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Recently, Jason’s been having a problem with blinking.
Not in the ordinary sense, no. His eyes are fine – nothing wrong with the mechanics of it, no unusual dryness, no annoying twitch to his eyelids. It’s something else entirely. Something sharper, more dangerous, a sudden type of chaos that comes and goes as it pleases. A risk that tightens around him like a noose every time he’s foolish enough to lose focus and let go.
And for Jason, letting go means slipping. It means vanishing.
Because blinking isn’t just blinking. It’s a loaded gun, a game of Russian roulette played in the split-second darkness of his own body. One moment, he’s here – safe, solid, grounded. The next, he’s somewhere entirely, yanked through space like a rag doll. No warning. No control. Just a flash of nothing, a mystical leap, and then… somewhere else.
It happens so often he’s already lost count.
Hell, it happens again tonight.
The Belfry feels like a prison. Too quiet, too still, every creak of the floorboards like a warning shot aimed somewhere above his head. He stands in the kitchen, staring blankly at the fridge. He doesn’t even remember why he came here – if there’d even be a reason in the first place – or why his hands are shaking.
Jason hasn’t left the building in days. The idea of going outside feels impossible, like he’ll step out onto the street and blink straight into traffic. Or worse. He’d tried going out for a patrol last week, hoping the air might clear his head, but it had ended three blocks away, his heart pounding, his legs refusing to move – too afraid of where the leaping might throw him next.
He doesn’t sleep much anymore. The nights blur into mornings, his thoughts swimming in dark circles that never seem to slow down or break. Jason tells himself he’s fine. He’s always fine. But the trembling in his hands betrays him, the tension coiled tight in his gut threatening to snap at the slightest touch.
He grips the edge of the counter, fingers digging into the cool, unforgiving stone.
Breathe.
But it’s already too late.
The pull is instant.
It’s like being swallowed whole, the world tilting violently on its axis. Jason feels himself being yanked through the air, the space around him folding inward, collapsing into an endless void. It’s a suffocating, crushing kind of nothing – so brief it shouldn’t matter – but it lingers, clawing at his lungs, choking the breath out of him even after it ends.
When he forces his eyes open, the kitchen is gone.
The street is busy, wet from earlier rain, the cold air wrapping around him like a shroud. Jason stands frozen, his boots scraping against damp sidewalk as he tries to steady his breathing. He’s outside now, just a few feet from the Belfry’s entrance, but it feels like he’s landed on a different planet.
His first instinct is to run, to move, to do something, anything, that might make him feel like he’s in control again. But his legs don’t listen. His body doesn’t listen.
The blinking is getting worse. He knows it. It’s happening more often now, triggered by the smallest things – an unexpected noise, a fleeting thought he can’t push away. And every time, it leaves him stranded, untethered, as if the world is rejecting him piece by piece.
You’re not safe anywhere, a voice whispers in the back of his mind, sharp and cruel. Not here. Not there. Not anywhere.
Jason presses a hand against the nearest wall, the rough brick steadying him, grounding him in place. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, his breath fogging in the cold air, his chest heaving with the effort of staying upright.
The surrounding street is loud. Busy.
But that doesn’t make him feel any less alone.
***
Jason doesn’t mean to blink into Tim’s room.
At least, not at first.
The blinking started as a terrifying, erratic phenomenon, something he couldn’t control or understand. A punishment, maybe, or just another cruel twist of fate in the never-ending mess of his life. But this? This feels deliberate.
The first time it happens, Jason chalks it up to a chance. Some weird, instinctive fluke pulling him toward a place that feels safe – or, at the very least, less hostile. Tim’s room is small but comfortable, the air filled with a strange mixture of calm, full of clutter that Jason can’t find anywhere else in the Belfry. He’d only meant to stay a few minutes that first night, long enough for the trembling in his hands to stop and his heart to slow down. But he’d ended up staying longer than he should have, the steady hum of the electronics lulling him into a restless sort of calm.
And now, he keeps coming back.
It’s always late at night when the walls of his room feel too close, or after patrol when his head won’t stop spinning, and the blinking claws at him like a living thing. He doesn’t mean to land here, but he does. Over and over, until the unspoken shame of it begins to wrap him like a second skin.
Jason sits on the edge of Tim’s bed, his hands resting on his knees as he stares at the faint glow of the monitor on the desk. It’s been two weeks since he first found himself here, and he’s not sure what’s worse – the way his body relaxes the moment his boots hit the floor, or the way guilt lingers in his chest like a stone he can’t shake loose.
