Archive of Our Own

Ideally, people tend to want to live their lives outside of work and go on relaxing vacations.. At least, that is what Bruce had been trying to hint at when he first offered the keys to the Wayne’s cabin out in the mountains. Something about being overworked and having an alarming lack of work-life balance. Hypocritical if you asked Tim, especially when the last family vacation that they took was still technically under the pretense of business. 

At first, he’d been annoyed the more that Bruce had brought up the need for a break, more so when Dick had outright sent him an email of a Fuji resort e-pamphlet. Lucious asking him if he’d like to take time off for the holidays had him paranoid that he was beginning to be more of a burden than help with their shared work in RnD. Now the breaking point actually came from Lexie, the barista from the downstairs cafe of Wayne tower. And really, it shouldn’t have been.

She meant no harm at all when she’d started chatting along about how excited she was to spend the holidays with her significant other back in Nevada. How there really wasn’t much snow, but the desert was still cold, and the city that she was from would decorate the old cactus farms like Christmas trees. She was just so damn earnest when she described all the different festivities and holiday hijinks that by the time she’d finally asked Tim what he was doing, how it had to be something glamorous with all that Wayne money and traditions that Tim was just so dumbfounded, so offended that the godforsaken annual Wayne Holiday Charity Gala and likely Chinese take-out from Choo’s wasn’t nearly anything compared to fucking christmas cacti in Nevada. 

“Actually, I’m not going to be attending the gala this year,” and as soon as the stupid proclamation was out of his mouth, it was too far to go back. Tim knew it, Lexie knew it, and damn well Bruce knew it with the way he aborted taking the first sip of his coffee. “I was thinking that I wanted to go to the mountains, try not to break my neck skiing or something.” 

Tim really should have been more polite, or at least kept his big fucking mouth shut. Because now he was committed. Now he had to go to the stupid fucking cabin and try not to break his stupid neck (though not try too hard not to) and whatever else people did in the god damn cold of the mountains. Getting drunk by a fireplace and eating soup probably. And maybe he wasn’t totally thrilled to be going to another gala, but he was sure as hell looking forward to his black bean noodles and extra crispy spring rolls. 

Tim didn’t even make it to his 10 o’clock meeting before he’d seen a mini block in his schedule from none other than Bruce himself, requesting him to come to his office. What could Bruce possibly want to talk about other than his impromptu plans to go to the cabin afterall? Not a damn thing. 

Bruce wanted to know when he was leaving, so he could hire someone to clean up and air out the cabin in preparation of his arrival, as it’d gone unused for a little over a year now. He asked Tim what kind of food he’d like to eat while there; if Alfred should put together some simple recipe cards to feed himself or have someone prepare meals to be heated (again, probably Alfred), at one point even saying he was sure that he could call around and get somewhere to cater his meals for the duration of his stay. Bruce asked what days he should make a reservation for renting ski equipment, and if he should ask Alfred if they still had some of Dick’s old gear that might fit, or if he’d like to shop for his own. He even asked if Tim would like to take the Range Rover instead of his Benz . He was determined to ship Tim off on this vacation with everything planned to the minute if it meant he’d actually go. 

He’ll leave tomorrow, since it was Friday and he had nothing on his calendar anyway. Just have groceries available for pick up, he could figure it out. He’ll go skiing on the third day. No, Alfred didn’t have to go through Dick’s hoard of clothes that he refused to get rid of, he’ll shop after work. No his car is fine. No, none of his friends are going. Bruce doesn’t have to go, or the family, least of all Damian. He’ll be fine, there’s cell service and cable. If he can’t survive on his own in a week he’ll come straight back. Really, it wasn’t a big deal.

As it turns out, it was an incredibly big fucking deal. 

Tim didn’t need to go shopping, Alfred had already gone and picked out several outfits, had them laundered and packed away and waiting for him at the front door. Alfred and Cass also took it upon themselves to bake an assortment of cookies in a pretty holiday tin to take with him on his trip. The cabin would be clean, groceries delivered and put away, a load of wood chopped and ready. He even insisted on taking Tim’s car to be gassed up the night before. Really, all Tim needed to do was wake up and leave. If Tim didn’t know any better, he might feel a tad unwanted. Heaven forbid they see that he put his laptop bag amongst the things in his trunk before he left. 

Initially, Tim was dreading the drive out to the mountains. It’s not like driving three hours out of the city without anything other than the road to pay attention to was riveting. A very, very small part of him wished that he’d brought someone along, at least for the conversation. Tim was an excellent driver, he really was, but being in a car for long stretches of time would start to feel like torture, simply because he was trapped. The first thirty minutes he tried to put on the tech podcast that he used as background noise in the lab, but now that he was actually listening to it he realized how much he hated everything that they had to say. The real fun in listening to things like this was to pause, ask himself and Lucious both if he heard them correctly, and ridicule. The fun was in their banter, not the hosts. He’d put on a playlist next, and while it was very motivating when he needed an extra push in the gym, it was overstimulating for driving. The further he’d gotten out of Gotham, the more scattered the radio stations became. After the third time that the trashy talk show radio host was cut off with static he’d given up and turned off the audio entirely. Silence it was. At least the scenery was pretty. 

