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Tim has spent his whole life in Gotham, only ever leaving for The Mission. He probably doesn’t even know the definition of ‘vacation’ outside of a textbook.
So when the snow finally melts and seeps into the ground and the icicles drop off bare branches, when baby birds start singing and the flowers begin blooming once more, Jason drives the two of them out, far into the countryside.
They take his motorcycle, with a picnic basket packed by Alfred and a blanket between them, secured in place by Tim’s hands locked around Jason’s stomach. The wind whipping past them is still a little chilly, but neither of them minds.
A sleepy, happy feeling fills them both and sits in their bellies, warms them, like sated cats stretching in the sun.
When they get to the meadow, it’s all green grass and tiny dots of color, flower buds waiting to open. A wide stream trickles within view.
As Tim drinks up the sight, takes in big gulps of it, Jason smiles but doesn’t ask, “your parents traveled everywhere, but they never took you on a vacation?”, joking or otherwise. Because he knows the answer to that.
Whether it was Janet and Jack, or Bruce, or that uncle that doesn’t exist, no one ever took Tim anywhere. He’s been lots of places but always by himself.
As Jason parks the bike, his eyes trail after Tim. Tim who looks like a child, young like the first time they met, but softened somehow. Not coated by the sharp angles of kevlar or the cowl, or loneliness and regret.
He’s been stripped down to something more innocent, more vulnerable. Free to be whomever he wants, but he chooses to be here.
By him, of all people. Jason likes to think it’s because of him that Tim looks this way. The same way Tim’s stripped him of guilt and Pit anger and years-old resentment.
Jason holds his hands out for the blanket and basket — “Here, have at it.” — and without hesitating, Tim shoves them at him, doesn’t wait to see if Jason’s dropped them or not. He runs, hopping as he sheds his shoes and socks and rolls up his jeans, straight for the stream.
The water runs so clear he can see tadpoles swimming and smooth pebbles sitting at the bottom, waiting to be unearthed. The sun sparkles on its surface.
Once Tim jumps in, though, he jumps back out, yelling. It’s spring, but the ice has only just melted. They’ve gone swimming in the harbor at night, but this is different.
This is unexpected. It’s happier and freer, and Tim laughs even while he dances without a rhythm, trying to dry his feet on the grass. Jason laughs, too, and his face is almost sore from smiling so much.
He drops the picnic basket and holds the blanket out.
“Come here, let me dry your feet.”
Tim grins at the offer, all wide and bright teeth, and waits for Jason. As soon as he’s in reach, Tim pulls his arm and they both splash into the cold stream.