The blinking stops here.
Every time Jason lands in this room, the world feels a little more stable. The chaos that usually churns beneath his skin settles, and for a few precious hours, Jason feels almost normal. Almost.
But the cost gnaws at him.
Tim isn’t stupid. Jason knows the younger Bat must have noticed something – his cologne lingering on the sheets, the fair indent of a body in the mattress when Tim comes back from patrol. Once, Jason had been careless, leaving a stray glove on the floor. Another time, he’d knocked over a half-full mug on the nightstand and spent twenty frantic minutes wiping it up with his own T-shirt before slipping away.
Tim hasn’t said anything. Yet.
Jason tells himself it’s fine, that if Tim knew, he would’ve confronted him by now. But the thought of being caught burns in the back of Jason’s mind like a brand.
The last thing he wants is a look full of pity – or worse, anger. Jason already knows what he’s doing is selfish, invasive. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t need this.
But the alternative is the leaping. The cold, empty spaces in between, where his body feels like it doesn’t belong to him. And Jason doesn’t know how to stop it.
His shoulders sag as he leans back against the wall, letting his head rest against the cool plaster. He doesn’t close his eyes – he can’t, not yet – but he lets the room settle around him, its stillness wrapping around the sharp edges of his mind.
Just a little longer, he tells himself. One more night, and then he’ll figure something else out. Somewhere else to go.
Deep down, Jason knows he won’t.
He knows it’s a mistake.
He knows the more he teleports into Tim’s room, the harder it will be to stop. And yet, every time the void yanks him from one place to another, his body pulls him here. Like some sick instinct he can’t control, a tether drawing him toward the one thing that makes the world stop spinning for just a little while.
***
The blinking has only gotten worse. Days blend into nights, his awareness slipping as the walls of the Belfry press tighter, the city outside feeling like a shadow he’s too afraid to face. He tries to fight it. He does. But every time he blinks and lands in Tim’s room, and the guilt that weighs heavy on his chest dissipates just enough for him to breathe again.
It’s a vicious cycle, and Jason’s too tired to break it.
This time, he lands softly, the faint creak of Tim’s floorboards cutting through the heavy quiet. The room is dark, save for the blinking green of some forgotten gadget on the desk. The air is cool, faintly tinged with that same clean, sharp scent that Jason can’t help but associate with Tim, not Alfred’s cleaning detergents.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath and lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. His boots hang off the side, careful not to touch the sheets, but his hands find the edge of the mattress, gripping it tightly like it might keep him from falling apart.
Jason stays like that for a moment, unmoving. He doesn’t need much – just a few minutes, enough for his heart to settle and his hands to stop trembling. Just enough to remind himself that he’s still here.
But the signs are harder to ignore now.
Tim’s bed is made more often than not, the sheets pulled taut in a way Jason knows he’s going to disrupt. A hoodie that he’d draped over the chair last night is gone, replaced by a pile of neatly folded clothes on the desk. And then, there are mugs – or the absence of them, like Tim’s been moving them around, cleaning up, clearing space.
It’s subtle, but Jason isn’t stupid. Tim knows.
It’s not just the room, either. During the day, Tim watches him. Not in the obvious, overt way he might’ve expected if he’d been caught, but with something quieter, sharper. There’s a weight to Tim’s gaze that Jason can’t shake, an edge that feels more like knowing than simple curiosity.
Like the way Tim’s eyes linger a second too long when Jason stands in the kitchen. Or the faint curve of his mouth when he asks Jason if he’s “sleeping okay.” Or, worst of all, the way Tim’s brows knit together when Jason mutters some excuse about leaving early or needing space.
It’s almost scarier than being confronted outright. The silence, the uncertainty – it gnaws at Jason’s nerves, sharp and unrelenting. He tells himself he’s imagining it, reading too much into the way Tim’s eyes flicker toward him, the way his hands pause over the keyboard when Jason walks into the room. But the doubt lingers, a shadow that refuses to let go.
And the blinking doesn’t stop.
Jason leans forward, pressing his elbows into his knees and burying his face in his hands. He tells himself he’ll stop. Tomorrow, or the day after, or whenever he figures out how to get a handle on this leaping thing again. But the words ring hollow, a promise he knows he won’t keep.
Because, he’s not sure what’s worse: the fear of Tim finding out, or the thought of losing this, this fragile, stolen solace that keeps him from unraveling completely.
