Work Text:
Jason is working.
Or, he’s supposed to be. Would be, if not for Tim.
Despite being on better terms with the bats, Jason doesn’t often visit the Cave. He’s cultivated enough of his own resources that he can do without it just fine—but sometimes… Sometimes it’s just easier, and faster, to use Bruce’s equipment.
Supposedly.
Tim’s presence is testing that.
His replacement is lifting weights, while Cass acts as his spotter. He’s wearing sinfully tight compression shorts and a tank top which leaves his arms on delicious display. From his work bench, Jason has an excellent view of Tim’s left side—the way sweat rolls down his temple, messy hair plastered to the skin, his face beautifully flushed. The tight sinews of his arm as it curls, bringing the weight to his shoulder. He tracks the movement; stomach clenching.
Jason isn’t a stranger to a good arm, okay? He regularly works with Roy fucking Harper, after all. He knows what good arms look like. But Tim—
Goddamn.
It’s not like he didn’t know that Tim was attractive. He’s got eyes. It’s just… he’s rarely confronted with it so blatantly. Most of the time, when he hangs around Tim, Tim is lounging around in stolen clothing, always at least a touch too big for him. It’s cute, but. Easier to ignore. To pretend like he doesn’t want to sink his teeth into the meat of his shoulder, or suck on the jut of his hipbone, or lick the sweat dripping down his navel.
Or he’s in the Red Robin suit, and while that’s a whole different kind of attractive, Jason’s attention is usually occupied by bigger things.
Today, though, Tim is wearing a sinfully tight pair of shorts and a loose fitting muscle tank… and Jason’s equipment upgrades aren't nearly interesting enough to keep his eyes from wandering.
He tries, though. He really does.
But then… he looks up again and gets a good look just as Tim lifts his shirt to dab his brow. Jason’s attention is drawn to the muscles of his abdomen; the way they flex as he breathes, the trail of dark hair leading down to the v of his hips.
Jason’s throat goes desert dry.
And then a water bottle enters his field of vision. Jason goes cross-eyed for a moment, looking at it, before he follows the arm extending it to Steph, her hip propped against his workstation, sly grin on her face.
“Brought you some water,” she says, entirely too chipper for Jason’s liking. “You’re lookin’ pretty thirsty.”
Jason’s face flames. He snatches the water and unscrews the cap. “Shut up,” he mutters. Whose idea was it to put the workstations so close to the training area, anyway?
Steph laughs. “They do look pretty good out there, I’ll give you that.” She lifts her own water to her mouth, eyes drifting over to the weights—though her gaze lingers on where Cass is squatting, rather than on Tim.
Jason doesn’t respond. Cass and Tim are talking, and they’re just far enough away that Jason can’t make out what they’re saying. It ends with Tim climbing off the bench and dropping the weight back on the pile. He stretches, and goes toward his water bottle.
Jason watches him make his way there; this time his gaze lingering on his ass. He might not be Dick Grayson, but he’s certainly not lacking in that department, that’s for sure.
Steph ruffles his hair. “Stay hydrated,” she chirps, dodging Jason’s attempt to bat her hand away and skipping towards Cass.
Jason ducks his head. He has equipment to upgrade, dammit.
Fuck. He should have done this in his own workshop. So what if the equipment in his garage isn’t as state of the art? So what if he wouldn’t have been able to reach quite the result he wanted? At least then he could have gotten it done. Or maybe he could have taken a quick trip to Star City, and let Roy do it. None of his open cases would have suffered for it.
Ugh. Fuckin’ bats.
A shadow darkens his desk. Reluctantly, he looks up, ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off, he’s not in the mood. The words shrivel and die on his tongue.
It’s Tim, hair a mess, towel around his neck, arms still cruelly on display, his cheeks tinted pink.
“Hi,” Tim says. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. His body is loose, open, but in a way that seems almost—careful. Deliberate. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d say Tim was nervous.
“Hey,” Jason says, voice gruffer than he means it to be. He doesn’t wince, but he wants to.