Clusters of buildings and people became long stretches of trees, somehow more claustrophobic in their uneven lines. He felt desperate each time that his eyes flicked to the navigation screen, close and closer still but not quite there. The light sprinkles of snow morphed the landscape into thick, fluffy looking snow hugging either side of the highway. Even with his seat warmer and the heat on medium he could still feel the whisper of cold from outside seeping in. 

That should have been his first clue. 

When the flurries started to turn into real snowfall, Tim turned on his windshield wipers, only to see them slightly stall before they moved. Which shouldn’t be happening, they very much should work. Gotham was constantly thick with rain, his wipers better fucking work. Then it was the fog. Light at first, barely disguisable against the white of the snow now thick and obscuring. Should be an easy fix. He’d turn on his fog lights and go a little below the speed limit. Better to be cautious than dead. Imagine his immense surprise when the fog lights didn’t turn on. Tim knew better than to panic. It’s fine. Everything was fine. He would just slow down even more and crawl the last thirty miles. If it got bad enough he could detour to the town instead. Thirty- five miles in thick fog to town on the highway was far better than thirty on a dirt road in the woods in a car without four wheel drive. He didn’t make it ten. 

One more sluggish pull of the wiper blades and his lights flickered, and with flickering came the low whine and die of the engine. Even as he used the last of the car’s momentum to get onto the shoulder Tim couldn’t believe what was happening. Putting the car in park and the ebrake on he allowed himself a moment to breathe. Think logically, don’t panic. Panicking would only make things worse. There was still hope. Never jump to worse. 

First thing’s first, turn the key the first notch and go from there. The key felt heavy in the ignition when he reached for it. Turn. Not a single light on his dash, or the ding of the key in the ignition. It was just his battery. Which is fine! Totally fine. That’s very fixable. He’s had problems with this battery recently, and while he knew he should get it swapped out, he just didn’t have the time. It didn’t make sense to get it replaced when he could throw it on the charger in the garage when he got home, or zap it with his emergency battery pack.It was fine. He was prepared. 

With the heat off the cold was imminent. Whatever heat was left in the cab would soon be gone, much sooner given that he had to open the door to get the battery pack in the trunk. It was fine. Totally fine. He’s done this at least half a dozen times now. He could be quick and efficient. He’d open and close the door quickly, get the battery pack, unhook the hood and jolt this baby back to life. He’d even detour to the town after all, to the nearest auto store and buy a new battery right then. He just had to get out of the car. And into the cold. The growing snow storm. It looked so, so cold. 

“It’s fine.” Tim whispered, hoping that if he said it out loud this time he would believe it. One more deep breath of air and he sprung with the quickness. Hood latch, trunk latch, open the door and run to the back (nearly slip in the snow), push his luggage aside to open the spare tire hatch, grab the emergency triangle, run down the road, set it out, run back and reach for -

The battery pack wasn’t there. 

Tim moved the tire iron, as if the bag would be underneath. He moved the jack. He even lifted up the spare, just to be extra sure. Where the fuck was it?! Tim moved his luggage around again, nearly throwing it out to fully search the trunk. He opened the back door and felt over the seats, under the seats, in the chair back pockets, ran back around to his passenger side and looked in the glove box, the center console, the door pockets, under the seats again. He was so desperate he’d even lifted up all the floor mats. Nothing. No fucking battery pack. But if it wasn’t in his car..

The storm had nothing on the chill of realization.

Being proactive, Tim had taken out the battery pack to charge the night before. He even set a reminder on his phone to pack it all back up. And he did, Tim had gone back downstairs to the garage to double check everything was in the little black bag, zipped up and ready to go. Right on the counter next to the outlet. Where he fucking left it behind. 

“I’m fine.” He hissed through clenched teeth, closing every door and shutting himself back into his now cold car. If there was one thing he had, it was money, and money paid for exceptionary roadside assistance. 

No fucking service.

The ‘x’ where his bars used to be taunting him. Now he could panic. There was no fucking way he could walk the, what, fifteen miles, maybe more to town. Not in this storm. Not when all he had was a papermap and a cheap flashlight. If he didn’t freeze he would get lost and then freeze. If he was lucky some poor schmuck wouldn’t see him walking along the side of the road and mow him down before either of those happened. No, no. He had the privilege of freezing in the stupid Benz that Bruce told him not to buy. The same Benz that Bruce told him not to take. He’d be here, freezing in this fucking Benz when someone lost control and spun out and hit his car off the fucking mountain. Sitting in the most unreliable Benz ever when a rusty hook knocked on his window and he’s gutted in the backseat. A million and one ways to die in this Benz when he could be safe, warm, cozy, and moving in the Range Rover Bruce told him to take. He’d be dead and Bruce would be right. It was pure fucking evil. 