The door creaks slightly, and Jason’s breath catches.
For one terrifying second, he’s sure that it’s Tim, coming back early, the weight of a confrontation crashing down on him like a tidal wave. But the sound fades, replaced by the distant hum of the Belfry’s ventilation system.
Jason exhales, his breath shuddering as his hands drop aimlessly into his lap. He can’t keep doing this. He knows he can’t. But as his gaze drifts to the rumpled pillow at the head of the bed, soft and inviting in a way that makes his chest ache, he knows he will.
Just one more night, he tells himself again. One more, and then I’ll stop.
The lie feels heavier every time.
***
Jason wakes to warmth.
For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is – his mind hazy, limbs heavy with the rare, intoxicating weight of sleep. His body feels cocooned, a slow awareness trickling in. The press of another body against his back, the steady rise and fall of breath, a heavy arm draped over his waist.
His stomach lurches.
Jason tenses, every nerve snapping to attention as he realizes exactly where he is. Tim’s bed. Tim’s arm around him. And Tim, soft and warm, and here , holding him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His heart pounds in his ears, the urge to run – to blink away if he could control it – roaring to life like an alarm. He shifts slightly, trying to pull away, but the arm around his waist tightens, holding him in place.
“Don’t.”
The word is soft, barely above a whisper, but it’s loud enough to freeze Jason in place.
Tim’s voice is low, rough with sleep, and Jason’s stomach twists at the sound of it.
“You act like I didn’t know” Tim states, his tone calm, conversational. “You’re not exactly subtle, Jason. I might be gone when you come to bed, and gone when you wake up. But it’s still my room, and eventually, I come back. You know, when you’re sleeping.”
Jason stops breathing.
The blinking thrums at the edges of his awareness, that telltale pull threatening to yank him out of the room, away from this fragile, horrifying moment. But it doesn’t come. Not yet.
“Tim…” Jason starts, his voice hoarse, but he doesn’t know what to say.
Tim shifts behind him, his chin brushing against Jason’s shoulder.
“You’re always so still when you sleep,” Tim says softly. “Like the weight of everything finally lifts. I didn’t want to take that from you.”
Shame washes over Jason in waves, hot and suffocating. He screws his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists against the sheets.
“I didn’t mean–”
“I know.” Tim’s voice is steady, surprisingly supportive, and grounding. “I know you didn’t.”
Jason doesn’t know what to do with this, with the gentle way Tim speaks to him, and the quiet certainty in his words. He’s supposed to be angry, isn’t he? Or disappointed, or something else. Not… this.
“I shouldn’t have–” Jason tries again, but the words get stuck in his throat.
Tim’s arm loosens slightly, just enough for Jason to turn his head and catch a glimpse of Tim’s face. His expression is calm, unreadable, almost lazy, but there’s something in his eyes that Jason can’t ignore. Something sharp. Knowing.
“Don’t let me teleport out of here,” Jason mutters suddenly, the words tumbling out, all panicked before he can stop them.
Tim’s eyes widen briefly, his brow furrowing. “Jason…”
“I mean it.” Jason’s voice cracks, low and raw. “I’ll go. I’ll leap out, and I won’t come back, and…” He swallows hard, the shame clawing at his throat. “Don’t let me go.”
For a long moment, Tim doesn’t say anything. Jason braces himself, his body taut with the anticipation of rejection, of being told to leave, of being met with the cold, hard reality he’s been running from.
But then Tim shifts, pulling Jason closer, his hold firm but not suffocating.
“I’m not letting you go,” Tim says quietly.
And somehow, impossibly, Jason doesn’t blink away.
***
The blinking pulls him apart, anyway.
Jason doesn’t even know why it started this time – just that one moment he was out on the street, chasing a thug, and the next, he wasn’t. It’s all fragmented now – flashes of light, the disjointed hum of the world folding and unfolding around him, the jarring sensation of being nowhere and anywhere all at once.
He tries to stop himself, gripping the streetlight pole, but it doesn’t help. The blinking keeps yanking him through space, each jump more violent than the last. Jason’s breath comes in sharp gasps, his heart pounding as his surroundings change – street to the bus stop to an alley nearby the Belfry.
And then, finally, Tim’s room.
Jason collapses against the bed, his legs giving out beneath him. The leaping stops abruptly, leaving behind a void of silence and a disappearing cloud of green. His chest heaves, his muscles trembling with the aftermath of whatever the hell just happened.
