface, crashing against the shore like waves in a storm.

"Why does this matter?" he says abruptly, just as terse as Bruce ever is. They all turn to him, incredulous, but all he feels is his annoyance turning to something far uglier. "Is this what you called me here for?"

Steph's bafflement lasts for precisely two heartbeats before she says, "What the hell, Tim? It's the anniversary—"

"Of his death. I'm aware," he snaps back. "That's it? This was your 'all hands on deck'?"

Christ. Why are they wasting his time?

A roar echoes in the Cave. Faint at first, coming from a distance, but once it's right behind him he feels it in his bones, his head pounding, relentless.

The motorcycle revs once before cutting off. Tim turns around deliberately, clenching his fists by his sides, whether in nerves or in anger, he doesn't know.

Jason stands there, helmet tucked casually against his side, the prodigal son returned in all his glory.

"Nice little reunion we're having," he says casually, making no move to come any closer. "My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail."

There's a change in the air, a blanket of discomfort settling over all of them, palpable and suffocating. Duke is the newest and it shows, letting out an involuntary sound that speaks of guilt. Tim can hear Steph's low exhale from over here, and can feel the irritation radiating from Damian in waves. Even Cass seems to shift slightly, but he doesn't think it's in discomfort but rather uncertainty.

Bruce is the only one who doesn't move.

"Alfie not here? Now that would've been a party." He tuts. "Unless none of you are helping him upstairs again. For shame."

"Jason," Dick says calmly, but he doesn't seem to have any other words for once.

This is so typical of them that it just fills Tim with disgust. Handling things with delicacy, playing one big happy family that's just concerned about protecting all of them, but when it actually matters, no one can say anything.

Jason raises an eyebrow, unimpressed and uncaring.

"You know, I was here about a case," he drawls, jerking his head towards the mountain of files at the far end of the Cave, "but clearly the rest of you have something else in mind."

There's expectation, a beat and a held breath—and, finally, a scoff.

"That it from you lot?" Jason's voice rises in disbelief. "… Yeah, no, I'm out of here. Not dealing with this right now."

Tim knows his faculties are compromised. He's been slow on the uptake today and this is no different, but it really only hits him when he has the thought that Jason doesn't have a domino to hide behind today.

Then Bruce says:

"Don't go."

Tim deliberately does not look at Bruce, but he can tell from the corner of his eye that he's finally turned away from the computer. He's looking at Jason intently, his voice as close to vulnerable as it ever gets. Tim doesn't understand why; of all of them, Jason is hardly the one that needs coddling.

Jason's eyes are a bright, fierce green, unyielding.

"We want you to stay." 

Tim registers the words, but they couldn't have possibly come from Bruce.

They've always acted like this towards Jason, as though that hair-trigger temper is always ready to blow, and empirically, that theory is most likely to hold true. Treating Jason as an unknown, a volatile factor, simply makes the most sense.

Which is why the way Bruce says, "Please," makes Tim's chest tighten.

The two of them have always had something, a different sort of relationship than Bruce does with him, Dick, or even Damian. Tim doesn't have the right to make judgment on what constitutes as healthy boundaries or not, but what they have is a special kind of fucked up. He has his own baggage, of course, with Bruce and Jason both, but he tries so desperately to deny how needy he is when it comes to them. That he craves the pure, unadulterated love in Bruce's eyes to be directed at himself for once.

He's projecting again. Nip it in the bud, Tim, for Christ's sake.

"You know, I'm kind of inclined to agree," he finds himself saying without meaning to.

It startles everyone. Tim's imagining the little twitch from Bruce, perhaps, but for the first time in a good, long while, he finally has everyone's attention. It doesn't feel as good as it ought to be.

"He wants to leave. So leave," he directs at them and then to Jason, who's turned away and ready to go.

"What the hell," Steph snaps in the way she does whenever she thinks he's being more of an asshole than usual. "The Joker's out of Arkham, he can't just go out there!"

Tim hadn't known that, but it doesn't really make a difference, does it.

"He can do whatever the hell he wants," he says bluntly, annoyed at the way Steph's talking over Jason. Tim says it to all of them.

He finds himself staring at Jason's back, sturdy and strong as it always is. Tim wonders if he cares too little, or if the others care too much.

And Tim wonders how Jason feels.

"We're just worried about you, Little Wing. It's good that you came here," Dick says, somehow trying to placate them all at once.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Jason says bluntly. "I don't need this shit right now."

Tim doesn't pity him.

It isn't pity, because that implies that he thinks Jason's helpless in all this, which is obviously untrue considering he's making the rational decision to stay out of things tonight.

No, what Tim feels is empathy.

He knows what it's like to have every little action be scrutinized, like his so-called family is holding him to some impossible standard—which inevitably disappoints them when he can't meet their expectations.

To him, everything suddenly seems very simple.

"What do you need, then?" Tim asks, because it's the only thing that feels right. He looks at Jason plainly even though he can't see his eyes or expression anymore, even if he doesn't know whether Jason cares about what he says at all.

But Jason turns to look. His gaze flickers over to Tim, just as intense. He's waiting.

Everyone else is projecting, too. Projecting whatever hang-ups they have about this onto Jason, and Tim's as fed up with them as he is with himself. In the end, it doesn't matter what they think—it doesn't matter what Bruce thinks, either, and it sure as hell doesn't matter what Tim thinks.

It only matters what Jason does.

"What do you need?" Tim repeats.

A pause—

Then Jason grins at him, sharklike. Feral.

"I could do with some company. What do you say, Timmy, you up for a joyride?"

Chapter Text

Annoying, Tim thinks, that while he feels so at ease at those high society functions, it's these family gatherings that leave him off kilter.

They've been having them more often lately. Dick, naturally, had been the one to insist on the bimonthly movie nights and the weekly dinners at the Manor, going so far as to make a group chat for the "kids"—for which, after a short period of resistance, he'd somehow managed to employ Babs to keeping them from leaving. It's a little too on the nose; as much as Dick wants them to be, the Bats are not and will never be one big happy family. Not even when they've all started patrolling together again.

He knew that today would be particularly unbearable when Steph had written in the group chat, can't make it fellas, cass and i got something in hk that week :((((—while Cass sent a selfie with her thumb, pinky, and pointer extended.

Bruce and Damian are an unfortunate given for tonight's dinner, although Dick, Tim supposes, is fine. But the meal—which Alfred had insisted on preparing, much to everyone's exasperation—actually isn't too bad.

After dessert, Tim meets Alfred in the kitchen. He's relieved to be the first to pull him aside, having wanted to greet Alfred one last time before finally getting the hell out of here.

Alfred sniffs at the gift Tim hands over, but the crow's feet deepening the corner of his eyes give away just the tiniest hint of pleasure.

It's a tin of hard candies. Alfred shared with him once how he'd loved them as a boy, and Tim had never forgotten the nostalgia in his eyes. When he'd seen them in the storefront of a charming little shop in London, Tim knew they'd be perfect.

All that matters is that Alfred likes them.

Tim makes his excuses to slip away but is halted with a pointed look, one that he's grown familiar with throughout the years.

"Master Timothy," Alfred calls out, stopping him in his tracks. "Would you be so kind as to allow me one last request before you take your leave?"

Tim refrains from telling Alfred that literally every single one of them would move mountains for him, because that'd be too cheesy. Instead, he smiles wryly and says, "Of course, Alfred. What did you need?"

Alfred regards him for a moment before gathering a tray from the counter behind him, placing it in his hands. Tim hadn't even noticed it earlier.

"Please bring this to the library. I believe Master Jason has sequestered himself there yet again."

So he's still here.

Tim accepts the tray without a word, carefully keeping his expression neutral. He stares down at it for longer than he means to and he hears Alfred let out a weary sigh.

"I've prepared some sandwiches for you as well," he says lightly, and Tim whips his head up to look at him. "It seems you've continued to lose weight, Master Timothy."

Tim meets his eyes, for once at a loss; he doesn't know what to make of that expression. Something constricts in his chest.

A pause.

"… Thanks, Alfred. Happy birthday again."

He feels lighter on the way to the library.

Tim finds Jason sitting on a plush chair behind some bookshelves, just as Alfred told him he would. It's quiet and peaceful—intimate—and immediately Tim can see why he likes it here.

He keeps his steps light as he approaches, but the soft clinking of porcelain and silverware means sure enough that he isn't trying to hide his presence. The air shifts as soon as Jason notices him; jeez, Tim just hopes it's friendly.

Christ. Friendly. Towards Jason, who he's just disturbed in his hiding place with a platter full of sandwiches and a steaming pot of tea.

Jason raises his shoulders and, for a rather funny split second, Tim thinks he's going to arch his back and hiss at him like a cat; end the night with a simple get the hell out, Pretender—like Tim had never been good enough for Robin. Instead, all Jason does is raise an unamused eyebrow.

Tim doesn't dally on his feet, taking a seat across from him.

"Alfred wanted me to bring you this. Didn't mean to disturb you," he says as an explanation and not an apology. "I can leave if you don't want me here, though."

Jason looks at him and gruffly says, "Whatever. It's fine."

But that's it—that's all he gets.

Tim doesn't mind the terseness, and frankly, he'd expected it. Despite that, he isn't uneasy. In fact, he's daring enough to say, "It's your birthday and your party. I think that means you get to decide who's allowed to attend or not."

He says it more to garner a reaction than any actual desire to make Jay feel welcome, guys! like Dick had told him and Damian mere hours before.

Jason narrows his eyes.