“I, uh.” Tim clears his throat. “I couldn’t help but notice you were checking me out.”
If Jason had been in motion, he would have frozen. Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck. He schools his expression into something unimpressed, and hopes he’s not blushing. “You should get your eyes checked, Timbo. I’ve been working. Need my armor in top shape. I got a lotta ground to cover.”
Tim doesn’t look convinced. “Last I checked, you didn’t have any pressing cases,” he says.
Jason raises a brow. “Been flexing the stalker muscles again, Timmers? What, you didn’t have enough bad guys to spy on?”
Tim rolls his eyes. “Just checking your availability,” he says. Which. What? “The county fair is coming to Gotham next week.”
“And?” Jason demands, trying desperately to make sense of the situation. Is there a case Tim needs help on? A plot to sabotage the fair? That usually passes by without incident, except for one year when Ivy turned all of the parks—including the fairgrounds—into nightmare gardens. Jason hasn’t heard any chatter, but then, Tim has been known to pull leads from thin air before, so maybe this is one of those times—?
“And I thought we could… go together. You know. As a date.” Tim’s voice cracks towards the end. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. Jason’s brain feels like static; eyes drawn to the movement almost automatically. It takes him a few swallows of his own before he manages to form words.
“—date?” Jason clears his throat. “You—with me?”
Tim nods. “Yeah.”
“Oh.” He’s blushing now, he’s sure of it. His face feels hot—so do the tips of his ears. He isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. Or the rest of him. His heart beats rapidly in his chest. “I—um. That sounds. Cool. I’d like that.” Fuck. He can hear Roy making fun of him—see Kori covering her mouth, trying not to laugh.
So fucking smooth, Todd.
“Great!” Tim lights up; his eyes brightening, a smile on his lips. He’s always handsome, but… wow. Happy is a good look on him. “Um. Next Friday? At… six?”
“Yeah. That’s. That’s good.” Jason nods. Hopes fervently that nothing comes up between now and then that makes it not good.
“Cool! I’ll, um. See you then. And uh. On patrol. Presumably.” The flush on Tim’s face has grown steadily darker. Jason kind of wants to kiss him.
Instead he just nods again. “Yep. Definitely.”
Tim nods back. “I’m just gonna—” He jerks his thumb towards the showers, backing away. As soon as he disappears, Jason puts his head into his hands. It’s only through sheer force of will, and the reminder that Cass and Steph are still in the immediate vicinity, that keeps him from screaming. He waits for himself to calm. His heartbeat slows. The flush on his face cools. He doubts it's gone completely, but it’s gone enough. He raises his head. He’s going to finish what he came for, and then he’s going to go home. Call Roy, maybe.
As soon as his gaze lifts, he finds himself catching Steph’s gaze. She’s grinning like the horrible gremlin she is. She gives him a double thumbs up—then mimes drinking.
Jason flips her the bird.
He spends the next week swinging wildly between freaking out and being so giddy he can hardly focus. The only time he manages to catch a break is during patrol—or when he’s cooking. He makes an ungodly amount of baked goods, and sends a truly impressive amount of prisoners to Blackgate. Some of whom might be off the streets for good… though not nearly enough of them.
When Friday finally rolls around, he spends most of the day in an anxious panic, deep cleaning his apartment and resisting the urge to bake even more food he’ll have to donate. He calls Roy sometime around mid-afternoon to shoot the shit. Mostly, they talk about Lian. How she’s doing in preschool. What new cartoon has captured her interest. The latest plots she’s acted out with her dolls. It calms him, some, and by the time he has to start getting ready, he’s feeling a little more like himself.
It’s just a date. There’s no reason to be so worked up. It’s not like he’s never been on one before.
It’s just—
This is different. He has a history with Tim, the way he hadn’t with his past lovers. He hadn’t taken out most of his terrible, violent rage on them. Hadn’t slit their throats, painted his name with their blood, stabbed them in the chest and left them for dead. Hadn’t rejected every extended hand, every life preserver that they had given him. And they hadn’t forgiven him, time and time again, when he didn’t deserve it. Hadn’t taken his hand when he finally decided to extend it, for real. Hadn’t helped mend bridges he thought he’d burned.