He’s safe now. He should feel safe.
But he doesn’t.
Jason drags a shaky hand over his face, his fingers digging into his scalp as his vision blurs. His throat tightens, hot tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and he fights them back with everything he has. He doesn’t cry.
“Jason?”
Tim’s voice is small, tentative, but it cuts through Jason like a knife. He looks up, catching Tim’s silhouette in the doorway, and the fragile thread holding him together snaps.
“Go away,” Jason says hoarsely, his voice broken.
Tim steps inside, closing the door behind him, his expression unreadable.
“I said go away,” Jason snaps, louder this time. He pushes himself up on unsteady legs, swaying slightly as he glares at Tim. “I don’t need you here. I don’t need–”
“You’re shaking,” Tim interrupts quietly, his eyes flicking to Jason’s trembling hands.
Jason freezes, his chest tightening as he realizes Tim is right. His whole body is trembling, his nerves frayed and raw, and he hates it – hates that Tim can see it.
“Don’t,” Jason growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t pity me. I don’t need your fucking pity.”
Tim doesn’t flinch. He crosses the room slowly, cautiously, like Jason might bolt at any second. “I’m not pitying you,” he says calmly.
“Yes, you are!” Jason explodes, his voice cracking. “Don’t act like you’re not. Don’t act like you care.”
“I do care,” Tim insists.
Jason laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and hollow.
“Yeah, right. You care because it’s convenient. Because I’m here, and you’re–” He cuts himself off, his throat tightening around the words.
“Because I’m what?” Tim presses, his voice softer now.
Jason doesn’t answer. He turns away, his hands gripping the edge of the bed as he tries to steady himself.
“You think I don’t notice?” Tim continues, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know why you keep coming here?”
Jason flinches, his shoulders hunching like he’s bracing for a blow.
“You’re here because you’re running,” Tim says bluntly. “Running from whatever it is that’s eating you alive. And you keep coming back because this place – because I – make it stop. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
Jason’s knuckles whiten as he grips the bedspread, his head hanging low.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
Tim exhales sharply, his gaze flicking between Jason’s face and his shaking hands. “Don’t, what? Tell the truth?” His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and Jason realizes, too late, that Tim isn’t as calm as he seems.
“You think I don’t feel it?” Tim asks, his voice quieter now, his eyes searching Jason’s face for something. “Every time you come here, you leave pieces of yourself behind. You think I don’t notice the way it feels like you’re… fading when you’re gone?”
Jason doesn’t respond. His throat feels like it’s closing up, the weight of Tim’s words pressing down on him harder than he can stand.
“I try not to think about it,” Tim admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I try not to think about why you come here. Or what it means that I’m–” He stops himself, shaking his head like he’s banishing the thought.
“That you’re what?” Jason snaps, the sharpness in his voice hiding the tremor beneath.
“That I’m what you run to,” Tim says, his eyes dark with something raw and unguarded. “And not because I’m enough. But because I’m here. ”
The words hang between them, a truth neither of them knows how to deny.
“I don’t deserve this,” Jason murmurs. “You don’t deserve this.”
Tim looks at him for a long moment, the hurt in his expression softening into something quieter, steadier. “Maybe not,” he says softly. “But you’re here. And I’m not letting you go.”
Jason doesn’t blink. He doesn’t vanish.
He stays.
***
Jason’s feet feel heavier than they should, like the floor beneath him is pulling him down. Every step closer to Tim’s room drags him deeper into something he doesn’t have a name for, something thick and sticky like molasses, all laced with guilt.
He tells himself he shouldn’t come here, as if it would work this time, but his body betrays him again. This time, though, he comes by himself – standing in the dim light of Tim’s room, hesitating.
Tim is already there. Of course, he is.
Jason freezes in the doorway, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Tim doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at him from across the room, his expression calm. It’s the kind of patience that makes Jason’s skin crawl.
“Didn’t think you’d come tonight,” Tim says, breaking the silence.
Jason huffs out a laugh, stepping further into the room despite himself. “Yeah, well. Guess I’m still unpredictable.”
Tim doesn’t answer. He just watches, waiting, and Jason hates it – hates how exposed he feels under that gaze, like Tim can see through every carefully constructed wall he’s built.
“You should stop letting me do this,” Jason says, his voice sharper than he means it to be. He gestures vaguely around the room, his movements quick and erratic. “Coming here. Taking– taking up space. It’s not…it’s not right.”
