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Jason smells it before he sees it.
It catches in the back of his throat halfway down the alley: thin, stale, unmistakably cheap. Gotham has a thousand varieties of smoke: exhaust from rusted sedans, steam bleeding up from manholes, the sharp chemical tang of something burning that definitely shouldn’t be.
This isn’t any of those. This is controlled, contained, and a stupid ass decision. It clings to the damp brick and rain-heavy air like it thinks it belongs there.
Jason slows without meaning to. One more step, boot scraping over wet concrete. Then he stops.
And turns.
Slowly.
Tim is perched on the edge of the fire escape like he’s posing for a recruitment poster he absolutely did not workshop with anyone. One knee drawn up, the other leg hanging loose over open air, boots swinging three stories above a trash-streaked alley.
His cape is tucked back neatly — too neatly — folded out of the way with the kind of careful consideration that suggests premeditation. The cigarette rests between his fingers with infuriating ease, ember glowing faintly as he taps ash into the void below like he’s done this a hundred times before.
The red suit catches the streetlight and throws it back. Too bright. Too clean. The R on his chest practically radiates civic responsibility.
Jason squints up at him.
“Oh,” he says flatly. “Absolutely not.”
Tim looks down, blinking once, then again, like his brain is buffering. “What?”
Jason doesn’t answer. He crosses the alley in three long strides, helmet hooked lazily on one finger, boots hitting metal as he takes the fire escape two steps at a time. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t give Tim a chance to react. Doesn’t allow for the possibility of hiding, stubbing out, or otherwise pretending this isn’t happening.
He plucks the cigarette straight out of Tim’s hand and sticks it in his own mouth in one smooth, practised motion.
Tim splutters. “Hey—!”
Well fuck that, the stupid thing’s gone out.
Jason flicks open his lighter, shields the flame from the wind, and draws in slowly. It’s not even Jason’s lighter. It’s Roy’s— stolen months ago and never returned, because karma.
He exhales to the side — pointedly away from Tim’s face — then studies the glowing tip like he’s assessing structural integrity.
“Illegal and tacky,” he decides. “Impressive.”
Tim stares at him, offended on principle. “You can’t just—”
“Watch me.” Jason flicks ash off the edge of the fire escape and lets it spiral down toward the alley. “Where’d you steal these from?”
“I didn’t.”
Jason pauses mid-drag, cigarette hovering just short of his lips. He looks at Tim again, slower this time. He sees the suit, the posture, and the sheer fucking audacity of doing this in costume.
“You didn’t,” he repeats.
Tim shrugs, casual in a way that feels almost rehearsed. “I bought them.”
Jason stares.
Just— stares.
There are a lot of things he can tolerate in Gotham: corruption, vigilante turf wars, the occasional clown-themed catastrophe if he’s feeling inclined to listen to Bruce. But this? This feels like some bullshit.
“Who the fuck,” he says slowly, “is selling kids tobacco.”
“I’m not a kid—”
“Shut up, yes you are.”
Tim scowls, jaw tightening. “Jason.”
Jason turns away and starts pacing the narrow strip of grated metal, dragging the cigarette with him like he’s already building a mental map of every convenience store within a six-block radius. “I swear to God,” he mutters, “I leave Gotham alone for five minutes and suddenly every corner store’s running a side hustle.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Tim says, like that’s going to calm anything down.
Jason laughs once, sharply. “Oh, it’s a huge deal. First it’s cigarettes. Next thing you know they’re selling energy drinks after midnight. Absolute anarchy.”
Tim opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “You’re literally smoking my cigarette.”
Jason takes another drag out of pure, unfiltered principle. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl away into the night. “Confiscated,” he says. “That makes it mine.”
“That’s not how—”
“That’s exactly how.”
He flicks ash off the edge again and finally looks at Tim properly. The red suit. The clean lines. The symbol stitched over his heart.
It jogs something loose.
A memory surfaces uninvited: younger hands, a jacket that didn’t quite fit yet, a stolen cigarette burning down too fast between his fingers behind a half-collapsed building. Bruce standing there afterwards in the cave, arms crossed, not yelling. Worse. Talking.
Talking about symbols and responsibility and what it meant to wear something that people recognised. As if Jason had been staging a press conference instead of hiding behind a dumpster with a lighter he barely knew how to use.
Jason hadn’t cared.
Or at least, he’d pretended not to.
He snorts quietly to himself now.
Yeah. History really does repeat.
“Where,” he says, already mentally moving past Tim and onto the actual problem.
Tim squints. “Where what.”
“The store.”
“Why.”
“So I can have a conversation.”