"You're kidding, right? It's for Alfred. All of this ain't for me," he says with a thicker Crime Alley accent than he actually has, as though trying to mock Tim for implying someone like him deserves to have a celebration at the Manor at all. A street rat like me doesn't get shit like this.

The fact of the matter is that he does deserve it.

Three years Jason had spent with Bruce while he was Robin—while he was Bruce's son. His boy, the one he'd adopted and called his before anyone else. Tim wonders how those birthdays had been. He has for a long time.

The first, a hypothetical. Chili dogs in the park and some ice cream for dessert. Tim's learned so much yet so little about a dead boy over the years, the food that he liked, the color that was his favorite—is it still green? The thought has kept him up at night more than once. Maybe it isn't.

The second. A vacation in Europe, and Tim remembers that one had been real. Jason had come to the Manor a twelve-year-old who'd never had any sort of wealth, and Bruce only managed to convince him of a father-son trip an entire year later. August in Vienna would have the perfect weather for a Sound of Music tour, and Tim's sure that must have been beautiful.

The third, and the last. A full eight months before Jason died. Tim draws a blank and realizes he has no idea what they'd done that year—past this ridiculous fantasy he's spun in his head, beyond imagining what it'd be like to celebrate something special with someone you loved—because in reality, he doesn't know Jason.

He doesn't.

But he knows, at least, that Jason had been a sweet kid; Dick's words, uttered on a rooftop with only Gotham and Tim to hear it. He'd told Tim with just a hint of bitterness that Bruce would have given Jason the world, even if he never asked for it.

Tim wonders how he'd reacted when he found out he shared such a special thing with Alfred. And it is special, the thought that Alfred's eyes might have lit up at the realization. Bruce would have known immediately, just as soon as he'd taken Jason in. But Tim can see it in his mind's eye: Jason, small and oh so young, being asked about something he probably thought no one considered important.

Had he been shy? Had he been worried? Had he looked up at Alfred with wonder or with fear, and had he thought, you want to share this with me? or, I'm sorry you have to give this up for me, too.

He hopes for one and not the other. The missing years in between, though—the ones Jason had likely spent with the League—Tim would rather not think of at all.

It's surprising that he hadn't been kicked out immediately. Tim knows he's hardly Jason's favorite person, with his brief attempt at a greeting earlier having been swiftly rebuffed. He reaches for a cucumber sandwich, because if Jason hasn't already yelled at him to leave then he doubts he'll start now.

"Why did you even come, then?" Tim asks offhand, a voice in his head—one that sounds notably like Steph during the countless fights when they'd still been together—shouting at him to stop being an absolute ass. He raises his eyebrows and tries to play nice. "You'd rather not be here. You could've just greeted Alfred and spent the rest of your birthday doing something you actually like."

"What makes you think I'm not enjoying myself right now?"

"The fact that you look like you want to punch me for disturbing your 'me time'."

"If you think this is my throwing hands face then you must really think I'm a thug," Jason says dryly. "I'm reading a book. That hardly constitutes as me time."

Tim hums. "I mean, I wouldn't be surprised. They always did say you were kind of a bookworm." He nods briefly at what's quite possibly the least interesting book there ever was.

Jason huffs, but it doesn't sound genuinely annoyed.

"What about you? Don't tell me you're not a nerd. You probably read textbooks in your spare time."

"Oh, no, I'm definitely a philistine. Haven't touched a book in years." Then he adds, "And more of a geek than a nerd, actually."

Jason looks doubtful. "You're the CEO of WE and Bruce's son. You're telling me you write fan stories in your spare time or something?"

Tim snorts. Actually snorts with laughter, because Jason just—Jason is funny. "Do you? Let me guess… You write about Lord of the Rings?" He snickers. "Lord of the Flies fanfiction?"

"Get the fuck out of my face."

"Animal Farm? Are you a furry—"

"Jesus Christ," Jason cuts in loudly. "Are you actually this obnoxious or am I just special?"

You kind of are, Tim wants to say. He doesn't.

"I'm a trust fund baby. We're all obnoxious."

Jason's expression twitches like he's trying not to make a face. "Had a little too much wine to drink?"

"Bruce brought out the good stuff, actually," Tim said, still amused but trying to tone it down; he might actually be a little tipsy, he realizes.

"What, like the Macallan?"

"Lagavulin 16."

"You're like, twelve."

"Actually, I'm twenty."

Jason leans back in his chair, tucking his legs under him. Tim wonders if he's just as relaxed as he himself feels.

A raised eyebrow. "Still not legal."

Banter. This is banter.

Tim shrugs. "Twenty-one is arbitrary anyway. Age is a number, everything's a social construct, all of that and everything else."

Then Jason lets out a laugh, not quite bright, not quite delighted. It still makes Tim's heart jump in his chest.

He bites his lip, the first time he's lost his composure all night. After a pause that lasts a little too long, he says, "It wasn't that funny."

Jason's grinning now. "This whole conversation is just so unfunny that it's funny."

Slowly, Tim smiles back. "I guess so."

"Do you drink?" Tim asks after he finishes off another sandwich. Sure, they're pretty small, but four is a lot for him to eat before bedtime; a quick glance outside and he thinks it might already be after midnight. "I mean you can, legally."

"Sometimes." Jason shrugs. "Not often. It's not really my thing."

Tim nods. "That's fair."

"It's not because of my parents, if that's what you're wondering," Jason says plainly.

"I wasn't," Tim replies, and it's true.

Jason gives him a long look but lets it go. Shrugging, he says, "I guess you drink because of yours."

Tim takes a sip of his tea, although he's not really into it. "You would be correct."

Jason breaks apart a little piece from a blueberry scone and pops it in his mouth. "Your folks were the globetrotters right? The archaeologists? No bedtime stories for months; that must've been rough."

Tim's gaze is half lidded, but he's the furthest thing from tired. "My parents have never read me a bedtime story in my life."

Jason makes a low sound in his throat.

Tim wants—

Tim wishes that this night would last forever.

Chapter Text

Jason has a thick waist. It's strange to think he knows how it feels to wrap his arms around it now.

Tim needs to stop.

He starts over.

There's something about the thrill of riding a motorcycle that Tim had never understood until he first had one himself as Robin. He's always had a fondness for cars, one that was further fostered while living with Bruce in the Manor, and he'd be a heathen not to appreciate such a gorgeous machine.

There are very few things Tim loves more than the wind whipping through his hair, after all; be it on a bike such as this one or while flying through Gotham's night sky.

Still, Tim thinks he must be a fucking lunatic to be dressed in a six thousand dollar suit—while straddling the motorcycle of Crime Alley's infamous Red Hood, with nothing but four layers of cloth between his crotch and Jason's ass. To be the poster child of "Diamond District trust fund prick" as he races through the streets of the East End on the bike of a wanted crime lord.

He can imagine Jason calling it her or baby, or something to that effect, but the idea that the impression could be completely misguided just annoys him. Tim wishes he did know more. He shouldn't. Jason is dangerous, and he's tried to kill him more than once, and—

Tim thinks he's felt this way with Steph once upon a time, but that had been less… this, and more a codependent-turned-queerplatonic friendship thing.

And now, five years older and a thousand times more jaded, Tim knows attraction when he feels it.

Tim's not an adrenaline junkie. If anything, he's never been able to quiet the voice in his head that all of this is ridiculous: dressing up in spandex—an inaccurate term for their body armor, but he digresses; giving himself a different bird-themed moniker eight times a year; willingly putting himself in situations that ultimately cost him him his spleen. Clearly, he's fucked in the head.

"That's fifteen seconds."

"Pardon?"

Jason lolls his head to the side to raise an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. "That's twenty more seconds of you holding onto me like a tarsier than I thought you'd tolerate. Twenty-five."

"I didn't know you spent much time in Southeast Asia," Tim replies conversationally.

It's for some reason an absurd enough statement that it makes Jason do a little double take. Tiny one.

His traitorous mouth continues. "Tarsiers over koalas, really? Even sloths would've been a little closer to home." At the blank look, Tim continues irritatedly at the fact that Jason isn't following. "Tarsiers are endemic to the Philippines—you chose an animal from there over Australia or South America. It's an odd choice, but I suppose the League made sure you were well-traveled."

"What in the hell have you been smoking," Jason says slowly.

Tim wrinkles his nose. "Nothing lately. It's pretty unfortunate." Jason stares. "I'm kidding. Marijuana is awful for you."

His eyes roam the interior of the warehouse, sideways and up, sideways and up. They're not in Crime Alley.

"We're not in Crime Alley."

He's screwing with Jason, Tim realizes. He is sleep-deprived and screwing with Jason Todd.

Jason turns abruptly forward, and Tim reluctantly lets go of his waist. For a moment, he thinks he's about to be hurled bodily off the bike, but instead Jason just—chokes.

And again.

His shoulders are shaking, and Tim realizes he's snickering.

"I don't know if this was a terrible idea or a brilliant one," Jason barks, more of a laugh really, and it makes Tim smile.

With any other pair of people, Tim thinks this would make a great falling in love montage. But he has never been in love with Jason in actuality, rather the idea of him, and that makes the evening all the more bittersweet.

"Nice place," Tim says, once Jason's deposited him haphazardly onto the couch. "Less safehouse and more Airbnb."

Jason gives him a scathing glare. "Airbnbs are shitholes. At least I've got clean showers and heated flooring."

"Well, I don't need a shower—just got out of one. Well, two hours ago, and the smog in this city kind of renders that moot. But."

That earns him a furrowed brow.

"Didn't you come to the Cave from WE?" Jason asks, gesturing at the outfit.

"I have a shower in my office."