Tim tilts his head, his mask of composure slipping just enough to show a flicker of confusion. “Why?”
Jason scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because I don’t deserve it, Tim. Any of it. You, letting me crash here, letting me–” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You should be telling me to leave, not–”
“Not what?” Tim’s voice is quiet, careful, but there’s something sharp beneath it.
“Not looking at me like that,” Jason snaps, his anger flaring up to mask the shame curling in his gut. “Like you don’t know exactly what I am. Like I’m not the same guy who used to try to knock your teeth out every chance I got.”
Tim takes a step closer, his gaze steady. “You’re not that guy anymore.”
Jason laughs, but it’s hollow, brittle. “Aren’t I? Look at me, Tim. I can’t even control my own body. I blink in and out of your room like some fucking ghost, and I can’t even stop myself. What does that say about me?”
“That you’re human,” Tim says, his voice firm but gentle.
Jason shakes his head, backing away. “No. It says I’m weak. That I don’t deserve to be here. That I should’ve stayed dead.”
Jason stares at Tim, his breath coming in shallow bursts. There’s something in his chest – anger, shame, fear – that’s clawing its way out, shredding his defenses. He wants to yell, to break something, to shove Tim as far away as possible.
Instead, his voice comes out hoarse, trembling under the weight of everything he can’t say. “I have tried to kill you, Tim. Many times. I almost succeeded.”
Tim doesn’t flinch. His expression doesn’t even change, and that just makes Jason angrier, how Tim walks toward him ever so casually – as if Jason’s words never affected him at all.
“Don’t you get that? You should stay away.” Jason growls, stepping closer and meeting him in the middle of the room, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “You’re running toward someone who’s already hurt you more than anyone else ever could. You’re chasing the end of a knife, Tim.”
The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of them moves.
Tim’s voice cuts through the silence. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Jason looks up, startled by the edge in Tim’s voice.
“You don’t get to decide who deserves what,” Tim continues, stepping closer. “Not for yourself, and not for anyone else. You think you’re the only one who’s broken? The only one who’s lost? Bruce is gone, Jason. We’re all just trying to keep breathing.”
Jason swallows hard, his chest tight. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.
“Then make me get it,” Tim says, his voice breaking just slightly. “Or stop running.”
Jason doesn’t know what causes him to move, but suddenly he’s stepping forward, closing the distance between them. His hands are on Tim’s shoulders, gripping tightly, his head bowed like a man at confession.
“I don’t know how to stop,” Jason whispers, his voice raw. “I don’t know how to do this, Tim. I don’t know how to need someone without– without ruining it. Ruining us.”
Tim reaches up, his hands settling on Jason’s arms, grounding him. “I'm scared, too.”
Jason’s breath hitches, his grip tightening. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” Tim says softly, his hands sliding up to Jason’s neck, his thumbs brushing against the tense line of his jaw. “You’re not a knife, Jason. You’re a man.”
The words crack something open inside Jason, something deep and hidden and ugly. He doesn’t think – he just moves, his lips pressing against Tim’s in a kiss that feels like both punishment and absolution.
It’s small, too short to be real. Tim meets him halfway, his hands holding Jason steady, his body anchoring him like a lifeline.
Jason pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Tim’s, his breathing coming out ragged. “This is wrong,” he states, his voice thick with shame. “I shouldn’t–”
Tim shushes him, his thumb brushing lightly against Jason’s bottom lip. “Maybe it is,” he says quietly. “But you’re still here.”
Jason exhales shakily, his hands loosening but not letting go. “Don’t let me blink out,” he whispers, the plea heavy with vulnerability.
“You won’t,” Tim promises, his voice steady. “Not tonight. Never here.”
For the first time in what feels like forever, Jason doesn’t fight it.
***
The light cuts through the room, spilling across the bed in stripes. Jason wakes with a jolt, the warmth at his back dragging him out of the fragile peace he’d clung to in his sleep.
Tim is still there, his arms and legs slung over Jason’s waist like they belong there, his breath steady against Jason’s shoulder. It feels too much – too heavy, too real, too good. Jason’s chest tightens, his pulse racing as guilt rises like bile in his throat.
He shifts, trying to ease out of Tim’s grip without waking him, but the movement is enough to stir him. Tim murmurs something, his voice thick with sleep, and Jason freezes.