Tim allowed one long feral scream into his steering wheel. One more second of panic before he would need to get back into action. He could not die and let Bruce be right. He was a goddamn genius, and he should really act like it. 

He couldn’t allow himself to get too cold. That meant he needed more than just his jeans and a turtleneck. Comfortable and practical for a drive and lounging by the fire. Not nearly warm enough for his circumstances. Getting back out of the car was out of the question. There may not be any residual heat from the heater but at least there wasn’t any wind and snow in the cab. Tim crawled over the center console and into the backseat, holding the button on passenger side and pulling the strap to fold the seat down. With access to his bag he pulled out a thick pair of pajama pants, another sweater, thick socks, and his new ski gear. Alfred had even packed him a box of hot hand packets. He could put them all around his inner layers. He just needed to layer up and sit tight. Someone would be coming through eventually, they’d see his triangle and stop. He didn’t have to be stranded forever. He just needed to be smart and patient. 

If things started to get really dire he needed to wait for the snow to stop before venturing out for help or cell service, whichever came first. With that in mind Tim turned off his phone, figuring he’d need to save the battery. He still had the tin of cookies, some beef jerky he’d gotten at the gas station, and two bottles of water. He was going to survive on spite alone. 

With everything on and his supplies out, Tim put the seat back up in order to lay across the back. The sun hadn’t quite set yet. People would surely still be coming through, trying to beat the worst of the storm. With a tentative bite of his cookie, he resolved himself to think about anything but the predicament he was in. On the bright side, Alfred picked one hell of a jacket. He was much warmer than he thought he’d be, and the hood was large and lined, perfect to use as a pillow. He thought about the last budget that he’d submitted to the board. Thought about how he would convince them to give him more wiggle room by promising quicker results on at least two projects (the fact that they were already mostly complete they didn’t need to know). He thought about the low light solar panels that were still in infancy. Gotham may not get much sun, but if he could figure out how to harness what little he could get it could change the lives of entire communities. 

Halfway through the cookie and he was thinking about the new painting in the formal sitting room that Alfred had proudly displayed. Damian had used the moodiest oils to capture the serenity of the conservatory. The longer that he looked at the painting the more it felt like he was looking in from the doorway itself. Even with it being one of his least visited areas of the house, Tim would never forget how the black ivy splayed over the grand columns by painting alone. Tim couldn’t help but to look up from whatever it was that he was doing to stop and admire it’s beauty. So much raw talent, and Damian had only recently started painting. The kid should think about hosting a viewing. At the Spring Gala perhaps. He could very easily persuade Bruce into setting up an area to house all of Damian’s greatest pieces as they floated through the ballroom. Without a doubt there would be interested parties. The press would eat it up for sure. The conservatory painting would be front and center, and that one of the Kent’s farm. God, the one of Amusement Mile gave him chills. 

Maybe he should commission Damian for something he could put into his office. A bit of light sparked in the dreary of his life. But what would he want? There was a photograph in Martha’s albums that he kept going back to of the Scicillian countryside from her and Thomas’ extended honeymoon. That really would be lovely. Actually, he’d ask for that and something purely of Damian’s own inspiration. Now that would be true beauty. His office would be immaculate. Bruce’s office didn’t have original Damian Wayne’s on display, not like Tim’s office. He’d be the envy of the building.

A full renovation of the space would be needed in that case. Tim was already envisioning the type of wood he’d like all of his furniture to be made out of when he heard the steady purr of an engine. 

All too quickly he was sitting up and leaning over to grab his flashlight amongst his supplies. Tim had been daydreaming long enough that the sun had set, and the air dark around him. Keeping close to the side of his car but ready to move if need be, Tim aimed out towards his triangle. He switched the light on and off in three second intervals, illuminating and reflecting off in hopes of catching someone’s attention. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to see the beam of square headlights cut through the storm, returning the flicker in correspondence. Tim couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face. His patience prevailed. He lifted his arms, waving them in the universal sign of ‘here’ as the light came closer, the engine growing louder. 

And out from the storm came his savior, riding in on an old brown pickup. The truck came to a stop a few feet behind his own car, the driver’s door opening and closing with a heavy metal clunk . The driver had a flashlight switched on in one hand for additional light and the other lifted in attempt to shield their face from the oncoming snow. 

“Are you okay?” A man’s voice called as he approached, meeting Tim halfway between their vehicles. 

“I’m okay,” Tim assured, holding onto his hood tightly to keep the cold out. “But my battery died and I don’t have anything to jump it.”

“I got cables in my toolbox, I can line up and we’ll see if we can get her going again.” 

“You’re my hero.” 

Even over the wind whipping around Tim could hear a low chuckle before he ran back to his truck, Tim joining suit in getting into his car to pop the hood. Just as he was securing the hood prop the lights of the truck lit up his engine bay. He could hear the same clunk of the door, what he assumed was the whine of the toolbox, and the heavy crunch of snow when he’d jumped out of the truck bed. Tim diligently held the flashlight as the man hooked up the cables to either side and back to his car. 