"Does it not come with a bed, too?" Jason says dryly.

"There's a couch and it's rather comfortable. What are you implying?"

"That you've been acting strange all night, and if any of the rogues got out—which tends to happen here in Gotham, I don't know if you've noticed—you'd be useless without a day's sleep."

Tim hums. "Right."

Jason narrows his eyes at him. "You've slept in the last day though. Right? Because you're not actually a moron."

He rolls his eyes. "Dick's schtick doesn't suit you."

"Jesus, why are you Bats so goddamn evasive." Jason throws his hands up.

Tim looks at him with raised, mocking eyebrows. "You, the king of non-answers? The one who plugs his ears up and says 'lalala' any time someone even implies you're one of us?"

Jason bristles. "I am not one of you—"

"Lalala, get real, lalala," Tim says, only for a mug to get chucked at his head. He catches it with polite thanks. "Got milk?"

"I got booze. Are you finally legal?" Jason says, which no, he isn't. He shoves Tim over on the couch, sits with his legs crossed and facing him as he pours himself a finger of something that smells like paint thinner; he knocks it back in one go, and winces.

"That looks disgusting," Tim points out.

"Doesn't taste much better," he replies, sticking his tongue out in disgust.

"You don't drink."

Jason makes to tip some more into his mug. "Who says I don't?"

"You did," Tim says slowly.

His head jerks towards him like he's genuinely surprised that Tim remembers. Of course he does. Tim has thought about that night far too many times since.

Jason had shrugged off his jacket as soon as they entered the living area, but Tim only notices now how domestic he looks. Unlike the underarmor he'd expected, Jason's wearing a tight fitting black tee, high necked like his uniform but without the red bat emblazoned on his chest—no matter how much Jason may insist he isn't part of the family, he can't deny that.

His hair is mussed from the helmet, half of it flat to one side, the other sticking up in his usual messy curls. The shock of white hair is notably missing.

"Your hair's black," he says all of a sudden when Jason starts to look uncomfortable from the silence. Tim pours himself a half-mug of whatever this is and downs it in one go. He glares down at it. "This tastes like gasoline. Why's your hair black?"

Jason wrinkles his nose. "Is this your manic pixie dream girl era or something? Why are you such a weirdo today?"

Tim pours himself another half.

"Jesus, slow down. I don't want you getting sick all over my stuff." Jason rolls his eyes. "I was undercover with Roy. The black and white skunk 'do isn't exactly subtle."

Tim leans in close with half-lidded eyes to tug at his bangs where the lock of white would fall into his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jason says, inhaling sharply through his nose.

"I like the way it usually looks. The white in your hair," Tim replies, voice thick. Because while he can always hold back when it matters, he's never wanted to with Jason.

Jason makes him want to say fuck it—makes him want to jump into the deep end.

He's jerking back and on his feet in an instant, warmth gone, leaving only anger. "You think you can say that shit like you know me? Like you like me?"

"I do like you."

"You don't know me," he repeats bluntly.

Tim nods. "You're right, I don't. But I want to."

Jason growls. "You don't know what the hell you're saying."

You say that like you know me. Tim thinks with a ghost of a smile, and he knows Jason hears the words echo between them, too.

Tim can see how his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, can see the distrust and defensiveness and the poorly hidden panic in those eyes; he tilts his head at the thought that, underneath the many masks he uses as armor, this is Jason's default state.

He takes another drink, slower this time. It's not one to savor, but he figures both of them need time to cool off. Tim from the intensity that's cost him so many people in the past, and Jason from the knee-jerk reaction to being overwhelmed that's been hammered into him by being alone for so long.

Jason lets him drink, and Tim lets him breathe.

After what must be minutes, Jason sits back down next to him and allows Tim to pour into his mug. His hand wraps all the way around it, a sharp contrast to Tim who has to cradle his in both. Tim studies strong, sturdy fingers that must be as calloused as his own steady, slender ones.

Tim wants to see how their hands look pressed together, wants to know how it'd feel with their fingers curled around each other's.

"Do you want to keep drinking?" he asks.

Jason closes his eyes. Maybe he hasn't actually caught his breath.

"… Alright."

They don't talk about the Joker. Instead, they talk about college.

Tim had noticed them on the far wall when they'd entered, even before Jason had turned on the lights. When he realizes he'd been drinking far too quickly on an empty stomach, he'd stood up with the intention of going to the kitchen, but ended up gravitating towards the bookshelves instead.

Jason nurses his own drink and watches him from behind his mug as Tim picks up a volume.

"I thought you were an English major."

"You looked up what I was studying?" Jason says, deliberately light.

He turns the physics book around in his hands. "No, I just figured. You have modules for the GED tucked under your desk, so you've gotten it already. This an elective?"

"It's a gen ed class. Wanted to get those credits before I focused on the courses I'm actually interested in."

"Oh, cool."

Jason scoffs, stretching his legs before throwing an arm over the back of the couch. "Please. You couldn't care less about this shit."

"Guilty." Tim heaves a sigh, facetious. "No, but really—it's great you're going to college. You like it, right? Studying. You always were a good student."

"Bruce tell you that?"

"No, I actually looked that one up," Tim says, and it makes Jason snort. He smiles as he returns the book to its proper place, wanting to straighten the books as they overflowed, but not wanting to disturb the charm of it all. "Back then, I tried to find out everything about Bruce, and that included you. You were always winning awards."

"Why does that sound like you have something more to say," Jason draws out the words.

Tim goes down the list of what he can remember. "You were in the top 5 of your year. A theater kid, just for a little bit. Won a statewide creative writing contest in 7th grade."

Jason gives him a blank look.

Tim blinks charmingly. "Should I go on?"

"The hell? Were you, like, stalking us or something?"

He whistles, tapping a finger over the spines of some poetry collections.

"Tim?"

"Relax." He laughs lightly, looking at Jason with a spark of mischief in his eyes. "This was all publicly available. So—yes, some light internet stalking, but the most I ever did in person was try to catch glimpses of Dick around New York."

"Huh." Jason looks at him, dumbfounded.

"What is it?"

"I don't know why everyone makes it seem like you have some weird stack of photos hidden under a loose floorboard in your room or something."

Tim sputters out a laugh, genuinely surprised. "What? Where'd you get that idea?"

Jason shrugs. "I don't know, man. Dick made you sound like a creepy kid who accosted him while he was out getting groceries or something."

The chuckles die down, and he busies himself with looking over the papers on Jason's desk without really seeing them. He says lightly, "Did he?"

Jason's face isn't visible with Tim turned around, but something changes in his voice when he speaks next. "Hey. I—that sounded different than what I meant."

Tim hums.

"Seriously. He and I didn't get along before—hell, we still don't, now—but you and him? You're his brother. It's obvious he thinks the world of you… What? What's that supposed to mean?"

A noise of disdain had escaped him at Jason's words before he could bite it back. He shakes his head sharply. "Nothing. Forget it."

"Okay," Jason says, and Tim doesn't like his tone. "Wanna play a game then?" The alcohol in his mug sloshes around as he raises it in question.

Tim looks at him with one eyebrow raised. "You seriously want to do a drinking game to pry some secrets out of me?"

"So you are keeping a secret?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Why are you so annoying?"

"Why are you so nosy?"

"Are you seriously going to keep this up?"

"Oh, are you game for another round of Questions?" Tim enjoys being cute.

Jason rolls his eyes at the sass, as though he has any room to talk. "Of a sort. Truth or dare, but you can refuse if you take a drink."

"Oh my god, we're not middle schoolers."

Jason grins triumphantly. "No, because we're getting shitfaced. Now grab the takeout in the fridge so I have something to upchuck."

Tim laughs so hard he bows over.

"Well, the night's still young."

Chapter Text

If Tim were to say he hadn't been hoping for a kiss from Jason during their game of truth or dare he'd be a fucking liar.

But he never thought the night would end up with Jason sprawled on his back underneath him, while Tim ran his hands over his autopsy scars.

"Truth or dare," Tim says before Jason gets the chance to.

To his credit, Jason doesn't look at all ruffled. "Truth."

"Lame," Tim shoots back through a mouthful of beef rendang. It's fucking delicious. At Jason's gesture, he wipes a grain of rice off his cheek and licks it off his thumb. "Thanks."

"The point is to spill secrets, remember?" Jason drawls, uncharacteristically loose-limbed and pliant—it's a good look on him, one of Tim's favorites, and a treat he's never had the pleasure of seeing before tonight. He pops in a piece of fried calamari and chews thoroughly; Tim would bet it's the consistency of a tire by now.

"Gotcha. So… truth. How long has all this takeout been sitting in your fridge, exactly?" Tim asks, amused.

There's a generous spread of dishes around them, packaged neatly into large tupperware containers that had been stacked methodically in the fridge. They're nice and labeled, but he can barely decipher Jason's chicken scratch, only recognizing the food by smell.

"It's not actually takeout. I make these in batches so I always have something to eat," Jason says. Tim had figured as much. A bitten lip, a smug smile—they’d given him away. "Well? What does your Michelin-trained palate have to say?"

He hums, feigning thoughtfulness; Jason's eyebrow twitches.

"You pass," Tim says after a dramatic pause, smiling genuinely because it's been months since he's had a truly hearty meal; the others have expressed that it's no fault but his own. "It's all great. You're a good cook."

Jason looks pleased. "Good. I worked hard to be, you know."

"I'd ask if you learned from Alfred, but that'd be two questions in a row. Besides, Indonesian isn't exactly standard fare back at the Manor."

"You're right. Not gonna give up my answers that easily, Tim."