He doesn’t know why Tim had always given him such unwavering faith. Doesn’t know how Tim could stand to look at him, let him into his life, trust him with this, of all things. He doesn’t understand… but he’s not going to mess it up. He can’t.
Summer intends to go out with a bang this year, unwilling to gracefully cede its reign to autumn. The temperatures climb steadily, until patrol is a nightmare even during the coolest parts of the night, and Jason dreads his next electric bill.
The heatwave doesn’t stop people from showing up to the fairgrounds in droves; Jason among them. He hasn’t dressed up much—just a pair of jeans that make his ass and thighs look good, and a Gotham Knights t-shirt that clings to his chest and arms. Normally he’d bring a jacket, but. Heatwave. So he doesn’t. He’s already kind of regretting the jeans.
He takes his bike.
The sun is low in the sky. It’s not setting yet, not for another couple of hours, but it’s also not the burning heat of mid-afternoon. The fair sprawls across the grounds, having sprung up seemingly overnight a few days earlier; the lights bright, laughter loud, and the scent of fried dough, sugar, and popcorn wafting through the air. Jason tucks his hands in his pockets and waits near the entrance.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Tim shows up in skinny jeans and a vintage t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to put his biceps on enticing display. Jason would put money on that being Steph’s idea. He’s not sure if he wants to thank her or put orange dye in her shampoo.
“Hey,” Tim says. A flush colors his cheeks again, painting them a lovely shade of pink.
“Hi,” Jason says.
They stand there awkwardly for a moment, staring at each other, and then Tim says, “We should…” and gestures towards the ticket booth.
“Right, yeah,” Jason nods.
Tim buys their tickets, and the kid running the booth stamps their hands before waving them onward. Tim’s gaze roves over the grounds; taking in the kaleidoscope of neon lights and bright, flashy signs.
“Where, um. Where do you want to start?” he asks.
Jason takes a moment to observe before suggesting, “Rides first?” Even holding back, there’s no way they won’t kill it at the games unless they purposely throw them, and lugging their prizes between rides will be a hassle. Eating fair food first just sounds like a recipe for disaster.
Tim smiles at him; a crooked little twist to his mouth that makes Jason’s insides warm and gooey. “Sounds good.”
Their arms brush together as they walk. His fingers twitch with the urge to interlace their fingers. “So, uh… Ever been before?” he asks.
Tim shrugs. “A couple times. Steph dragged me once.” He smiles to himself. “And I’ve been with Kon and Bart and Cassie a few times, in Smallville.”
Jason snorts. “And you didn’t get kicked out?” He hasn’t had the opportunity to observe Tim with his friends more than a handful of times, but the group certainly left an impression. He can only imagine the kind of shenanigans they would get up to at a fair.
Tim shoves him lightly. “No.” He pauses, and then adds, “Well, okay, almost, like, once.”
Jason snorts again, unable to help the way he smiles as he shakes his head. “Honestly? I’m afraid to ask.”
Tim sticks out his tongue. “You say that like you and the Outlaws would be any better.”
“Excuse you. We’re adults.”
Tim looks unimpressed.
He has a point—not that Jason is going to admit it.
Instead he says, “My parents took me once, when I was really little.” Before his mom got sick and money got tight and his parents relationship started falling apart at the seams. “I don’t remember it very well. I went to the circus with Dick once, though.”
Dick hadn’t been much of a big brother before Jason died. He and Bruce were both powder kegs and lighters when in the same room together; it was just a question of whose fuse would blow first. Dick had made an effort, though—taking him on solo patrols, introducing him to the Titans, showing him around the Tower, letting him tag along on some missions, listening to him vent about Bruce. Most of their bonding time had been in the mask, but… one of the earliest things Dick had done, after he’d given Jason his blessing to wear the suit, was take him to the circus.