“Turn it!” 

Not even a click. “Nothing!” Tim shouted back.

“Count down from thirty and try again” 

Tim did as he was told, and when the car failed a second time he groaned. Totally, utterly dead. The man came over to his door, using the majority of his bulk to block as much of the wind from entering the car as he could. 

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal and you don’t know me, but I can’t leave you here in good conscience at night and the storm picking up. We’re expected to get another six inches overnight and believe me, you do not want to be anywhere near it.” The man was very animated when he spoke, moving his hands and shoulders in wild gestures. “Let me get you into town at least and you can call to get your car towed tomorrow when it’s safe.” 

Rationally, if there were any other way, Tim would absolutely not get into some strange and big - he could see that now, this man was very big - man’s truck in the middle of nowhere with no service. That’s how true crime documentaries started. Tim did not need his gory murder told horribly by Emma for engagement. However, Tim didn’t have very much choice in the matter. If this man really wanted him dead, there was no way he could get away if he said no. Furthermore, if he declined the help, there was no promise that anyone else would be coming through the rest of the night. He could take his chances and die by the hands of a large stranger, or freeze to death.  

Call him crazy, but he’d like to at least warm up before he died, and getting in that truck promised warmth. 

“Alright,” he conceded. “Let me get my things and lock up first.” 

The man nodded and unhooked everything while Tim got his things together. With his luck a state trooper would pass by and slap his car with an abandonment citation come morning. It would be a small price to pay not to die in the fucking Benz . Tim stuffed his supplies from the back into his duffle, threw the strap over his body, and hauled his suitcase out of the trunk. He made sure everything was closed and locked before going towards the truck. This was it, he was really going to get into a moving vehicle with a stranger. No turning back now. 

Said stranger already had the passenger side door open,he was grabbing a lunch box, thermos, and backpack from the seat. The center console was pushed up and became the middle seat. “Sorry, I don’t normally have people riding with me.” He apologized before hauling his things back into the truck bed. Tim could hear the squeak of the toolbox again as he situated himself, having to put his suitcase up right in the middle seat before hoisting himself up with the handle and a hop, duffle between his legs once seated. The door was heavy when he pulled it close, and even if he thought he was being gentle it still shut with the familiar clunk . 

Tim was right, the cab was very, very warm. The seat was a little sunken in with time, but plush. There was a stiff dash cover the same shade as the interior. The truck was old enough to still have a tape deck, and the two cassettes in the extended cupholder below the heater was the only personal touch to the cab. Unable to help himself, Tim pulled the plastic cases out to inspect their titles; Deftones Around the Fur , and Static- X Machine . Huh, for someone who looked around his age, he had the same music taste as Bruce. With no other snooping material nearby, Tim resigned himself to putting on his seat belt and waiting. The truck shifted when the man jumped back out of the bed, lifting and sinking slightly when he slid into the driver’s seat. Despite how deceptively roomy the cab was, the man looked cramped and yet comfortable in his seat. 

He’d picked up on faint smell of wood when he’d first gotten in, assuming it to be the remnants of an air freshener, but now that the driver was here, it had grown stronger. The smell was him. What a peculiar scent. It wasn’t an overly fabricated and ‘manly’ scent that would come to mind when described as woodsy. It was actually like wood. Fresh cut pines, like he’d been laying in a wood pile. Maybe he was some ax wielding murderer who spent all his days out in the woods, off grid unless he was hunting for his next victim. How fitting, Tim got into the truck of an ax murderer on a snowy winter night. He’s a goddamn cliche. 

The truck groaned when it was put into reverse, and again when shifting into first gear. Tim saw the man look over from the corner of his eye. “Are you okay? Is it warm enough for you?”

Was it warm enough? Tim was almost twice his size with the amount of layers he was in. If anything, he could stand to lose some. “It’s very warm, thank you.” 

Aside from the purr of the engine and the soft shift of gears, the cab had grown awkward with silence. Was he supposed to say something? What counted as getting too personal with someone who’d saved you from imminent freeze? 

“Thank you for saving me” Because Tim wasn’t completely without manners. Awkward or not, he should be able to thank this man. “I really don’t want to think about how much longer it would have been until another car came through.” 

“Honestly? You’d probably be waiting until morning.” He agreed grimly. “I don’t normally head home this late, but it was my turn to lock up and weatherproof the shop for the storm.” 

Tim furrowed his brow. He’d been paying very close attention - or at least thought that he did and he didn’t see anything but a few dirt turn offs. Nothing that would suggest there was a shop nearby. “I guess I’m very lucky then.” And now that Tim was saying it he could feel the weight of the words. He was very lucky. That still didn’t explain the mythical shop. “Where do you work? I didn’t see any signs?”

“No, you wouldn’t have. I work at a lumber yard outside of town. Everything gets hauled back in and out to where it needs to go so there’s never anyone in the way.” 