His smile changes at the way his name sounds coming from Jason's lips. Tim doesn't know how his expression looks now, but whatever level of intensity his gaze is at makes Jason swallow hard.

Tim can't decide whether he wants to flirt or jump straight to devouring him. He doesn't think Jason's as uncomfortable about it as he had been earlier, not anymore. His reservations seemed to have stemmed from awkwardness—whether because the attention had come from Tim or from anyone at all is still up in the air.

Jason looks away. "Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

Jason's sound of disgust makes Tim's shoulders shake with stifled laughter. "You're so goddamn annoying, you know that?"

"How dare I, huh?" Tim blinks at him cutely. "What sort of secrets are you trying to discover? I'm an open book. You could ask me anything while I'm sober and I'd still answer."

Jason looks at him flatly. "No, you're not," he says, blunt. "You're an earnest little shit, but you withdraw when you're crowded. You hate being analyzed even though you’re constantly doing it to the rest of us. You hate being known." And isn't that just a punch to the gut. "You don't like showing yourself to people."

"That's…"

Franker than he'd expected to hear from Jason tonight. Tim sits cross-legged on the floor, four feet away from Jason and perfectly still.

"You were serious about the questions, huh. But I chose dare."

Jason rolls his eyes. "I dare you to do push-ups until you're out of breath."

He makes a face. "Why the heck would you want that?" Tim asks, baffled.

"I want to see how long it takes," Jason shrugs. "Does it matter? Get to it. I dare you."

Tim stares. Then he sighs and shovels some more food in his mouth before getting into position.

"That was your question, by the way. I was gonna choose truth again."

"You're a menace," Tim grumbles. He mutters mockingly under his breath, "Get to it, he says. I dare you, he says. We'll be here all night, you'll see."

"Jesus, okay, I was just kidding," Jason says seventeen minutes and three empty containers later.

Tim doesn't stop the reps. It's not really that impressive, but spite makes it all the more satisfying that he's still as dry as the desert.

Jason fake-swoons, putting on an air like he's a damsel in distress, "Oh lordy, what a big, strong man you are." Another eyebrow twitch when all he does is grunt. "Tim. Ha ha. I acknowledge you are physically fit. You've proved your point."

"I'm barely even tipsy anymore," Tim complains, flopping onto his front. He opens his mouth wide. "Feed me."

"I didn't say dare."

"That wasn't a dare; that was a demand. Oh, we're still playing?"

Jason tosses some grapes into the air, and Tim cranes his neck to catch them in his mouth. One boops off his nose.

"Hey," he pouts.

"I dunno. You seem plenty tipsy to me still."

Tim heaves a sigh, crawling forwards like a caterpillar to grab the grape that'd fallen under the coffee table. He savors the burst of tartness on his tongue, the crunch satisfying, and moans in delight.

Jason sputters out a laugh. "You are so dumb."

"You know you looove me," he says, singsong, and all Jason does is bite back a smile. A win for Tim. "Truth or dare?"

"Is it my turn? Truth."

"Shocker." Tim lets out an exhale, more felt than heard, and decides to ask the question he's been thinking about all night. Quietly—gently, because even he still has some tenderness in him—he says, "We've been here for hours. You're not going to talk about it?"

Jason's expression hardens and he gives Tim a brittle smile. "You're asking me about him."

"No," he says slowly. "I'm asking if you will talk about him."

"Do I have to?"

Tim dips his chin, trying to get Jason to look at him. "You don't need to talk about the Joker. Jason… You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But I'd like to be there if you do."

Jason's smile turns grim. Tim doesn't know what it says about him, that he finds this beautiful on him too.

"The Joker…

"He terrifies me."

"I can't even imagine," Tim replies, subdued.

"No, I'm sure you do." Jason's hands twitch by his sides. He looks distracted, but Tim knows it's more that he's far away. "Everyone's afraid of something. How 'bout you? What are you afraid of?"

I don't know. Not knowing.

Jason Todd died on a Sunday.

He needs to stop calling him that in his head. Now that Tim is finally able to say he's getting to know Jason as a friend—five hours into a night that he never thought he'd get—it'd probably be best to start seeing him as a person.

Tim knows that Jason hadn't died from the beating but from suffocation instead. He knows exactly what his injuries had been, even though at twelve years old he hadn't yet felt the pain of a contusion or a laceration or a fracture—of having your head bashed in by a crowbar. He knows, intimately, the feeling of watching seconds tick by, waiting for someone who will never come.

What is he afraid of?

"Is that your truth or dare?"

Jason shakes his head, and the relief that fills Tim is palpable. "I'm tired of playing."

"We've barely even started."

"We've been here for hours," Jason repeats wryly. "Isn't that what you said?"

Snorting, Tim hoists himself up onto the couch. He waves a hand in a vague gesture, but he feels vulnerable, like he's lying prone and exposed. "You know by now I say a lot of shit. Ignore me."

"It's been hard to." The admission comes with a furrowed brow, irritated, like Jason doesn't understand it himself.

Tim certainly doesn't. "Is that why you brought me here tonight? On our little 'joyride'?"

A snort and Jason's standing up, making his way to the bookshelf where a hard case of cigarettes lies towards the bottom. By Tim's estimate, it hasn't been touched in weeks.

"Want one?"

"I don't smoke, remember?" Tim's eyes drift over his face, his form. "You really want to break your streak?"

But Jason's already tapping one out. Then, he glances frustratedly around the room.

"In the left drawer of your desk."

Jason side-eyes Tim, but doesn't ask how he knows. He grumbles as he grabs the lighter, thankfully—or not—still half-full of fluid. He lights up a cig and Tim watches in silence, wondering how stale they must be, and how stubborn Jason is to put up with it anyway.

"Will those help take the edge off?"

He shrugs. "Hopefully. Fuck knows I need it to get through this conversation."

Lightly, Tim says, "Like I said, you don't have to—"

"Oh, fuck off."

Jason shifts on his feet like he wants to start pacing, practically vibrating with energy. He sucks on the cigarette for a few seconds more before he finally does, but Tim tracks his movements and decides it's not really doing much to help.

"You want to know why I asked you here tonight? I don't know," Jason snaps, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe it's because you look deranged. All of this," he jerks his head at Tim's face, "is a mess even though you've got a hairband right there—you've got two sets of eyebags and you've lost like, what, six pounds? Fuck, and then there's the—"

He stops so abruptly that his bare feet skid on the hardwood.

"The?"

"… The rope burns. On your wrists."

Tim tilts his head, eyelashes fluttering slowly.

Utterly unamused.

He smiles. "Funny; didn't think you'd be a prude."

Jason's cheeks do flare red at that, but it's in pure rage. He bristles, cigarette now crushed in a fist. "You're an asshole."

"It's sweet of you to worry," and it's cruel of Tim to say. But it's true, Jason's a sweet boy, too soft for this life.

"You think the others don't? You do this shit all the time. With god knows who."

"It’s purely consensual, I assure you." Tim leans back and crosses his legs loosely at the ankles. "Jason—"

"I'm not some blushing virgin," Jason snarls. "You think I can't tell the difference between enjoying being hurt or wanting to fuck yourself up? Even tonight, you came here because you wanted to see if I'd blow the Joker's brains out."

No, he didn't. "It all worked out in the end. We had a nice little date night; I had a good time."

He grits his teeth. "You think I'm gonna let this go?"

Tim is cold. He doesn't like himself when he is. Cold is the only thing he ever knows how to be anymore.

"You don't want to talk about the Joker, I don't want to talk about this. Drop it."

"Shut up about the fucking Joker!"

After a moment of stillness, Tim asks, "Then what do you want from me?"

Jason inhales, lets the breath seep out of him. Because it seems like the anger never will. "I don't want to see you ruin yourself."

They sit like that for a long time. Like they're in fucking couples’ therapy. This is the longest night of Tim's life; it's difficult to believe he's not high.

"So, you're not a virgin?" Tim says, head lolling on the backrest to watch Jason from a respectable distance away. He's on the couch again. Tim wonders how the hell they can still stand each other after the conversation they've had. The one they're having.

"No," Jason says, tone acidic.

"I see."

A growl. "Say what you're gonna say."

Tim makes a considering sound. "Nothing. Was wondering who, that's all."

"No one you'd know."

"None of us, then?" Tim already misses Jason's smile and it's barely been thirty minutes. "You got a rule against dating capes?"

Jason huffs out something that someone might consider a laugh, if Tim didn't know that Jason didn't have much of a choice about what happened to him on the streets. "Don't exactly have a lot of options."

Tim gives Jason a placid little smile.

Jason scoffs. Closes his eyes. "Trust me; you don't wanna."

"Why not?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm pretty fucked up," he says it like a fact.

Tim scooches over. Jason doesn't move. "You just called me out half an hour ago for having sex that's neither safe nor sane."

Jason's lips twist, but he doesn't push. Seems like he has more pressing matters on his mind.

"It's with strangers, you know. Most of the time I don't even vet them." He's crawling on his knees now, inches away from Jason, who still won't look at him but still hasn't shied away.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up, Tim."

"What's so fucked up with you that we can't?" He makes to cup Jason's face, and it'll be tender, and Tim will make sure it's good, and Jason will finally feel safe with him.

Jason catches Tim's wrist as his eyes fly open. He stills. He's about to say, 'I can wait', but before he can Jason slips Tim's hand under his shirt, holding the rough pads of his fingers against his stomach.

Tim's lips part, and he moves in closer to Jason, who pulls at his hand even more, desperate, until Tim is sliding his shirt up and tugging it over his head. Tim tips his face so he can see better, half-lidded eyes trailing over the raised scar on his torso—scars. Plural.