“You’re still here,” Tim says, his words soft, almost cautious.
Jason swallows hard, his jaw clenching. “Yeah,” he forces out, his voice hoarse. “Guess I am.”
Tim pulls back just enough to let him sit up, but the space doesn’t make it easier to breathe. Jason swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his hands gripping his knees like they’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“You didn’t leap out of here,” Tim says, a little louder. “Not last night. Not now.”
Jason laughs, sharp and bitter. “Yeah, well, there’s still time.”
Tim shifts, sitting up behind him. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” Jason snaps, his voice harder than he means it to be.
“Act like this is just… inevitable,” Tim says, his tone steady but tight. “Like you’re one bad moment away from vanishing for good. You’re not a lost cause, Jason.”
Jason’s laugh comes again, darker this time, laced with something jagged and painful.
“You don’t know that, Tim.”
“I do,” Tim insists. “You’re still here. Doesn’t that mean something?”
Jason turns, his eyes flashing with something between anger and desperation. “What the hell does it mean, Tim? That I’m too scared to leave? That I’m too much of a coward to face my own damn mess? Or maybe it just means I’m selfish. That I’m using you – this – for whatever scrap of peace I can get before I screw it all up again.”
Tim flinches, but he doesn’t back down. “If that’s what you think, then why are you still here?”
Jason looks away, his jaw tightening, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides.
“Because I don’t know where else to go.”
The words hang heavy between them, raw and unforgiving.
Tim’s voice breaks the silence, quieter now but no less sharp. “You think I don’t know that? That I don’t see it every time you show up here, looking like you’re about to fall apart? You think I don’t feel it every time you leave?”
“Then why the hell do you put up with it, huh? Why don’t you tell me to go? To stay the hell out of your life?” Jason’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing.
“Because I care, Jason,” Tim says, his voice rising, trembling at the edges. “Because I’m not going to abandon you, no matter how much you try to push me away. But God, Jason, you make it so damn hard sometimes.”
Jason’s breath hitches, the weight of Tim’s words crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He shakes his head, his hands curling into fists. “You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t… I’m not worth it, Tim. I’m not–”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Tim cuts in, his voice cold now, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare sit here and tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel. You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to act like you’re the only one who’s hurting.”
Jason recoils, the words hitting him like a physical blow. “I never said–”
“Yes, you did,” Tim interrupts. “Every time you show up here and act like this is temporary. Like you’re temporary. Like I’m just some convenient fallback for when you can’t handle your own shit. Do you think that doesn’t hurt?”
Jason’s throat tightens, his chest heaving. He wants to argue, to defend himself, but he can’t. Because Tim is right.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, finally.
Tim shakes his head, his expression softening, but not enough to let the tension break. “Don’t apologize, Jason. Not unless you mean it. Not unless you’re willing to stop.”
“I don’t know if I can.” Jason looks at him, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his body trembling under the weight of it all.
Tim exhales sharply, his own pain etched into the lines of his face. “Then stop making excuses. Stop convincing yourself that you’re not worth saving.”
Jason doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long moment, the silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating.
Then, finally, Jason breaks. His shoulders sag, his head dropping into his hands as a shuddering breath escapes him. Tim reaches out, his hand resting lightly on Jason’s back.
Jason doesn’t pull away.
Their early morning doesn’t end cleanly. It stretches long, thick with silence and the heavy weight of things unsaid.
Jason doesn’t leave.
Tim doesn’t tell him to.
By the time the city gully wakes, the tension in the room has dulled – not gone, but softened around the edges, like a wound still too raw to close. Tim moves to the kitchen, his motions careful and deliberate, like even the smallest sound might break the fragile peace.
Jason follows, not saying anything, his footsteps light as though he might vanish at any moment. The blinking has stopped for now, but Jason doesn’t trust it, doesn’t trust himself.
Tim sets a mug of coffee in front of him, and Jason stares at it for a long time before finally wrapping his hands around the warmth. It feels grounding in a way that nothing else has lately. Nothing except for Tim.
“You stayed,” Tim says finally, his voice quiet but steady.
Jason doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”
They sit in silence for a moment, the air between them still heavy but no longer suffocating.
“You don’t have to explain,” Tim says, breaking the quiet. “Not now. Not yet. But… you can, if you want to.”
Jason’s grip tightens on the mug, his knuckles going white.
“There’s not much to explain,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m broken. That’s it. That’s all there is.”