That’s where the smell came from! He wasn’t a creepy off grid ax murderer but a lumberjack (it would also explain why he was so ridiculously jacked). He remembers very vaguely Bruce telling him that there was a yard and previously, an even older mill that had shut down a few years back. What a wonder to listen and retain what Bruce said to him. 

“Which hotel are you going to? Or are you going all the way out to the lodge?” The man looks grimly at the road and out his window. “Actually, I don’t think you’d make it to the lodge tonight, not with this storm.” 

Right, he didn’t say where he needed to go, Tim was too busy thinking of a million and one scenarios of his impending death due to lumberjack. It felt wrong to think of it now, that actually get to his destination safely was a possibility. Well, there’s still hope to be on Emma’s podcast. He could be waiting to trap Tim in the cabin, chase him around with his ax while he screams in manic joy. Does he risk it? No one would find his body out in the woods right away, not until Bruce raised the alarm. A hotel wouldn’t be the worst option. Safe, warm, within the public eye. Screw it, he’s already out in the mountains, may as well commit.  

“My family owns a cabin five miles out of town, the turn off for the road is after the 302 mile marker.” Tim doesn’t need to bring out his map, or hope for his phone’s gps to be back online. He can already feel the eyes on him before he looks back at his driver.

“The Wayne’s cabin?” 

A chill runs down his spine.

Once again, he’s reminding himself not to panic. It’s a cabin outside of a small town. Of course they would know who lives where and what belongs to who. It’s not uncommon. The Waynes built the cabin back in the sixties. It’s a totally, well known, normal fact. It’s not like their name was unheard of outside of Gotham, especially in such a close area. It was also the only residence on that road. It’s completely fine. 

That does nothing for the way he feels uneasy with every time that he can feel eyes on him. Maybe he won’t be murdered, just brutalized and robbed. 

“Yeah, it’s my family’s cabin.” 

If the cab was quiet before, now it’s suffocating. 

“You’re a Wayne.” He says, almost incredulously. Tim doesn’t know if he should be offended or not. He’s not sure that he was even supposed to hear it. “I would be the one to find a Gothamite stranded on the mountain.” 

“Excuse me?” Now Tim is starting to feel offended. 

His driver laughs, airy and humorless. It sounds like it came out without his consent. “I’m from Gotham.”

No the fuck he isn’t. There’s no fucking way that Tim met another Gothamite out here in this stupid blizzard. What Gothamite even stopped to help someone? Where was his accent? There was zero traces of the drawl of the Bowery, no higher pitched old Gotham, nothing posh like Bristol. Hell, this man barely sounded like he was from Jersey . His voice was gruff like smoke and raspy, it sure as hell didn’t have any tilt to Gotham. 

“You mean your family is from Gotham, right?” 

“No, I’m Goth’m .” This time when he spoke, Tim heard it, like a flick of a switch. A true Gotham accent in all of its glory, so thick he could cut it with a knife.

He was flabbergasted. “Shut up.” In hindsight, not the most elegant thing to say to someone that he thought may murder him. That didn’t matter, not when he left Gotham and didn’t actually leave Gotham. “What are you doing out here?” 

Clearly the man wasn’t offended with the way he was laughing. “My dad moved us out here after he’d gotten into an accident; something about clean air and lower crime rates.” Tim snorted, shrugging his shoulders as if to say ‘what can you do’. “I thought you looked familiar, but I didn’t want to be that asshole.”

“Oh, so you keep up with your subscription to the Gazette out here?” Tim mused. 

“Does that shit still exist?” A fair response. “No, my dad’s best friend was Bruce.”

Tim nearly snapped his neck with how quickly he turned to look at the man. No the fuck he didn’t. There was no way-

And yet, the one person who just so happened to be driving around in this wretched storm was a Gothamite. 

“Who are you ?” A question that Tim should have asked even before he got into this truck. And this driver, already sweet enough (allegedly) to help out some stranger has the audacity to look a little bashful. 

“Oh my god I never introduced myself.” He sounds genuinely horrified. “Yeah, okay that sounded really creepy, shit I’m sorry.” He might be amused by this rambling if he wasn’t still picturing the possibility of being on a true crime podcast. “I’m Jason Dent, my dad was the DA for Gotham.” 

Suddenly he’s a blackened silhouette falling into a moving spiral. Jason Dent. As in Harvey Fucking ‘Apollo’ Dent’s offspring. Dick’s uncle Harv. Tim wasn’t yet a Wayne, but even he knew how close Harvey and Bruce were once upon a time. Jason, who Tim was very, very much in love with after he’d seen him in his baseball uniform. He was sitting in the Chevy Sidestep of his first crush. Maybe death wasn’t such a bad thing now. 

“Tim Drake.” All he can do is mumble his own name back, still drowning in his revelation. 

“Tim!” He, no, Jason says it like he’s having a revelation on his own. “I remember seeing you around,” Tim is positively mortified. He knew what he was like as a child, and he didn’t need anyone, let alone Jason Dent remembering. “You were always looking through a camera lens, I don’t think I ever saw your actual face.”