He runs his hand over his chest, fingers brushing a nipple, and he gives a hush of apology when Jason hisses. Tim tilts his head. He knows what he's looking at, or at least he thinks he does.

They're ugly and angry; it's as though someone gripped a pen and dragged it violently over paper-thin skin, like they could have been welts if they hadn't already blended into flesh. The Lazarus Pit would have washed any of his scars away. Tim doesn't know what it was like for Jason to hold a knife in his hand and press it to his chest, to cut himself open, again and again, until his body finally couldn't forget.

"I'm afraid of not knowing," he says into the silence, and Jason's brow knits in confusion. Tim doesn't give him time to be upset. He whispers, "I'm not afraid of you."

The clock strikes midnight. It's April 27th.

When Tim kisses him, Jason closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

He goes to Kon first, actually.

Perhaps he shouldn't have. It does not go well.

"Tim," Kon says slowly, brow knitted, "what exactly do you want me to do again?"

They're at the Tower in the training room when Tim asks; he'd figured a neutral space would make Kon feel safer than anywhere else. He was wrong, as it turns out.

Tim hums. "Nothing dangerous," he replies, trying to keep his voice light. It's been a while since he was nervous around Kon, but he shoves the feeling into a little box and keeps it in the dark at the back of his mind. "You'd be… taking control, that's all."

Maybe more, if you could want that with me, he doesn't say. Maybe you could hurt me. Flay me open and leave me for dead.

But Kon doesn't need to know any of that. The occasional lie isn't harmful, and the stakes aren't high, besides. The stakes… All they involve is exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself—and the possibility that he's just lost Kon as a friend entirely.

Either way, he'll be alright.

Little white lies work on himself too, as it turns out.

Kon looks at Tim like he's never seen him before in his life. Like he's the alien one here.

"Are you for real right now?" he asks, and for the first time in a long while, he sounds uncomfortable with him.

The thing is that Tim can't read him, and that's how he knows he's compromised; hell, his judgment had been clouded from the very beginning. When had he started craving this? The discomfort, the disgust, the pain. He'd thought that Kon could give him that, because he trusts Kon more than anyone else in the world. With this. With himself.

"… I'm sorry." Tim tries for distance, for control. He keeps his face utterly blank. "I didn't mean to offend."

"No," Kon says sharply; his expression twists into something ugly, and Tim hates how he'd been the one to put it there. "You didn't. It isn't—dirty, or anything." Oh. He gets it. He knows. "I'm just… Tim, you know I would never hurt you. Not when you get like this."

Tim presses his lips together wryly, unsurprised in the end, because there isn't anyone in his life he can trust with this, apparently. It's fucked up, but this pain is its own sort of pleasure.

He closes his eyes and smiles.

"Of course, Kon. I just wanted to try it—it was probably a bad idea anyway."

Tim isn't being dramatic when he says there's no one in his life he can turn to about this.

Going to Dick wouldn't work. Frankly, Tim doesn't care whether he considers them brothers or not, but Dick is just… He's too good. Too good for this, and too good for Tim. He's perfectly aware that Dick's emotional intelligence is through the roof, and while he's also been known to scorch the earth when backed into a corner, Tim knows he'd never direct that anger towards him. In that way, he and Kon are far too similar; as much as he needs it, they're too unwilling to hurt him.

Steph is out of the question. She just wouldn't understand, even though Tim knows she loves him. She always has, and she always will, and that'll forever be the case for himself, too. He and Steph had been special but they were never going to work. She's too big for this world, one that was never going to contain her, and although Tim has never been small either, now that's what he desperately wants to be made to feel.

Cass, he'd never allow himself to ask. He hates that for the briefest moment he'd even considered it—considered thrusting his baggage onto someone so kind she wouldn't refuse. Cass has had her choices taken away her whole life, has been forced into carving herself out for others, and while she's told Tim she'd never go back to that life… he thinks she'd understand. There'd be no pity from her. So, even if he craves it, Tim just hopes he'll never stoop that low.

Tim doesn't think of Duke and Damian. Sleep evades him that night.

He hasn't spoken to Bruce in months. He doesn't care; he doesn't know if Bruce does, either.

"You sure you can't make it?" Dick's worried for him, Tim can tell, and completely not above letting it bleed into his voice to use it to his advantage. "I swear, Dami's getting restless without all of his big brothers there." The puppy dog eyes make up for the half-assed attempt at a joke.

Tim snorts, rolling his eyes hard enough that Dick's expression turns sheepish, but the twist of his lips still betrays his anxiety. This time when Tim sighs, he doesn't let his phone mic pick it up.

"Yeah, no thanks. You and Duke should be enough to tide him over for now," Tim says wryly. He gives Dick an unimpressed look, gesturing broadly at the papers piled on his desk. "Annual report's coming up and I can't miss this. Not everyone can get away with pulling a Brucie."

Not entirely the truth. Sure, he'd lose his credibility if he bowed out claiming an "unfortunate skiing accident", but he hardly needs to put an effort into these meetings, never has.

"Tim…"

"You know they'll never stop giving me crap about things because of my age, right?" Tim says patiently. "Collins never passes up an opportunity to bring up the fact that I'm a high school dropout, and he's really getting on my nerves."

Eh. He doesn't give a shit what that nitwit thinks.

Dick's brow knits, and that moment of hesitation is the only opening he needs.

Tim swallows. "I just… I really need this win, Dick."

He isn't above emotional manipulation, but Tim knows he's running out of reasons to dodge the family gatherings. Dropping the call, he leans back in his seat, lips thinning as he considers what the hell he's going to do once he just can't anymore.

Tim is nothing if not professional. He doesn't mix work and pleasure, doesn't entertain his secretary's advances or that of any employee under him. It'd be inappropriate and unethical, and he's not going to compromise his position as CEO of Wayne Enterprises for a night of entertainment.

He tells himself it's different with these board members.

A lot of them are family friends, you see. Sylvia Bridge lives in Bristol and had been close friends with his mother, when she'd been alive; William Pierce has had a special invitation to Gotham Museum's annual gala for years, a staunch patron of the arts; Ralph Van Leer had made his way up the ranks of the company through their R&D division, one of the most brilliant minds of his generation.

And Tim is sleeping with all of them.

There is something very, very wrong with him. The others would be furious if they knew, and Tim would be lying if he said that isn't in part why he does it. These men and women have families, have children who are even younger than him, and, if word of this gets out, they would all be ruined.

Compartmentalizing comes easily to Tim, however, and he doesn't feel any of the proper guilt in the pit of his stomach. The dynamics had been blurry from the beginning: Tim had barely been eighteen when this started, but he'd also had the power to destroy their lives with a simple flick of the wrist.

They'd known that and they wanted him anyway. Tim isn't so desperate as to give in to any person who shows interest in him; he certainly has no shortage of options, not that he lets it get to his head. He knows he's attractive. Sure, some people may be interested in his intellect, but he isn't so naive as to think they don't entertain their baser desires, either.

He doesn't get the same thing from this as they do. Tim doesn't care who he sleeps with, but he knows that they want some pretty young thing to tell them how good they feel around him and inside him; they want him helpless under them, love it when he slides onto their laps and cries out, yes, fuck, right there—

Tim should care more than he does.

His family hosts, of all things, a masquerade at the Manor. Tim had been baffled when he heard about it, even more so once he was asked to pick the theme.

"I don't know?" He shrugs helplessly. "The Phantom of the Opera or something?"

Steph gives him an unimpressed look; from behind him, Tim hears Damian scoff.

"Really, Tim? That's the best you've got?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," he replies, shooting her a defensive glare. "Why bother asking me if you're going to shoot down all my ideas?"

"Okay, first of all, your two whole ideas were both half-assed. I mean Dragon Age, really?" She rolls her eyes.

Tim throws up his hands in aggravation. "Why does Bruce want my opinion on some party, anyway?" he exclaims, fed up.

Steph lets out a growl, properly annoyed. "Because it's for you, dumbass."

He stares back. The screech of a freeze frame.

"Why are you guys throwing me a ball?" he asks, utterly perplexed. It's January; his birthday isn't for another six months.

"Just—you know, because you're doing such a good job." Her stutter is supposed to give away something, but Tim has absolutely no idea what it is. Steph fidgets, of all things, which is so out of place that it makes his brain reboot. "You've been working really hard at WE and as Red Robin," she explains quietly. "We just think you deserve a break."

"And you want me to spend this break… hosting a masquerade party?" he says, bemused.

Steph looks away, seeming a bit awkward. Maybe even a little embarrassed. "I dunno. We thought it was a fun idea. I think Cassie was the one to throw it out there."

It's the nickname that makes him pause; Steph's never called Cass that in front of him. Tim blinks, taken aback. "Wait, by 'we' you meant Cassie and the team?" His friends?

"We all miss you, okay?" she says in one huge breath, like she'd been working up the nerve for a while. "You've been kind of distant. This way all of us can be there with you, you know?"

Oh.

"I—"

Tim blinks hard, swallows thickly.

And in the end, he doesn't even need to think about it.

"… Okay," he says quietly. "I'll think about the theme."

Steph gives him a watery smile. "Okay," she repeats. "Thanks, Tim."

But he's the one who's grateful.

It's the most fun he's had in years.

Bart and Cassie and Kon all come to the party. For him. He sees them all the time at the Tower and during missions but it just isn't the same. It's been months since they'd last hung out for real, and though a masquerade is certainly the weirdest backdrop for the four of them, he's just missed them more than he can imagine.