His memories of it are fuzzy now, but there’s one thing that stands out. One thing he’d clung to, when the memory surfaced:
Dick, introducing him to the carnies, and Zitka, an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Calling him his brother.
And for a little while, Jason had felt like he belonged. Like Dick really, truly meant it when he handed down the Robin mantle.
He wonders if Dick still has the photos.
“Yeah,” Tim says quietly. “He took me once, too.” He draws closer, knuckles brushing against Jason’s. The warmth that radiates through him has nothing to do with the heat.
Considering he spends most of his nights jumping rooftops and swinging through alleys, Jason figured carnival rides would be… unimpressive. But there’s something surprisingly fun about getting his blood pumping for no reason except the hell of it. The wind rushing through his hair, no domino or helmet to keep his eyes from tearing up; no heavy armor weighing him down. It feels like the beginning; like the halcyon days of his early Robin-hood, when he felt free and untouchable.
He thinks Tim feels the same, whooping with laughter beside him, a grin stretched wide over his cheeks. Despite the way it makes his head spin, Jason’s favorite is the Tilt-a-Whirl, and the way it sends the two of them crashing into each other, their bodies pressed close together.
Even when they get off the ride, both of them dizzy and breathless, they’re still pressed close; leaning on each other for support.
It’s tempting to go again, but Jason would rather not tempt fate… or his stomach. Instead, he calls it quits—
“I think I want to switch to games now.”
Tim laughs, pressing his cheek into Jason’s arm. Jason’s heart beats just a little bit faster; his palms sweat. “Me too,” Tim says. He pauses, and then turns his face up to grin wryly at Jason. It’s the same crooked grin from earlier—Jason wants to press his mouth to it. “Take a selfie with me first?”
“Sure,” Jason agrees—though, the way Tim is smiling at him, face lit with dazzling, flickering colors, he’s pretty sure he would have agreed to almost anything he asked.
Tim pulls his phone out. He shifts slightly, so that they’re no longer pressed exactly side to side. Instead, Tim’s head is pressed back against Jason’s shoulder. Jason can feel his face, still flushed from the ride, grow hotter; all too aware of Tim’s ass pressed against his thigh—of his own hand, settling on Tim’s waist almost of its own accord, keeping him close as Tim raises his arm.
Jason swallows, looking up at the camera. Tim’s finger twitched; the camera shutters. Tim shifts; not drawing away exactly but settling against Jason’s side again, tucked right up under his arm like he belongs there. Jason is sure Tim must be able to hear his heart, the way it pounds like a jackhammer against his breastbone, but if he can, he says nothing.
Instead, he thumbs his camera open, a pleased hum in his chest as he tilts the phone for Jason to see.
They look—good.
Jason’s not really used to seeing himself in photos. He’s never had very many of himself, before or after his death, and… after, especially, always feels odd. Surprising, almost, like there’s a part of him that can’t quite believe he shows up on camera.
What photos he does have of himself are courtesy of the Outlaws, and most of them are silly. They make him smile, certainly, but they’re not flattering.
This one, of the two of them, is.
It shouldn’t be. It was a quick, artless snap of the two of them, sweaty and rumpled after back-to-back fair rides. But then—Tim’s good at photography, isn’t he?
“Do you mind if I send it to Steph?” Tim asks idly.
“Go for it,” Jason says. “Send it to me, too?”
“‘Course.”
Tim doesn’t angle his phone away from Jason’s view as he texts the photo first to Jason, and then to Steph, captioning the latter with:
<image attached>
tld u i wldnt slp ths tme
It’s not the worst message that Tim has ever sent, but it still takes Jason a moment to parse it. When he does, he snorts.
“How the hell did you manage to fall asleep on one of those?” Jason is half-impressed, half-incredulous. He knows Tim can fall asleep anywhere short of an actual bed—he’s caught him in any number of places before, and heard stories from the others, but. On a fair ride, really?
“It was a roller-coaster, actually,” Tim says, sheepish. He locks his phone, slipping it back into his pocket.