Oh god, Jason Dent remembered him as a stalker. Maybe he should have slid off the mountain in his Benz . Jason doesn’t seem to mind that Tim has been rendered speechless. He just keeps driving along, like he didn’t completely obliterate Tim’s mind. He wants to ask Jason how much he actually remembers about Tim, or if this was just a blimp in his memories that floats around occasionally, but frankly, he’s afraid of what the answer may be. He’s perfectly content to let his mind scramble, brow pressed to the cold glass of the window. He’s spent so much time panicking that now he’s suddenly exhausted. There’s a mechanical whir and click of a tape loading and the cab is suddenly filled with the low melody of Mascara . 

Tim doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

“Hey Tim, we’ve made it.” There’s a slight pressure at his shoulder, someone’s trying to rouse him from his sleep. He’s not quite ready to wake up yet, so he ignores it. There’s another small jostle on his shoulder. “C’mon, you gotta get up.”

God, Tim doesn’t want to. He’s just on the right side of too warm, not enough to break a sweat, but damn near close. It’s perfect. The next time he feels the movement he knows that he’s not going to be able to fall back asleep. He’s hunched in on himself, head lolled into the fluffy lining of his hood, arms hugging his middle. He blinks himself back into consciousness, all too aware that he’s still in Jason’s truck. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, how embarrassing. 

“I’m sorry I fell asleep, I should have been a better passenger.” He apologises. “I could have been another set of eyes for deer or something.”

Jason chuckles. “With how quickly you fell asleep, I don’t think you would have seen anything before me anyway.” 

That’s probably true, tired eyes and driving didn’t necessarily mix, he was still trying to blink some of the blurriness out of his sight now. Or maybe that was the snow. Even with the headlights pointed at the front of the house it was hard to see with the wind whipping the snow around. Tim dreaded getting out of the cozy cab and into that storm. Sure, he would be inside the cabin, but it would take a while for it to heat up once he got a fire going. Jason really was local with how well he weathered the snowy road up to the cabin. 

“Well, this is me.” Tim knows how lame it sounds as soon as he says it. He thinks he can see Jason smile in the small amount of light in the cab. 

“You made it.” 

They sit there in silence for another minute. Surely Jason must think Tim rude for keeping him out in the storm longer than strictly necessary. He’s already rescued him, he doesn’t need to sit out here wasting gas just because Tim doesn’t want to be in the cold. “Is there anything I can do to repay you? I seriously can’t thank you enough, I thought I was going to end up with a rusty hook in my back.”

“Oh for sure, this area is known for hook yielding murderers.”

“Naturally.”

They both laugh, the air almost warmer with their banter. 

“Really Jason, if there’s anything I can do to repay you, I’ll do it. Let me at least give you some gas money.” Tim is already leaning down to dig into his duffle bag when there’s a hand pushing at his arm.

“Hey, you don’t need to do any of that.” Jason must know that he’s about to protest because he speaks up again. “Like I said, I couldn’t leave you out there in good conscience. I did my good deed for the year, I shouldn’t have to worry about it again come next December.” 

Even if he’s trying to cover up his earnesty with his humor Tim can feel the sincerity in his words. 

“Well I’ll be here all week, so maybe you can get a few extra years in and save my sorry ass again.” Tim purposefully leaves it open ended, he doesn’t want Jason to think that he’s going to be forced to see Tim again. He can go on about his life with the tidbit of saving a fellow Gothamite from freezing on the mountain. It doesn’t need to be a thing. 

Jason raises a brow, smile still carefully on his lips. “Are you really that much of a trainwreck?”

“You have no idea.”

They laugh together again. 

Tim gets his duffle back around his shoulder, and his hand on the handle of his suitcase. He counts to three before he’s opening the door, fighting back against the wind to get it open and nearly failing when it threatens to squish him into the frame of the truck. He’s purposely careful as walks up the slippery stairs, not wanting to fall in line of the headlights in front of Jason Dent. Tim digs into his pocket to get out his keys, the headlights of the truck float over his back and the side of the house just as he turns the lock. He’s one foot inside when he hears a deafening crack that echoes even through the storm.

Horrified, Tim drops his keys and luggage both as he spins around. Jason’s truck is stopped at the mouth of the road, slightly veered off to the side. Tim can’t seem to get his feet out from under him as he sprints down the stairs, nearly slipping in the snow several times as he makes his way to the truck. His heart is hammering in his ears the whole way. Jason gets out of the cab and catches him from nearly falling on his face in his frantic state. Tim’s holding onto his arms with a grip stronger than he’s ever held onto anything before. 

“Holy shit Jason, are you okay?!” Tim shouts over the storm, feebly trying to check him over for injury in the dark. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m okay!” Jason shouts back, steadying Tim back onto his feet. “A tree collapsed into the road in front of me.”