Cassie's beautiful in her long, red dress, which Tim had absolutely known she'd be. Bart, Tim catches giving the hors d'oeuvres doubtful looks, making a face at the taste when he pops one into his mouth. Kon's more dashing than Tim's ever seen him, and it makes his gaze sharpen whenever their eyes meet.

"So, how are the snacks?" Cassie says, raising her eyebrows behind the mask, amused.

"Awful," Bart declares after spitting one out—thankfully, she'd handed him a napkin beforehand.

"The caviar's too rich for my blood," Kon agrees. "Nasty. So's the wine, but booze is booze. Guess I gotta make do," he sighs.

Tim's laughing too much to care about the looks they're given.

He's let his guard down, and that's exactly why he's not tense at all when he feels someone stalk towards him from behind.

"Timothy," someone says tightly, quieting the others.

He raises an eyebrow over his shoulder.

"I'd like to speak with you. Alone," demands John S. Bridge. Major stockholder of Wayne Enterprises, a respected man among these circles, and none other than the husband of Sylvia Bridge, who has been having an affair with Tim for almost two years.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" Bridge hisses. His voice rings out in the silence of the corridor.

"John," Tim says with half-lidded eyes, feigning dismissiveness, "what is this about, exactly?"

"I will not be played for a fool," comes the haughty response, but coming from a man with absolutely no leg to stand on, it's more irritating than anything else. "I know you've been having an affair with my wife."

Tim's eyes widen, utterly insincere.

"Excuse me?" he says, affronted. Disgusted at the insinuation, and although he'd never admit it, possibly at himself. "You can't be serious." He gives nothing away.

When—how had he become this person?

Bridge does not let up, not that Tim had been expecting him to. "I have proof."

"What proof?" Tim scoffs, the disbelief apparent in his expression. "There can't be any evidence of something that did not happen."

"I have photographs," Bridge says simply. "Of you and my wife, alone."

Those photos don't exist, because Tim made sure that they didn't. He's never looked at her in any way other than that of a professional. Tim's mask is impeccable—when he says these words there's nothing but the truth in his voice. He knows that when Bridge confronts Sylvia, she'll say exactly the same thing.

Bridge has nothing.

"I've seen the way she looks at you—"

"How dare you," Tim interrupts, low but imposing, unable to be ignored, "insinuate this about me."

Quiet, slow, dangerous. The venom in his voice makes Bridge falter.

"I am not sleeping with your wife," Tim says slowly, as though speaking to a child. Not a threat, but simply… a statement of fact. "Do you realize what I'll do to you when it turns out your proof says nothing?"

Bridge's mouth parts, but he has nothing to say in the face of Tim Drake's fury.

There's nothing but disdain on Tim's face as he cuts Bridge down, blow by blow, bit by bit until there's nothing of his dignity left. And after what seems like hours:

"You're done, John," he says coldly. "My lawyers will be in touch."

Walking away, Tim counts his blessings that Sylvia Bridge is a woman after his mother's own heart—he'd picked her precisely for this very reason. Tim knows no one will find out.

No one can ever find out.

He can't escape them. Sure enough, as soon as Tim steps back into the ballroom, Kon grabs him by the elbow to drag him to a corner of the room.

From the edge of his sight, he sees the others glancing at him worriedly. Cassie's lips are pressed into a thin line, obviously angry, and Bart looks like he wants to vibrate out of his skin.

"What the hell was that?" Kon says, crowding him against one of the buffet tables. "Tim," he says urgently, "what was that?"

Tim knows what he looks like, the sleeve of his tux rumpled and mask discarded entirely—he just couldn't breathe in it, that's all. He's schooled his expression into one of impassivity, but he feels that the flush of anger hasn't yet receded.

"You were listening?" Tim asks lightly.

Kon doesn't look the slightest bit guilty; instead, all Tim sees in his eyes is worry. "Just the beginning," he says gravely. "I stopped before you said anything."

Tim feels the tight ball in his chest loosen a little. Despite himself—despite all the control he's worked tirelessly to perfect over the years—he feels his face crumple a little, because Kon… He hadn't listened. He hadn't heard. The relief he feels is crushing.

He loves Kon so much. Loves all his friends so, so much.

They love him too. Kon doesn't assume anything, he'd respected his privacy, all he is now is worried for him, even after everything Tim's done to fuck things up on purpose. And when Tim cries—hot, furious tears spilling from his eyes—Kon lets him hide, lets him bury his face against his chest and just be overwhelmed, like he's allowed to be.

Tim hunches his shoulders and cries when he realizes Kon's shielding him from the rest of the room. Cries and cries and cries.

Chapter Text

PART 2

He's been spending more time in the Cave lately.

Tonight is no different. Jason parks his bike in its usual spot right in between Dick's and Damian's, feeling distinctly warm at the fact he has any place here at all. As far as hints go, a parking spot is hardly the subtlest; the only way they could possibly make it any clearer is if his name were stamped on the driveway in big, block letters.

The others would definitely do it too, Jason thinks with a snort, something tugging at his lips when the thought occurs to him. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold himself back.

He kicks open the stand and takes his time, relaxing at the feeling of eyes on him. It's just Cassandra, after all, perched on the dinosaur thirty feet above him. Jason gives her a two finger salute in acknowledgment.

In his periphery, Jason sees a corner of the Cave light up in a faint glow before it's quickly extinguished—Duke. He snorts. Someone needs to teach that kid how to get a handle on all that, not that it's going to be him.

Damian's not here; it's a Friday, which means the kid's visiting Metropolis. Dick's been in Blud for the last week and a half, picking up the slack while his partner's on medical leave. Even Stephanie's missing, swamped with back-to-back classes at Gotham U then her usual shifts at Leslie's.

Most nights, he's not sure what to make of it all. The Bats are liberal with their invitations and have been for months, but he'd never accepted them until now. Honestly, he's surprised—and more than a little relieved—that they hadn't given up on him completely.

He's finally beginning to realize they really do want him back. Him.

Jason shoves his hands into his pockets and climbs up the steps of the platform, sidestepping the kid's cow, which gives a plaintive moo.

Bruce is waiting for him at the computer with another inscrutable expression on his face, but for once, it doesn't irritate him. Jason raises an eyebrow, and in return, Bruce blinks, slow and deliberate. Like he's a goddamn cat saying hello or something.

He tosses the drive at Bruce, who catches it without batting an eyelash. He gives Jason another long look, but his mouth stays pressed into a thin line.

There'd been a time, right when he started working with the Bats again, when Jason thought of that expression as severe—but Jason had realized that, long before that, he'd never seen it on Bruce's face at all.

It makes something twist in his gut, that he'd been the one to teach Bruce that look. That his death and resurrection had really been the ultimate lesson in regret.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Bruce asks, of all things.

The question snaps him out of it before he begins to spiral.

It's not unusual for them to eat this late into the night. But Jason comes to the belated realization that Bruce isn't even in the suit, and he's stumped into silence. Bruce's expression turns eerily blank; it seems like he wants to say more, but he doesn't.

"… Us," Jason voices out, because apparently Bruce isn't going to. It comes out sounding more hesitant than he'd like. "Just… you and I. For dinner."

"Yes. Batgirl and Signal will be heading out soon. I…" Bruce pauses, and it alarms Jason, because Batman has never faltered once in his life. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Jason wants to, but he's afraid. Terrifyingly small for the first time in years. He's angry. He's furious at Bruce for even asking.

Then something flits in the back of his mind, and it all dissipates entirely—Jason has nothing to be afraid of, because Bruce would never hurt him. He's been waiting for this. This is everything he ever wanted.

This, Jason realizes with a deep inhale, this is him being made to choose.

Another feeling niggles at the back of his mind, telling Jason he's forgetting something. It's missing. Something—someone is missing.

"I wanted to talk about you coming home," Bruce says.

But the thought is gone in the next instant, so it couldn't have been important.

"Are you sure about this, Little Wing?" Dick asks.

Jason lets him run a hand down his lapel, even though all it does is leave creases where Alfred had previously allowed none.

The worry, he understands. He's hardly the picture of calm himself, not when he knows the world's about to be turned upside down. Jason understands that there's a need for certainty; that to make sure this doesn't blow up in their faces, they need to keep questioning whether this half-baked plan of theirs might actually be a bad idea. Whether or not it'll screw their whole family over.

That's the thing about family, isn't it? It always comes first.

But today, Dick is worried about him, not the family, and that's kind of messing with his head.

"Jason," he says insistently. Oh. Dick's been calling his name for a while, then.

"It's fine," he replies tersely, only just managing not to sound like a sullen teenager. It doesn't convince himself, much less Dick, who only presses his lips together sternly. Jason scowls. "You going to talk me out of it?"

"No, Jay, of course not."

"Why not?"

Dick gives him a flat look before rolling his eyes, and the condescension makes it that much easier to breathe, funnily enough. A lot of things seem easier when you see Dick Grayson fed up with the same shit as the rest of you. "Because you're not drunk off your ass getting a shoulder tattoo, Jason. Come on."

Jason runs a hand through his hair, because it's the next best thing to tearing off the noose of a tie around his neck. At least he'd said no to red. "Sure. I'm perfectly sober and painting a target on all our backs. That's what you wanted me to say, right?"

Dick glares. "Can you stop being so dramatic? I don't think that. None of us think that," he huffs like it's a given.

But something in Jason's expression must clue Dick into something, because his puffed up bird feather disposition gives.

"Little Wing," Dick begins again, "when you said you wanted things to change, is this what you meant? Because—" he glares when Jason tries to interrupt, "because if it is, then we are behind you. Full stop."