Tim winces. “You don’t do conversations.”
Jason flashes him a grin — all teeth, and absolutely no reassurance. “It’ll be a conversation. I just do most of the talking.”
“You’re mad… at the store,” Tim says slowly, like he’s assembling the world’s most obvious conclusion.
Jason nods once. “Furious.”
“You’re not mad at me.”
Jason exhales smoke and glances back at him, at the cigarette-less fingers flexing faintly, at the stubborn set of his shoulders, at the very deliberate nonchalance. The kid looks almost — almost — pleased he isn’t getting chewed out.
“I can multitask,” Jason says.
Tim huffs a quiet laugh. “Bruce would ground me.”
Jason takes one last drag, then crushes the cigarette under his boot with unnecessary emphasis. “Bruce is boring.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “You’re starting a war with convenience stores over this.”
“Someone’s gotta protect Gotham’s rebellious youth.”
“Wow.”
Jason points at him. “Take it as a compliment, Replacement.”
Tim rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now— reluctant and unwilling, but there.
Jason watches the smile creep in and thinks, not for the first time, that Bruce worries too loudly.
The kid’s fine.
Mostly.
•·················•·················•
Jason exhales slowly, letting the smoke curl up and away into the night air.
The rooftop is wide and mostly empty, tar still holding the day’s heat in faint, uneven patches beneath their boots. Gotham hums below them: traffic bleeding through intersections, a distant siren that doesn’t require their attention, the low mechanical heartbeat of the city pretending it isn’t always two seconds from disaster. The wind at this height is steady but not aggressive, enough to carry smoke if you let it.
And then—
There it is.
That subtle recalibration of space.
Jason doesn’t even need to look at first. He feels it the way you feel someone stepping too close in an elevator— a shift in the air, a redistribution of presence, that bone-deep feeling of step the fuck away asshole.
He lets the smoke drift from his mouth and counts half a beat before glancing sideways.
Tim has moved.
Not in any way that draws attention. Not enough that he can be accused of any bullshit outright. Maybe half a step. Maybe less. But close enough that the wind doesn’t have to work as hard.
If called on it, Tim could absolutely argue the geometry of the situation, could produce a whole lecture on wind direction and rooftop spacing.
But Jason knows exactly what he’s doing.
Oh, that sneaky little shit.
He exhales deliberately to the side, adjusting his shoulders so the smoke trails past Tim instead of into him. Then he tilts his head and peers down, unimpressed. “Watch it, Replacement.”
Tim freezes mid-breath. Actually freezes, like someone’s just hit pause. “What?”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re loitering.”
“I’m literally not—”
Across the roof, Dick frowns and finally sits up properly, attention sharpening as he clocks what Jason already has. His gaze flicks between them, then narrows at the details: Tim’s breathing just slightly shallow, timed almost perfectly to the smoke dispersal; the way he angles his chin into the drift as if the wind is personally doing him a favour.
Dick makes a face.
“Oh no,” he says aloud, pushing himself upright. “Baby bird, come on…”
Tim stiffens in that particular way he does when caught in something he’d very much prefer to pretend isn’t happening. “What?”
“Since when do you smoke?”
“I’m not—”
“Then stop trying to siphon off my secondhand smoke, Replacement,” Jason cuts in smoothly. “Buy your own nicotine, you little parasite.”
Dick shoots him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Jaybird, that’s not the point—”
“Well I can’t buy them now, can I,” Tim snaps, and there it is— the irritation finally cracking through the composure. “Because someone has been terrorising all the local convenience stores and now none of them will sell to minors anymore.”
Jason keeps his face perfectly neutral.
Inside, he is incandescent with pride.
Damn. That campaign really did pay off.
“Wow,” he drawls, not even bothering to turn fully toward him. He flicks ash off the edge of the roof and watches it tumble down into the dark. “Sounds like a lot of effort. Who would do that.”
Tim pivots slowly, eyes narrowing with surgical precision. “Some hypocritical piece of—”
“Tim!” Dick barks automatically, voice snapping like a reflex.
Jason finally glances over, a grin curling lazily around the cigarette like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Language,” he adds helpfully. “You’re a symbol.”
Tim looks like he is one bad impulse away from committing a felony. “You are literally smoking.”
“Yeah,” Jason says easily, drawing in another slow breath, this one is pure provocation. The ember flares bright against the night. “And I’m old. And a literal crime lord. It’s different.”
Dick pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s physically holding his sanity in place. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but please stop mentoring him.”
“I’m not mentoring,” Jason replies, flicking ash off the roof again with lazy precision. “I’m preventing.”
“By smoking in his face.”