“Are you serious?” Disbelieving, Tim finally lets go of Jason to step around him and get a look at the road. Just as Jason had described a very large tree is now  laying down in front of Jason’s truck, a mere foot away from the hood. Way too fucking close. If Jason hadn’t turned his wheel in time, god forbid-  “Holy shit.” He whispers, not wanting to even finish his train of thoughts. The road up to the cabin is thick with trees, it had always made Tim feel claustrophobic before, but now seeing one on the ground, a quarter of it leaned precariously into another tree made him want to vomit. Who's to say another one won’t fall? Or the one that’s holding up this tree? It could topple over at any minute. He steps backwards slowly, reaching out his hand blindly until he can feel Jason take his arm. 

“This storm is getting too dangerous, I really think you should stay here until it clears up!” 

“I don’t know-”

“Jason, you could have been smashed under that tree! It’s too cold to argue, there’s no way you’re going to be able to move that tree anyway, just get inside,” Jason doesn’t seem quite convinced, Tim pulls at the front of his coat. “I’m not asking, I’m telling you that you’re staying!”

Jason doesn’t say anything right away, and Tim is ready to use every last bit of strength dragging him into the house when suddenly there’s hands over his. 

“Okay, okay, let me just get my truck away from the road.” 

Tim accepts the compromise, letting go of Jason and turning back to trudge back through the snow and into the cabin. The wind must have swung the door fully open, there’s snow blown into the entryway. Tim kicks his luggage aside and gets the door closed, feeling along the dark wall for a lightswitch. The light above him flickers once before staying brightly lit. As much as he thinks theres more important things to tend to, Tim knows he’s not going to want to clean up later if he stomps throughout the house with dirty boots on. He kicks them off without a care and starts to walk further into the darkness of the house, arms out to feel around. He walks straight into the couch, nearly sending him over the spine of it. He uses it to feel along until the material changes from plush fabric to a wooden side table. Bingo. 

Tim pulls the string and illuminates the room just as the door swings open and slams shut again. “I’m in here!” He calls out, heading straight for the fireplace. Whoever came in and cleaned the cabin up had the foresight to stack a few logs inside, just waiting to be lit. Tim was going to leave the fattest tip. At the side of the hearth held long matches that Tim struggled to light with his shaking hands. When it did light, he moved stiffly and slowly, doing his damnest not to let the small flame die out as he kneeled down to light the smaller sticks in the front. When he was sure it caught he shook the match, placing it along with the wood and blowing softly to help the fire along. 

“I can help with the fire.” He hears behind him, but Tim tries to wave him off. Jason’s suddenly kneeling beside him, reaching his hand into the hearth to move a smaller piece of wood and light the other end. 

Not wanting to be useless, Tim stands and heads in the vague direction of the kitchen. It’s a lot more feeling along walls to find the lightswitch and an embarrassing amount of time in the cabinets to find a kettle. Knowing that Alfred would have sent the list for his grocery haul, Tim knew there had to be some sort of tea here. Tim was filling a steeper when he heard Jason’s soft footsteps enter the kitchen. He didn’t say anything as he sat himself at the breakfast nook, head in his hands. 

He didn’t say anything at all until Tim was joining him and passing a mug his way. 

“I guess this means that you’ve also done your good deed for the next year.” Jason hummed over his cup, taking a long sip and trying desperately to fit both of his gigantic hands around the little mug for heat. 

“I couldn’t let you be the only one saving lives around here.” They don’t laugh this time, maybe it’s still a little too morbid. “Are you hungry?”

Jason groans. “I’m starving.” 

Tim takes one more sip of his tea before standing. “Well, you happen to be in luck. I have a fully stocked kitchen and half a mind to figure something out.” 

“Yeah, you cook?” Jason asks as Tim’s opening the fridge. Lots of vegetables, eggs, different stocks, cheese, his favorite salad dressing, and a few rolled butcher papers. 

“Anyone can cook.” Tim imitates in a horrendous french accent. He takes out the package of mushrooms and a wedge of parmesan cheese. He rifles along in the cabinets until he finds a jar of sauce (likely to Alfred’s dismay) and spaghetti noodles. Fast, filling, and comforting. Exactly what they needed. 

“Do you need any help?” Jason’s already standing up and washing his hands at the sink. Tim’s pushing past him to wash his own hands.

“Honestly Jason, I can boil noodles.” He reprimands. It doesn’t deter Jason in the slightest. He’s getting a pot out of the cabinet and filling it with water to set on the stove. Fine, if Jason wanted to salt the water, Tim could get a saucepan down and start heating the jar up. 

“Do you know if there’s any fresh garlic?” Jason’s asking him to be polite, it seems he has no problem moving around the kitchen to find what he wants. It’s funny to think one moment he’s flagging down Jason’s truck to save him on the side of the highway, and now he’s in his family’s cabin mincing garlic. They work alongside another in companionable silence, moving around another and passing things like they’ve done it a thousand times before. Jason’s found a fresh loaf of bread on one of the counters and took it upon himself to make a cheesy garlic bread while Tim cut up tomatoes and cucumbers to go in a side salad. He sets the table while Jason mixes the sauce and noodles together in the pot, bringing it into the dining room with a potholder to set it on. Tim even finds a bottle of red wine. 