"… Wow, Dickie," Jason says in wonder. "Been practicing that for when one of us finally comes out? Good to know you've still got it, big bro, but—"

"Jay."

"—this isn't the same, when is it going to get through your thick skull?" Jason yells. "Coming back from the dead isn't some fucking joke!"

"You are important to this family," Dick says quietly.

It takes the wind right out of his sails.

"We want you back. All of us. Alfred and I, and the kids who never got the chance to meet you before you died—"

And at this, Jason thinks of the girls, and whether or not he'll ever start to think of them as Steph and Cass. He thinks of Damian, whom he'd failed during his time with the League, and of Duke, whose brand of crazy fits in so well with the rest of theirs.

"—and Bruce. God, Jay," Dick says wetly, "you don't know. God, does he want you back."

Something in Jason gives, then.

"I don't think I can do it yet," he admits. "I want to, just—not yet."

Dick looks disappointed.

"This is what I wanted," Jason insists. He says it again, brow knitting. "This… is what I wanted."

He says it over and over.

"What do you think of it?" the man says, sidling up to him.

Jason doesn't so much as grunt in his direction.

The painting in front of him is quite possibly the dullest one in the whole exhibit, and yet he's been staring at it for the past minute and a half. Not distracted—never distracted, not nowadays, never anymore. The man's approach is noted; so's his nosiness.

He expects to hear the idle shifting on one's feet, the growing impatience of someone being left to wait, maybe even a pointed cough at his rudeness. By now, the irritation should be coming off him in waves. But Jason gets none of that.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the man adds after a couple of minutes, undeterred. It's a perfectly bland statement, and rings completely false.

"Look, man. It's a rock," Jason finally says. His hands are shoved loosely into the pockets of his leather jacket, which sticks out like a sore thumb in a place like this. He doesn't immediately make for his gun, an impressive feat of restraint now that he's realized the guy isn't going to give up.

The man chuckles. It's a nice laugh, low and smooth, a rich timbre that's a little unexpected considering the lightness of his voice.

Jason wants to wipe that smug smirk off of his face. The others are lucky he'd agreed to play nice tonight.

Still, it makes him uncomfortable: on a good day, lighthearted teasing earns people an unamused look, on a bad day, it makes his skin crawl. Today, it merely makes him scowl. Needless to say, Jason doesn't get flirted with very often.

"Not interested," he says gruffly, which in actuality is pretty presumptuous, all things considered. It's riding on the chance that the guy is your typical high society snobby type; they never do take well to a snub.

"You're at the opening to the most highly anticipated art gallery to hit Gotham's scene in years. I figured you'd have something interesting to say about what they're displaying."

He knows a jab when he hears one, but Jason doesn't bristle. His eyes cut to the man's instead, stare half-lidded and unimpressed.

"Not here for the art," comes the terse response, which unsurprisingly doesn't work either. Jason must be losing his touch. Finally, for the man's sake, he tilts his head towards the far end of the room, where Damian's been examining a particularly polarizing sculpture with a critical eye. "Just the bodyguard."

The man's gaze drifts over in Damian's direction, where Bruce is with him in an instant, resting a hand on his shoulder. He's catalogued the potential threat, then, and is giving Jason free rein to deal with it at his discretion.

Fuck if it doesn't grate on his nerves.

"The Waynes," the man muses, as if to taste the feel of the words in his mouth.

There's something about it that puts Jason properly on edge. Another smile from the man, and the feeling is only solidified even further.

Christ, why is he so tense today?

The man hums, condescendingly if Jason has anything to say about it. "Your services must be quite expensive, then."

"I'm sure a guy like you can afford his own high class escort," Jason snaps. Just as he's about to dismiss the man entirely, however, he speaks up once more.

And in his veins, Jason's blood turns to ice.

"After all, not many people can afford to keep the Red Hood on retainer."

Jason's fingers don't spasm in his pockets. The urge to deny it is strong, but that's the Bat in his head making itself known. Since he isn't one of them anymore, though, he only fixes the man with a dark, inscrutable look.

"And to whom am I speaking, exactly?"

The man's smile widens.

"Well, usually you call me Tim. When you're not busy butchering the name my parents gave me, at least," he says airily.

Something… clicks.

And then,

It all

Slips away.

Purely out of a sense of pettiness, Jason almost breaks the guy's wrist. The only reason he doesn't is because of the three taps he receives in his earpiece.

Jason’s a professional, is the thing; he’s been trained for this since he was twelve, for Christ’s sake, been trained to take stock of the situation before acting—and, of course, to never be careless.

And if Bruce hadn't managed to drill that into him at fifteen, then Talia certainly had later.

But before he was ever Robin, Jason had learned to trust his instincts. Alarm bells ring in his mind. The man—Tim, he says, not that Jason immediately trusts his word—speaks as though he knows him. Like Jason knows him.

"You got a last name, Timbo?"

He’d only meant to be dismissive, but Tim’s eyes widen minutely. It's strange, but Jason thinks he looks relieved.

"Wayne," Tim breathes. It's all pressured speech, like he can't help the words from leaving him. For a moment, neither of them move. "My name is Timothy Drake Wayne. Right now you don’t remember me, but I’m someone important to you."

"Excuse me?" is all Jason manages to say.

"You’re important to me, too," Tim insists. Suddenly, he’s earnest, and pleading, and desperate, like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jason doesn’t listen to him. It’s a show of vulnerability when previously all he’d done was project control over himself. "Jason, you have to believe me."

Despite himself, despite all his training, a part of Jason falters.

"Please," Tim says, and it sounds like begging. Coming from him, it’s all wrong.

"We need to go," Jason says abruptly.

Something’s wrong.

He’s going to figure out what the hell it is.

Chapter Text

None of the Bats would approve, which is in part why Jason does it at all. It meaning inviting Tim to join him in the backseat of Bruce's Maserati, leaving the two of them alone in the parking lot three blocks away from the gallery.

Jason had walked out of those front doors without any hint of stopping. He hadn't bothered to check if Tim followed; somehow, without question, Jason just knew that he would.

The valets outside the entrance had given them startled looks. They must have made quite the sight: Jason stalking out into the streets of the Diamond District in his best clothes, while somehow still managing to look ratty next to Tim, the slight man in the tux who had no business being able to match Jason step by step.

Now is when it becomes difficult to breathe. The car door clicks shut almost soundlessly behind him, and Tim slides into his seat with utmost ease, similarly silent.

It's unsettling how comfortable Tim seems to be in his presence. What does one make of it, the idea that Jason's been thrust into another one of these goddamn games? The knowledge that the person sitting with such quietude across from him seems to hold all the aces, at that?

"What is it?" Jason says bluntly when Tim's gaze lingers on the empty driver's seat in front of him.

Tim shakes his head after a brief pause.

"Nothing. Just wondering why Alfred isn't here tonight. Must be his joints again," he says like he's simply thinking out loud, and Jason resists a sudden, vicious urge to slam him against the car door. Tim raises his hands in a defensive pose, ready to protect himself. "I told you, Jay—you know me, just like I know you. I swear on my life I'm not a threat. To any of you."

"Your word means jack shit, Drake."

Tim inhales deeply.

"Alright. I swear on Robin," he says calmly, like the statement doesn't tilt the whole world on its axis. "Please, Jason. I'm who I say I am—"

"But you haven't," Jason cuts in, voice cold and hard. "You still haven't told me who the fuck you are."

"I'm a Bat, just like you." Tim's words fill him with a white hot anger, and Jason's eyes flash in unspoken threat. He squares his shoulders, sitting up straighter in his seat, "I can prove it."

"You have five minutes."

"I can do it in two."

He lets Tim reach into his pocket. Jason doesn't need a weapon to take care of him when it comes to that; and besides, there are five other people in that gallery ready to dispatch the threat at any given moment.

Tim pulls out a phone of all things. He swipes through it, and at Jason's narrowed eyes, tilts the screen towards him with an amused chuckle that makes his stomach twist. Tim stops scrolling on a contact and presses call.

"Uncle Clark?" he says when the line connects.

"Tim," Superman greets Tim warmly. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, for the most part. Are you busy?"

"At the Watchtower, but things are quiet right now." Superman sounds amused, if a little surprised, but—Jason is just fucking baffled. "What is it?"

"I'm with Jason right now," Tim says, and Jason's eyes dart back from the phone towards him. He's been studying Jason's reaction this whole time; if Jason's right about it, he may even be nervous. "He doesn't remember who I am. Neither do the other Bats."

There's a brief pause. "Is there anyone I need to contact? Zatanna, perhaps?"

Tim just shakes his head even though Superman can't see him. "No, I think I can handle this one. Not the weirdest thing to happen in Gotham, that's for sure."

"Alright. Well, Hood, you can trust Tim," Superman says, to the point. "He's a friend."

That's not what Tim had said. Tim called them family.

Jason tenses suddenly, realizing he's being addressed. Superman hadn't really liked him as Robin, and unlike the others Jason had certainly never been invited to call him "Uncle Clark".

Tim's still looking at him with that intense, unfathomable gaze.

"Heard all the kids were in Fawcett last Saturday," Jason drawls, a non sequitur. It's through sheer willpower that he keeps his heartbeat as slow as it is. "Big Red Cheese have a birthday party or something?" He raises an eyebrow at Tim in challenge.

"I think the, uh—the little red cheese had something that day," Tim offers.

The face Jason makes at that is not of his own volition.

