Chapter Text
Jason & Tim – Late Night, Batcave Lounge
The Batcave was quieter now. The kind of quiet that settled in after patrol—after Damian had stormed upstairs still muttering about form corrections, after Dick had left to check on Barbara, after Alfred had delivered his signature bedtime glare that even Jason didn’t fully ignore.
Even Bruce had retreated into the shadows, disappearing behind a thick monitor wall with a grunt and a muttered “goodnight” that meant “I’ll be here until dawn.”
It left the cave hollowed out. Cold concrete and echoes, dim console lights glowing faintly. And the makeshift lounge—a halfhearted attempt at normalcy wedged between weapon lockers and WayneTech prototypes—became a kind of neutral ground.
Jason found the remote first. He always did. Claimed it like a war prize. He sank into the left side of the old leather couch, scuffed boots propped on the table without hesitation, and started channel surfing with one hand.
Click. News.
Click. Static.
Click. Reality show rerun.
Click. Late-night infomercial for knives.
Click. A noir detective film in grainy black-and-white, with actors who'd been dead for decades and music that sounded like cigarette ash and regret.
He left it there. The detective was monologuing over a dead body, fedora crooked, voice like gravel poured through molasses.
Tim drifted in five minutes later. No footsteps. Just appeared at the edge of Jason’s peripheral like a ghost with a bruised jaw.
He didn’t say anything—just gave Jason a look, like he was waiting to be told to leave. When Jason didn’t bother, Tim sank onto the opposite end of the couch, slow and stiff. His hood was down. His hair was damp from the shower. The bruise on his jaw—Jason’s doing, from the Tower fight—was turning sickly green at the edges.
They didn’t talk.
For a while, that was enough.
Jason slouched lower. His shoulders had started to ache—an old gunshot wound flaring up from grappling with a meta two hours ago. He shot a sidelong glance at Tim. The kid looked like a wire stretched too tight. Back straight, eyes locked on the screen but not watching. Elbows tucked in like he expected something to hit him.
“Didn’t think you were the noir type,” Jason said finally.
“I’m not,” Tim muttered without looking.
Jason grunted. “Explains the face.”
Tim scowled and pulled the closest blanket off the back of the couch. Not because he needed it—just because it gave his hands something to do. “Didn’t know you were the TV type. Thought brooding was more your speed.”
“Brooding’s copyrighted,” Jason said dryly. “Bruce has lawyers.”
That earned a faint huff of amusement. Not quite a laugh—but not nothing.
It passed for peace.
The detective on screen punched someone through a glass door. Tim blinked slowly.
Then, without turning his head:
“You were following me.”
Jason didn’t answer.
Tim glanced at him. He didn’t sound angry. Just… tired. Like the knowledge had already stopped hurting and started collecting dust. “Before the Tower,” he clarified. “You were tailing me.”
Jason sighed. Rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Jason shifted, boots dropping to the floor. The remote clicked muted, dropping the film into silence. The noir music kept playing faintly through subtitles: [melancholy trumpet continues] .
“Because something was off,” Jason said eventually. “ You were off. And… I didn’t trust you.”
Tim nodded once. A quiet, accepting motion. “Fair.”
Jason stared at the screen for a long moment. “I also didn’t want to care.”
Tim flinched at that. Not visibly—but Jason saw it. In the twitch of his jaw. In the way his shoulders jerked like someone had tugged an invisible string.
Jason ran a hand down his face. “I mean—you were the golden boy, right? Replaced me clean. Didn’t even leave blood on the suit.”
Tim didn’t answer. Didn’t argue. He looked smaller somehow.
“I didn’t know,” Jason said. “About your parents. The bruises. The way you flinched when I raised my voice. I thought you had everything I didn’t. Turns out…”
He trailed off.
He didn’t need to finish it.
Tim’s voice was soft. “I didn’t want to replace you.”
Jason turned his head away. “Didn’t want to be replaced.”
Silence stretched between them like a tightrope. It should have snapped. Should have recoiled into hurt or guilt or another round of fists.
But it didn’t.
The detective on the screen was screaming now. Something about betrayal and dames with knives. Jason picked up a handful of popcorn from the bowl someone had left behind—probably Dick—and chucked one piece lazily at Tim’s head.
It bounced off his temple. Tim blinked at him, startled.
“You hit harder than I expected,” Jason said.
Tim finally cracked a half-smile. “You fall for feints too easily.”
Jason smirked. “Takes one to know one, Drake.”
A pause.
This silence didn’t hurt.
It was the kind that meant maybe… they could sit in it a little longer. The kind where two people could stop trying to prove who had survived more and just be.
Jason’s voice was low when he said, “You still flinch in your sleep, you know.”
Tim stiffened.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jason added quickly. “Just… if you ever need backup. Or noise. Or someone to punch. I’m around.”
Tim looked at him then. Really looked. The half-smile faded, but something quieter remained. Something closer to belief.
“…Truce?” he asked.
Jason studied him. Eyes unreadable. But not cold.
Then he shrugged. “Truce, maybe.”
Tim nodded once and tossed a piece of popcorn back.
It missed.
Jason smirked anyway.
The detective on the screen lit a cigarette and walked alone into the fog.
But this time, neither of them felt like doing the same.