“By being educational.”
Tim throws his hands up, cape snapping behind him in the wind. “This is bullshit.”
Jason exhales again, but not at him. He angles his shoulders just enough that the smoke drifts away instead of toward Tim’s face. He does it without comment, without acknowledgement, like it’s a matter of airflow rather than intention.
“You’ll thank me when your lungs still work,” he says.
Tim mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like asshole.
Jason absolutely hears it.
Jason absolutely ignores it.
Dick lets out a long, exhausted sigh that carries years of reluctant pseudo-parenthood. “I need a vacation.”
Jason snorts. “You can’t leave. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on the youth since apparently you don’t want me doing it.”
Tim scowls, but there’s no heat in it now. “I hate you.”
Jason grins, unrepentant, smoke curling lazily around his head before the wind steals it away. The city lights reflect faintly in Tim’s lenses.
“You’re welcome,” Jason says.
The noise of Gotham fills the silence after that: traffic below, the hum of distant neon, a helicopter sweeping somewhere over the Narrows. Dick eventually leans back again, stretching out on the warm tar like he’s trying to absorb what’s left of the day. Tim pretends very hard to be invested in something across the street, posture deliberately neutral.
Jason feels it when Tim edges closer again.
Not enough to call out.
Just enough to register.
He considers saying something. Considers flicking ash in his direction out of sheer sibling principle. Considers offering the cigarette outright just to watch him short-circuit and prove a point.
Instead, he shifts his stance, turning into the wind so the smoke carries cleanly away from Tim without either of them having to acknowledge it.
Just this once.
•·················•·················•
Tim has been in the bathroom too long.
Jason notices because Jason notices everything. It’s not even intentional anymore; it’s just background processing. His apartment isn’t large enough to lose a Robin in by accident, and it definitely isn’t large enough for silence to go unaccounted for.
Five minutes in the bathroom is normal. Ten means Tim’s probably scrubbing blood out of gloves or rewrapping something he doesn’t want commented on. Fifteen means something has gone sideways.
Jason glances at his phone. No alerts. No emergency pings. No Bat-comm chatter lighting up the screen with Gotham actively on fire. The apartment itself is quiet in that low, late-night way: the refrigerator humming, pipes ticking faintly, the distant rumble of traffic filtering up through brick and glass.
He squints at the bathroom door.
He knocks once, sharp enough to mean business. “Replacement,” he calls, voice carrying easily down the short hallway. “If you’re dead in there, I’m billing Bruce for the cleanup.”
Nothing.
Jason waits. Counts to three in his head, because he’s reasonable like that.
Then the bathroom fan clicks on.
Jason goes still.
The whir builds into a full mechanical rattle, the kind of overcompensation you only get when someone is trying very hard to manage a smell.
He stares at the door.
“…Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
He doesn’t bother knocking again. Just pushes the door open a little too forcefully. The sliding lock can always be screwed back on if he ever gets prickly about people walking in on him pissing again. It only exists in the first place because Roy had made it a habit.
The bathroom light is bright and unforgiving, reflecting harshly off tile and mirror. The fan is running full blast, vibrating faintly in the ceiling like it’s fighting for its life. The window above the tub is cracked open just enough to let Gotham’s cold night air in, along with whatever industrial cocktail the Narrows is brewing tonight.
And Tim is there.
Perched on the edge of the tub like this is his designated break room.
One knee drawn up, boot braced carefully against porcelain. Cigarette held out the window between two fingers with almost academic precision, ash balanced perfectly at the tip. No panic. No attempt to hide it. No guilty scramble.
He looks like a nerd who read the WikiHow on how to smoke and look cool doing it.
Jason takes the whole thing in at a glance and feels something in his chest do a weird, offended little flip.
Oh.
Oh, this is what we’re doing now.
“Replacement,” he says flatly, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Tim looks over his shoulder and blinks once. Not guilty— just mildly inconvenienced, like Jason has interrupted a thought mid-calculation. “I thought we were past that.”
Jason lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah, well. Some little shit keeps stealing my gimmicks.” He pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, squinting at the cigarette. “Is that— are you smoking one of my roll-ups?”
Tim glances at it like this is brand new information. “Oh.” A beat. “Is this yours?”
Jason just stares at him.
“Okay,” he says slowly, deliberately, because he is absolutely not going to lose his temper over this, “you are not that fucking dumb. And if you were, I really don’t like the implications that you’re comfortable picking up unidentified cigarettes in random bathrooms.”
Tim gestures vaguely around the small, tiled space. “This is your apartment.”
“That does not help your case,” Jason snaps. “If anything, that makes it worse.”