"Ah," Superman has the gall to chuckle. "Yes, Billy invited Jon and Damian to his school's baseball game. They managed to reach quarterfinals, if you believe it," he adds. It's both completely unnecessary and unfairly chipper, in Jason's opinion.

A tut in his earpiece corroborates the story: Captain Marvel or Shazam, or whatever the hell it is Billy Batson goes by now, is friends with the batbrat and his superfriend at least.

It isn't enough for him. It sure as hell won't be enough for Bruce, either.

Jason gives a grunt instead of any proper response. They seem to take it positively, and Tim hangs up soon after.

An awkward silence.

"The rest of them got that, right?" Tim finally asks.

The distinct absence of chatter in his earpiece is more telling than anything they could say.

When the Maserati's autopilot kicks into gear, it's direct confirmation of Bruce's decision. The navigation dashboard displays them en route to the Manor.

It makes Jason's brow knit in consternation.

He leans just the slightest bit away from Tim, who looks disappointed. They're quiet on the whole trip to the Cave.

Tim keeps looking at him.

Stephanie, who'd arrived at the Cave before they did, seems to notice too.

"He can't really be who he says he is," she says. Stephanie crosses her arms and side-eyes Tim as he sits inoffensively in a holding cell. She's been cagey all evening, not just because of Tim but seemingly Jason too.

It isn't his fault that his mind had gone blank when Stephanie asked him what the hell they were supposed to do with Tim. Jason still feels off-kilter from the last hour and a half with the guy, and most of that time had been spent in silence, even.

"Why not?" Jason says offhand, more to be a pest than anything else. "He went in there himself, didn't he?"

Frankly, he thinks it's ridiculous that Tim's in the Cave at all. The guy is clearly a threat, and one who knows some of the most closely kept secrets in the superhero community.

There are any number of explanations for what happened in the car: first, voice altering technology to name the most straightforward of them all, but Barbara would have torn that theory apart if given even the slightest indication that were the case. Next came the shapeshifters, the sorcerers, the reality benders… Jason could go on.

Yet Bruce had trusted that minute-long, secondhand interaction he'd had with Superman.

Jason doesn't know what to make of that, either.

"Hood," Stephanie interrupts his thoughts before they take them somewhere he doesn't want to go. "I don't like this," she mutters.

"Spoiler," Jason says, and then rolls his eyes at her glare. "Batgirl. Whatever." He barely manages not to mirror her pose to mask his discomfort. "I know. You've made your stance clear."

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Her intense, accusing stare is as unnerving as all of the other Bats'. "What do you think about all this?"

With a low exhale, Jason lets his gaze wander of its own accord. Despite how much he wants to believe they have control over the situation, merely wanting isn't going to make it true. None of it makes any sense.

Neither does Tim's level stare as he meets Jason's own.

His steel blue eyes are half-lidded, while the coat of his previously-immaculate tux lays discarded to the side, rolled up shoddily in the corner of the cell. Tim's figure is striking even as he sits on the floor, one leg outstretched and an arm resting lazily on his other bent knee.

He's handsome. Almost birdlike. But there's a danger to him that Jason's only just been able to recognize.

As though Tim can hear his thoughts, his lips curve into a small smile, and it makes Jason quickly turn away.

"I don't know," Jason replies with a loose shrug. He doesn't care to know. "It's none of my business, anyway."

"You're leaving?" Stephanie asks tightly, but otherwise doesn't react outwardly. A Bat through and through. "Just like that?"

"Yep," is all he says.

It feels like a disservice to all the work they've put into mending their relationship that Jason regrets it immediately.

This—it's everything he wants. Jason wants to go home. And this is the closest he's come to it in years. It's unfair. It's unfair how one person's sudden appearance has thrown a wrench into his life like nothing he wants even matters. He's bitter and angry and upset and afraid, because this'll ruin everything. Tim is ruining everything by making him go back.

It's strange to be able to pinpoint the exact moment one starts to spiral.

Jason needs to stop.

He starts over.

Jason's lashes flutter as he opens his eyes slowly. He hadn't even realized he shut them in the first place.

Stephanie's lips are a tight, displeased line. "At least stay until the others get here."

"I think you can handle a babysitting gig by now, Blondie," Jason scoffs. "The guy's five foot seven and probably a hundred thirty pounds soaking wet."

"Sure," Stephanie says mockingly, like Jason's just some kid. "And the only reason he's sitting in that cell right now is because he has a hard on for you, so. Yeah, no. You're staying, Hood."

Jason bristles, temper flaring. He's getting tired of being the butt of tonight's joke.

"You going to make me?" he says, low and dangerous.

"No," Stephanie admits without even an ounce of shame. "You could lay me out with one hand behind your back, probably. You wouldn't even need a gun." An exaggeration by far, but she's trying to make a point, not suck up to him.

And here comes the punchline—

"But you wouldn't do anything to hurt me, anyway," she declares plainly. "I mean not really. Not in any way that matters."

Jason stares.

"You know who you're talking to, right?"

Her gaze is clear and honest when she looks at him.

"Yeah. You're a stubborn motherfucker, Jason Todd. But you're one of us," she says with finality, before tilting her head towards Tim, "and even he seems to know that better than you."

He hears a ruckus coming from the direction of the stairs leading up to the Manor, but Jason doesn't pay any mind to it; he can't, not when he's drawn towards the cell once more.

Tim mouths something at him through the glass.

"Jason," Bruce says, sounding less like Batman and more like himself. It's just another thing that's wrong, yet suddenly it's the reason Jason can breathe again.

He licks his lips and drags his attention away from the cell—

Only to freeze when he sees Bruce's gaze piercing directly through him.

Bruce is looking at Jason when Tim is right there only a few feet away. Worry isn't what he'd call that expression, but he doesn't know what else it could be; after everything that's happened tonight, anxiety is normal, isn't it? To be expected, even. But to see that intense stare directed towards him when there are more pressing matters in front of them is jarring.

He should be pleased with the attention. But now when Jason tries to latch onto that feeling, it slips right through his fingers like sand.

"What do you make of it?" Bruce asks him, even though Tim is right fucking there.

The confusion in the sound Stephanie makes behind him matches Jason's own. He hasn't been caught off guard like this in a long time; not even earlier when Tim had dropped bombshell after bombshell on him.

"I…"

A brief glance at Tim shows him giving Bruce a long, considering look. Like he doesn't know what to make of it either. For the first time that night, his attention isn't on Jason at all; the expression on his face, the glint in Tim's eyes—

It's the exact one he's seen on Bruce's face countless times before.

Tim's mouth forms around Bruce's name but remains unheard through the soundproofing of the cell.

While Bruce doesn't react outwardly, Jason knows he can tell he's being addressed. He gives no acknowledgment at all.

Tim's expression flashes in such startling anger that Jason finds himself holding his breath; the foreignness of it is as much a comfort as it is something to be afraid of. Tim looks away from Bruce, smoothing the emotion from his face, and stares outside the glass with a solemn air.

Three sets of footsteps stop anyone from saying anything else.

Duke appears first, a stubborn set to his brow, followed by a deceptively loose-limbed Dick, while the kid follows behind both of them at a distance. Unlike Damian, however, Cassandra is nowhere to be seen; similarly, Barbara hasn't made herself known, but Jason knows she's been present the entire time, of course.

They make a pretty picture in the Cave: the men in their pleated dress shirts and satin-trim trousers; the two girls, one on the rafters above, with her shimmery black dress hiked up to her thighs; the other with damp blonde hair curling against her cheek, at her throat, over the divots of her collarbones.

And Jason—he doesn't understand it, but there's a brief, heart-stopping moment when he makes eye contact with Tim and thinks:

We fit.

"Okay, can I just take a moment to say what everyone else is thinking?" Stephanie finally cuts in, irritated but still seemingly wary of Bruce's looming presence in the center of this space. It's surprising it's taken her this long to speak up at all. "Yeah, this is bullshit."

Things devolve into chaos.

"He is telling the truth," Cassandra says first, but this is hardly one of those times when that would settle things from the get go.

"Tt," Damian dismisses her words immediately. "No matter how tight our defenses, there always exists the risk of exposure. Of infiltration."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Pretty elaborate story for a plant, though."

"We've heard weirder," Dick says dryly. "Either way, he's dangerous."

Damian's face remains clouded over even as he agrees. "Batman has any number of enemies with the ability to learn of our inner workings. By claiming we as a collective have lost all memories of him, they have—"

"Who is this 'they'? You ever heard of Occam's razor?" Duke's voice raises towards the end.

"That's not the point he's trying to make," Steph protests.

Jason can hardly believe he's the one who has to get people back on track. "The point," he stresses, trying to remain neutral, "is that there are easier ways to 'infiltrate' a team of superheroes."

It's then that Barbara finally gives her input. "He's taking advantage of your naiveté."

"He has not done anything."

"As of now, he should be treated as a prisoner—"

"Are you guys for real right now? He is sitting right there!" Duke gestures at Tim incredulously, making Jason grunt because yeah.

"And he is not deaf," come Cassandra's blunt words, in tandem with the movement of Tim's lips, not that they can hear him.

After the night they've had, it's clear everyone's done with all this shit.

Jason presses his eyes shut against the throbbing of the headache he's had all evening, resisting the urge to rub at his temples. He counts backwards from ten to calm himself, nine, eight, seven, six…

… Zero comes like a shock of anesthetic.

His eyes snap open at the sudden sound of slamming against glass—and then there's Tim, eyes wide in fear and mouth open in a silent scream.

And,

In front of Jason—clutching at his head, blood dripping from his nose, staggering to the ground, there's—

"Bruce!"