The fire and oven have heated up the cabin considerably and Tim finally takes off all of his layers to be back in his jeans and turtleneck. Jason laughs at each one he takes off, even still praising him for being so resilient in thinking up a way to stay warm. Tim pours them each a glass as Jason dishes them both a heaping pile of spaghetti, he even has the decency to grate fresh cheese onto his pasta. It’s really nothing special, sauce straight from the jar with a little salt, mushrooms, and some of the garlic Jason minced but it tastes heavenly on his tongue. They’re both too enraptured in their food to speak over asking for bread and salad passed. It’s oddly serene. 

Jason insists on doing the dishes when they finish eating and Tim doesn’t protest. 

He’s leaning against the counter, wine glass in hand as he watches this mammoth of a man carefully rinse the glassware and set into the drying rack with utmost care. Tim takes one more sip of his wine as courage before he asks what he’s been thinking all dinner. 

“Why didn’t you ever come back to Gotham?”

Jason pauses his scrubbing, turning his head slightly to get a glimpse of Tim before going back to his chore. “If I said it’s only because my dad’s here I’d be lying.” he pauses as he places the pot onto the other side of the sink and starts on the sauce pan. “Honestly? Gotham is home; I love every bit about her, even the grimy streets. She’ll always have my heart.” Tim can understand that, outsiders just didn’t understand. Gotham was alive and whole, even if it wasn’t always pretty in nature. 

“But?” Tim supplies, subconsciously leaning closer. 

“But, I learned to love it here too. I was only half joking about the clean air earlier. The smell of the fresh dew in the morning on the trees? There’s nothing like it. Yeah, Gotham sticks together out of sick comradery, but here? People actually want to see you succeed. When they ask ‘how are you’ on the street, they mean it. They genuinely want to know you’re doing well, and if not they want to help you back onto your feet. It’s community, it’s love. Its..” Jason rinses the last dish and the sink, drying his hands on the towel hanging on the cabinet before leaning back into the counter next to Tim. “It’s the mile high pie at the diner, the great chili cook off every spring, the winterfest along mainstreet and movies in the park in the summer.”  Tim swallows hard. He can picture it all, he can taste the god damn chili on his tongue. It’s a fantasy he could easily fall into. Tim is about to raise his glass and Jason takes it from his hands, taking the last sip for himself and setting it off to the side. It’s then that Tim realizes how close Jason really is. They’re so close they’re practically touching. Jason’s looking so deep into his eyes he thinks that he’s bearing his soul.  “And the stars? God, there’s nothing like seeing the night sky littered with stars framed by the trees.” Tim’s breath catches then. 

He doesn’t know who moves first, just that one moment they’re looking into each other’s eyes and the next Jason’s lips are on his. They’re nearly frantic in the way they’re moving against each other. All groping and fumbling hands like they’re teenagers. Jason lifts him on the counter, and oh , that seemed so effortless. Tim’s hands are buried deep in Jason’s hair, he’s trying to pull him closer as if it’s possible. His turtleneck is on the floor and the ugly flannel Jason was wearing rapidly following. Jason kisses like he’s trying to make Tim fall in love. He’s passionate and very, very thorough. He’s loud too. 

They don’t make it to the bed. 

Not fully. They got as far as the bench in front of the bed and that was it. They push and pull against each other. It’s messy and a little out of sync, Jason laughs into his mouth and sighs in his ear. His skin is burning hot, nearly scorching in his touches. Tim’s half on the bench and breathless in his afterglow. Jason had thrown the blanket from the foot of the bed over him as he, in all of his naked glory, got a fire started in the bedroom's fireplace. And Tim has to say, seeing the muscle of Jason’s back illuminated in the soft glow stirs something in his belly like never before. When he drapes himself over tantalizing flesh and nibbles at his ear, Jason doesn’t deny him. Watching Jason writhe by firelight is like watching a masterpiece unfold. 

At some point they untangle from each other long enough to shower, and even then it’s just barely. Jason chases each lather of soap at his shoulder with a kiss. Tim’s toes curl every time. The shower may as well not have happened when they dry and get back into bed, just for Jason to crawl back over him and move so slowly, so deliciously it’s like spun honey in his veins. 

It’s all so easy. So right. To move like this, to kiss like that, like lovers do. 

Tim’s laying on his back, letting the last waves of - everything wash over him, the fire is crackling soothingly. Jason is coming back into bed with a cup of water, lifts his head and helps him drink before pulling Tim into his chest. He can feel Jason draw meaningless shapes into his spine, the pulse under his hand lulling him into tranquility. He thinks he’s about to doze off when he can feel as much as hear the rumbling of Jason’s voice. 

“ The only other sound’s the sweep. 

Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 

but I have promises to keep, 

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep. ”

Jason lifts his head, only enough to give him one last warm kiss. 

Tim dreams of cold winter nights and stars framed by trees.