Tim doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans forward, his elbows resting on the table as he studies Jason’s downturned face. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Jason scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re the only one.”
Tim doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down. “Maybe I am,” he says softly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Jason finally looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and tired but searching. “Why, Tim? Why do you care so much? I’m not–”
“Don’t,” Tim cuts in, his voice firm but not unkind. “Don’t tell me what you’re not. Tell me what you want to be.”
Jason exhales sharply, the question hitting him like a blow. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how to be anything other than this.”
Tim reaches out, his hand resting lightly on Jason’s arm. “Then start with this,” he says. “Start with staying. One night, one moment at a time.”
Jason doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move closer either. His eyes drop back to the mug, his expression unreadable. “What if I screw it up?”
“Then we’ll figure it out,” Tim says, his voice steady despite the uncertainty flickering in his own eyes. “Together.”
It’s not a promise. Not exactly.
Jason takes a deep breath, his shoulders loosening just slightly. For the first time in a long time, the knot of fear and tension in his chest eases, if only by a fraction.
He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t leave.
And for now, that’s enough.
***
The afternoon light crawls across the Belfry’s high ceilings, muted by dust and old glass. It’s the kind of light that makes everything seem softer, gentler, like the world might stop spinning for just a moment.
But Jason knows better.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching Tim across the room. Tim is at his desk, staring at a report on the screen, but Jason can tell he’s not reading it. His fingers tap absently against the edge of the keyboard, his jaw tight.
“Any big missions today?” Jason asks, breaking the silence.
Tim looks up, startled for a second, like he forgot Jason was there. Then he shrugs.
“Nothing urgent. Just the usual patrol stuff.”
Jason nods, glancing down at his boots. He can feel the distance stretching between them, not physical but something else, something sharper.
“I should probably head out,” he says, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.
Tim doesn’t answer right away. When Jason finally looks up, Tim’s gaze is on him, steady but unreadable.
“You don’t have to,” Tim says, his voice quiet.
Jason huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “We keep having this conversation, don’t we?”
“Maybe we do,” Tim replies. “But I mean it every time.”
Jason looks away, the weight of Tim’s words pressing down on him. He can feel the blinking tugging at the edges of his focus like a storm cloud waiting to break.
“I can’t keep–” Jason starts, but the words catch in his throat. He swallows hard, trying again. “I don’t know how to be here without screwing everything up.”
Tim leans back in his chair, his expression softening but not entirely. “You think I don’t know that? That I haven’t been thinking about it too?”
Jason frowns, his hands flexing at his sides. “Then why–”
“Because it’s not just you,” Tim cuts in, his voice sharper now, his frustration bleeding through. “You’re not the only one walking on a tightrope here, Jason. I don’t even know what we’re doing. But I’m still here. Isn’t that enough for now?”
Jason doesn’t answer. His chest feels tight, his pulse racing in that familiar, panicked way. He wants to argue, to push back, but he doesn’t have the strength.
Tim sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know this isn’t perfect. I know you’re not ready, and maybe I’m not either. But…” He hesitates, his voice dropping. “You keep coming back. And I keep letting you. So maybe that’s something.”
Jason’s throat tightens, the words cutting through him.
“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice barely audible. “Maybe it is.”
The silence stretches between them, thick but not suffocating. Jason glances at the door, then back at Tim.
“Tim,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant.
Tim looks up, his eyes meeting Jason’s.
Jason doesn’t say anything else. He just stands there, caught in the moment, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy between them.
And then, before he can think better of it, he steps forward, leaning down to press his forehead against Tim’s.
It’s not another kiss. It’s not even close. But it’s something – a moment of quiet, of connection, of acknowledgment. He can't bring himself to do anything more, not when he achingly, unbearably, knows is that his love does not mend or soothe – it comes in the shape of destruction, instead.
Tim doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. His hands stay at his sides, trembling slightly, but his breathing evens out, matching Jason’s.
When Jason finally pulls back, his eyes are wet, but he doesn’t let the tears fall.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says, his voice steady but soft.
Tim nods, his throat working as he swallows. “Yeah. Tonight.”
Jason turns and walks to the door, his boots heavy against the floor. He doesn’t blink away, doesn’t vanish.
But the air feels colder when he’s gone.
Tim stays where he is, his hands clenching into fists against the edges of the desk. He doesn’t cry, but the ache in his chest is unbearable.
He knows Jason will come back.
And he knows that someday, he won’t.