Jason shakes his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. Only Tim. “Let me guess,” he says dryly. “You were in the middle of a case.” Tim is always in the middle of a case. (If Jason is inclined to be fair, then he’ll admit that all of them are. It’s the nature of Gotham. Or the job. Or both, maybe. No rest for the wicked, or something like that.)
Tim shrugs. “There was a lot going on.”
“There’s always a lot going on.” The smile slips from Jason’s face. His hand is still on Tim’s waist, and he squeezes slightly. “You work too hard.” The words come out quieter than he means them to.
Tim tips his head back, looking up at him. The fair feels far away now, like they’re in a private world all their own—though he can see the lights dancing in Tim’s eyes; fire-bright now that the sun has set. “I’m not the only one.” His hand settles over Jason’s.
Jason’s throat feels suddenly tight. He swallows.
He knows the others assume, because he doesn’t have much of a civilian life, he must have more time for things like sleep and rest. And maybe he should, but in practice…
In practice, Jason is as prone to running himself as ragged as the rest of them. The city doesn’t sleep. Why should he?
They’re all trained to be observant; to catalog everything they see, just in case. The others have the pieces; they just haven’t put them together in the right order to see. That Tim has… that he was paying enough attention to Jason, specially, to see it flays him open.
It has him wanting to say all sorts of stupid things, like—
I don’t know what you see when you look at me and that’s terrifying, but I don’t want you to stop, ever. Or, I can’t believe you’re really here with me right now. Or, You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts. Or, Please, please, just kiss me.
He swallows them all back.
Tim is still looking up at him; his skin flushed pink with the heat and glistening with sweat. It’s almost uncomfortably hot where they’re pressed together, but Jason doesn’t want to pull away. If anything, he wants to get closer. Lean down and kiss Tim, under the flickering rainbow lights. He wets his lips, watching that grin shift into a smile, Tim’s eyes unmistakably focused on Jason’s mouth. And then—
“You, there!”
They jump apart as the bubble around them bursts—taking the tension with it. A smiling man gestures to them, waving them over. He’s standing next to the strong-arm challenge; bright lights flickering around the strength meter.
“You look like you’re packing some muscle,” the man says, eying Jason. “Why not put it to the test and win your lucky fella a prize?”
Jason grins, despite his disappointment. “…thanks, but I think ‘my lucky fella’ is more than capable of winning it himself, eh, Tim?” he nudges him. He feels a little thrill echoing the man’s words.
Tim squeezes Jason’s arm before letting go, stepping away. Jason feels almost cold at the lack of contact. “How much?” Tim asks, eyeing the game with a measuring eye. Jason crosses his arms loosely over his chest, content to lean back and watch the show unfold.
The man looks a little more skeptical of Tim; too caught up in the difference in their size to notice the corded muscle in Tim’s arms. He accepts the money anyway. Jason bites his lip to keep his smile from spreading.
Tim hefts the hammer, testing its weight. A tiny, ghost of a smile crosses his mouth, and Jason watches him swing.
The bell clangs, and the lights of the stand go crazy. Tim returns the hammer with a small, smug smile before turning to squint at the prizes on offer. There’s no small amount of superhero-themed toys, and it’s with barely repressed glee that Tim picks out a large black dog wearing an old version of Diana’s Wonder Woman uniform. He presents it to Jason with a small flourish.
“For you,” he says, bowing a little.
Jason couldn’t suppress his grin if he wanted to. “Why, thank you.” He takes the dog from Tim, tucking it underneath his arm. They wave to the man, who still looks faintly poleaxed, and move on.
“That’s the last time I go down without a fight,” Jason says affably. “I hope you’re ready to test your skills, princess.”
Tim snorts. “Whoever wins the other the most prizes wins?” he asks, just as affably.
Jason nods, and holds a hand out. Tim shakes.
“You’re on.”
It’s a close competition. Even the most obviously rigged games are no match for a bat, even with both of them holding back. They tease and taunt—the kind of fun, lighthearted flirting Jason so rarely gets to really indulge in.