Tim tilts his head, curious in that infuriating way that suggests he’s genuinely enjoying this. “How.”
“Because,” Jason says, spreading his hands, incredulous, “I know exactly what kind of shit is lying around here.”
“Oh?” Tim’s mouth quirks, just a little.
Jason points at him sharply. “Don’t ‘oh?’ me. Jesus Christ, I swear to God, if you’ve been at my weed—”
“You have weed?” Tim cuts in immediately, posture sharpening with sudden, dangerous interest.
Jason freezes.
They stare at each other.
“…Fuck off,” Jason says finally.
Tim grins, pleased with himself, and takes another drag— still holding it carefully out the window, still being polite about it. Like he’s thought this through. Like he’s following some invisible rulebook.
And Jason’s kind of pissed.
Although probably for the wrong reasons, because that’s usually how this goes.
Tim didn’t hide this. Not really. He didn’t wait until Jason was out. Didn’t sneak to the roof or the fire escape or literally anywhere else. He chose the bathroom — the fan, the open window, the most efficient way to manage smell — and he chose to do it here.
With Jason.
Because in Tim’s head, for some fucking reason, this is safer.
Jason studies him for another second before speaking, tone deliberately casual, like he’s commenting on the weather, not behaviour patterns.
The fan rattles overhead. The ember at the end of the cigarette glows faintly against the dark slice of the window. Tim’s posture is composed, too composed arguably— shoulders squared, wrist angled just right to keep the smoke outside.
“Is it just me,” Jason says at last, “or do you pull this shit after you got your ass handed to you?”
Tim doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even blink. He keeps his gaze trained out the window at nothing in particular, like the skyline is riveting. “I actually knocked some guy’s teeth out last patrol.”
Jason hums softly. “Mm.”
He folds his arms, leaning more fully into the doorframe now, one boot hooking behind the other. “And, what— Bats chewed you out? So you got your ass metaphorically handed to you.”
There it is.
Tim’s eyes flick up for half a second, quick and assessing, calculating whether this is a trap or an observation. Then he looks away again, expression smoothing over. “Coincidence.”
Jason exhales slowly through his nose.
Wow. Great. Fantastic.
He’s gone from “unhinged crime lord who once literally tried to off the kid” to “most convenient adult to smoke around.”
He’s not sure when that happened. He’s not sure how he feels about it. Actually, no — that’s a lie. He hates it.
“Just so we’re clear,” Jason says, pushing off the frame just enough to straighten, arms folding tighter across his chest, “you picked my place because you figured I’d be the least mad.”
Tim shrugs. “You’re not Bruce.”
Jason recoils like he’s been stabbed directly in the ego. “Oh, fuck you.”
“I mean that as a compliment.”
“That makes it worse.”
Tim watches him for a moment — really watches him — like he’s studying the data from an experiment. Jason can practically see the mental notes being taken. Then, evenly: “You once beat the shit out of me.”
Factually, that’s true.
But even so, Jason bristles automatically, shoulders tightening before he can stop them. “I was having a bad week.”
“And you still scare most people,” Tim continues, unfazed, still holding the fucking cigarette carefully out the window like they’re not having this conversation. “So statistically, yeah. You’re still pretty high on the intimidation scale.”
Jason narrows his eyes. “But.”
Tim finally turns to face him fully now, shifting on the edge of the tub so they’re squared off in the too-bright bathroom light.
“But,” he says calmly, “you can’t ground me. You don’t give speeches. And most importantly, you don’t call Alfred.”
This shit is really pushing his luck.
He doesn’t think about it. Just moves.
His hand shoots out on instinct and snatches the cigarette from Tim’s fingers. “You are banned from my bathroom.”
“You invited me over.”
“Retroactively uninvited.”
Jason brings the cigarette to his mouth and inhales the last drag like this is a matter of procedural integrity, because he was the one who rolled it in the first place.
Tim watches him, unimpressed. “You’re still smoking it.”
“Bathroom tax,” Jason says around the exhale. “I’m mitigating damage.”
“That’s not—”
“Trust me. It is.”
The fan hums louder, dragging smoke toward the open window. It thins quickly, swallowed by the cold air pushing in from outside. Somewhere below, a siren wails briefly before fading into background noise.
The sulking teen in his bathtub folds his arms across his chest now, mirroring Jason’s earlier posture. “You’re less scary than you used to be.”
Jason scoffs, though it doesn’t have quite the bite he intended. “Yeah? Ask the last guy who said that.”
Tim’s mouth twitches faintly. “I’m asking you.”