They decide to break after a bit—not giving up, no, not yet. It’s only just gotten dark, after all, and they have plenty more time before either of them has anywhere to be. But the smell of grease was getting to both of them, which meant it was more than time to gorge themselves on fair food. It’s the kind of greasy, artery-clogging fare that Alfred would never let grace his table.
They make a quick stop at their respective vehicles to drop off their prizes, and then they head over to the food stalls.
Tim bee-lines straight for the barbecue and funnel cake, while Jason finds himself unable to resist corndogs and deep-fried oreos. They meet at a table, laying their hauls out like a small feast.
They don’t end up talking much beyond, “Try this,” or “Oh my god, so good.” Tim’s phone buzzes with a reply from Steph—Tim checks it, snorts, but doesn’t reply.
Jason doesn’t know how they finish all of it—by the end, he’s stuffed. He knew he was pushing it with that last bit of funnel cake, but the allure of fried dough and powdered sugar was too tempting to ignore.
He glances over to see how Tim is faring and finds him sucking powdered sugar off of his fingers; cheeks hollowed out, eyes shut as he savors the taste.
Jason’s jeans, already feeling uncomfortably tight, grow tighter still, and he shifts to relieve the pressure. His tongue darts out to wet suddenly dry lips. There’s a smear of powdered sugar on the corner of Tim’s mouth. Unconsciously, Jason finds himself leaning forward; his hand lifting.
The edge of the picnic table digs into his torso, bringing him back down to earth. His face heats—though he’s surprised he has enough blood left to blush.
“I’ll uh—be right back,” he says, wincing internally at the way the words run together, and crack in the middle. Tim’s brow furrows; then his eyes open. Whatever he sees on Jason’s face makes him turn pink.
It’s adorable.
Jason makes his escape anyway; whisking their trash away to the closest bin. He uses the sanitizer clipped to his keys to wash the stickiness from his hands. Then he takes a few moments to just… breathe until the jitters have faded.
Then, calmer, he heads back to Tim.
Tim has gotten his blush under control—mostly. The tips of his ears are still pink. The sugar is gone from the corner of his mouth.
“I was thinking we could do the Ferris Wheel next,” Tim says casually. He’s gotten his blush under control—mostly. The tips of his ears are still pink. The sugar is one from the corner of his mouth.
“Sounds good to me.” Jason is just as casual. Butterflies swarm his stomach.
They make their way to the Ferris Wheel, taking a slow, meandering path to get there. Tim sticks close to him, their hands brushing again; the same tentative game they’d played earlier—until finally, Jason dares to hook his pinky with Tim’s.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tim smile. And then Tim’s hand moves; his fingers slotting neatly between Jason’s own. It feels—good. Right. Like Tim’s hands were made to fit with his.
God.
When did he turn into such a sap?
They make it to the Wheel. There’s a line. It’s not the longest one they’ve had to sit through since arriving, but Jason can’t help the urge to sigh.
It’s not that he’s impatient, it’s just—
Well.
No.
It is that he’s impatient, actually. Regardless of his taste in movies or literature, Jason is hardly an expert on romance or dating. He’ll admit that freely enough. But—well.
It’s the cliche, right? Ride the Ferris Wheel, get a kiss at the top. Jason wouldn’t say he’d ever dreamed about having a first kiss on top of a Ferris Wheel, but… He’d be lying if he said it didn’t appeal to him.
If he didn’t want it.
Although—
Speaking of kissing.
Did Jason remember to bring mints? Would it be presumptuous to pop one now? Shit. Probably. Just because it’s a cliche doesn’t mean it’s going to happen, or that Tim even wants that to happen.
Maybe he’ll just… pop one discreetly. Just in case.
He checks his pockets, and breathes a silent sigh of relief when he feels a tin of breath mints.
Before he can figure out a way to slip it out without Tim noticing, Tim shifts, moving Jason’s arm so it’s draped over Tim’s torso; Tim leaning into his side like a cat, casual as you please, as he asks,
“You don’t happen to have any mints or something on you, do you?”
Jason’s stomach flips. “Oh, uh— Yeah, I think so. Lemme check.” He pats his jeans before ‘finding’ them. He shakes two out, and hands one to Tim.
“Thanks,” Tim says, and leans a little more of his weight against Jason’s side.
“No problem.” Jason answers more quietly than he means to—but Tim smiles at him, toothy and sweet, and he finds he doesn’t really care that much.
They’re in line for… maybe five minutes before something wet hits his forehead. Jason furrows his brow, tipping his head back to look at the starless black sky.
Another few drops hit his face. They’re coming faster now. He looks at Tim; finds Tim looking down at his phone, mouth pursed. Around them, several vendors are starting to shut down their stalls, packing away anything that could be harmed by the rain.
Tim glances at him. “We should—”
And that’s when it starts to pour.
Shit.
Tim grabs Jason’s hand before they make a dash toward the parking lot. The rain comes down in buckets. By the time they reach Tim’s car, both of their clothes are soaked. Jason’s curls are plastered to his forehead.
Tim fumbles for his keys before unlocking the door, allowing both of them to slide in and shut the doors behind them.
Well. So much for the Ferris Wheel. Or… the rest of the night, actually. Disappointment burbles up in his chest. God, but he hates the rain.
Things had been going so well.
Jason slumps back into his seat. “Sorry our date’s ruined,” he says. It had been such a nice night. Maybe Tim would be willing to give him a do-over…?
“I wouldn’t say it’s ruined,” Tim says slowly. “Kissing in the rain is a pretty time honored tradition, after all. And while that may not be the best idea, considering…” He traces his fingers idly over his abdomen, about where his splenectomy scar would be. “We could always crawl into the backseat and pretend.”
Jason feels the heat rise to his cheeks again. He thinks he’s spent half the night blushing. “Why… Timmers, are you asking me to make out with you in the back seat?” He’s proud of how even his voice comes out, despite the way his tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth.
“Well, we missed out on the Ferris Wheel,” Tim says, mouth twitching. “Making out in the backseat like teenagers is a good substitute.”
Jason feels flushed again; an answering smile tugging at his mouth. “Oh? Gonna drive me to Lovers Lane, too?”
“Well, I’m not trying to get us murdered.”
“A man with a hook for a hand would show up to gut us, wouldn’t he?”
“It is Gotham,” Tim agrees, smile stretching wider. For a moment, they just sit there, grinning like fools. Jason certainly feels foolish and awkward—but also giddy, and light.
“Well… uh. After you.” Jason gestures to the backseat, ignoring the way his face grows even hotter.
Tim’s grin turns crooked again. Jason again has the urge to kiss the corner of his mouth—he’s so tempted to just lean in and do it, but…
He can kiss that grin as much as he wants in just a few more moments. He just has to be patient.
There is no way to make crawling into the backseat look dignified—well… Dick could probably manage it, but Tim doesn’t. **And Jason, when he follows, sure as hell doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to mind, though; the artlessness of it makes it feel more real. They end up on the opposite sides of the car; Jason sitting behind the driver’s seat, Tim behind the passenger’s. Or—well. Tim starts behind the passenger seat. However, as soon as Jason is settled, he wastes no time in scooting forward, plastering himself against Jason and pulling him into a kiss.
It’s not the most comfortable position. The handle of the car door digs into Jason’s back—but Tim’s mouth is warm and wet on his, the taste of mint lingering on his lips. His hand cradles Jason’s cheek. Jason leans into it, eyes falling shut.
His hands find Tim’s waist, fitting neatly into the curve of his body. The rain drums overhead. Jason’s never been fond of the rain; not after living on the streets, and especially not after digging his way through mud, his first taste of fresh air after six months underground coming with the feeling of rain on his face. But—like this, with Tim in his arms, the taste of mint on his lips…
He thinks he could learn to come around.