He glares at him over the faint curl of smoke. “Congratulations. You’ve officially hurt my feelings.”
Tim smiles, quick and sharp and undeniably fond. “Didn’t think that was possible.”
Jason stares at him.
And yeah.
That’s the problem.
The kid isn’t scared of him anymore.
Not because Jason’s harmless — he’s absolutely not — but because he’s predictable now. Because Tim knows exactly where the line is. Knows Jason won’t cross it again. Knows the worst he’s getting is bluster and confiscation.
Jason flicks ash into the sink with unnecessary force. “I need to go commit a felony to restore my reputation.”
Tim huffs a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing a fraction.
Jason points at him, stern purely on principle. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Tim meets his eyes without hesitation, steady and certain in a way that makes something in Jason’s chest go uncomfortably warm.
“I know.”
Jason hates how sure he sounds.
•·················•·················•
It’s one of those patrols that barely counts.
There’s no alarms splitting the comms, no frantic chatter lighting up the edge of Jason’s vision, no one screaming for Batman from a rooftop two blocks over. Gotham is behaving itself in that deeply suspicious way that means it’s saving something for later— like a cat that hasn’t knocked anything off a shelf in at least ten minutes and is clearly planning something elaborate.
Jason doesn’t trust it.
Still, the night is quiet enough that the movement becomes routine rather than reactive. He and Tim cross rooftops out of habit more than necessity, momentum carrying them forward because standing still feels wrong. Boots strike concrete in a familiar rhythm. Capes and jackets snap and settle in the wind. Grapples remain holstered. The city hums below them: traffic bleeding through intersections, the low buzz of neon, someone shouting three streets over for reasons that are definitely not Bat-related.
Jason clears a narrow gap between buildings and lands cleanly, knees bending to absorb impact before he straightens and rolls his shoulders loose. He doesn’t need to look to know Tim is right behind him.
He glances back anyway.
Tim sticks the landing with irritating precision, his cape barely shifting before settling back into place, no skid, no correction, no wasted motion. It’s like gravity personally approves of him.
Show-off.
They keep moving. Another block. Another roof. A low wall that Jason vaults without breaking stride. The night air is cool at this height, less polluted. The skyline stretches ahead of them in steel and glass and flickering light.
Jason lets the quiet stretch long enough to feel natural before he says, casually, “Wanna go for a drink?”
Tim almost misses a step.
It’s subtle — just a fraction of a beat too late on the landing, one foot hitting a little harder than intended — but Jason catches it. Of course he does. He catalogues the shift automatically, the way he catalogues exits and sightlines. Knowing when someone stumbles is good for two things: catching them, and giving them shit for it.
Tim recovers fast, because he always does, but his head snaps up anyway. “I’m underage,” he says, as if Jason might have forgotten. “Remember?”
Jason snorts and vaults another low obstruction without slowing. “Yeah. And?”
Behind him, the sound of boots stops entirely.
Jason takes three more steps before noticing the silence and turning around, eyebrows lifting. Tim is standing still on the rooftop they just crossed, posture rigid in a way that suggests he’s offended because he doesn’t know what else to be.
“What,” Jason says.
“Are you serious?” Tim asks.
Jason walks backwards now, hands spreading in a what’s the problem here gesture that is only slightly exaggerated. “It’s Gotham, Red. I can find a place.”
Tim looks at him like Jason has just suggested robbing a daycare. “Are you fucking kidding me.”
Jason considers him properly this time.
The suit, the stance, the way Tim’s jaw is set just a little too tight — like he’s bracing himself to be the responsible one. Like he’s already preparing the lecture he’s supposed to give instead of the decision he wants to make.
And then there’s the flick of his eyes. Just once. Toward the skyline. Toward the glow of the city.
Oh yeah.
He wants this.
Not kidding at all.
“Nope,” Jason says easily. “You coming?”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
Tim opens his mouth, closes it, and visibly recalibrates. Jason can practically see the spreadsheet scrolling behind his eyes: school policies, Bruce’s expression, Dick’s inevitable disappointment, the law, the ethics of being a symbol in public spaces—
—versus one extremely tempting variable.
Jason waits. All patient and smug. He has done far harder sells than this.
“…Yes,” Tim says finally.
Jason grins, sharp and satisfied. Knew it. “Cool.”
They fall back into step together, though Tim’s shoulders are still a little tight. “This is a terrible idea,” he mutters.
“Absolutely.”
“And illegal.”
“Extremely.”
“And if Bruce finds out—”
“He won’t,” Jason says, not missing a stride. “Dick might. But he’ll just be disappointed. That’s survivable.”
Tim huffs a laugh despite himself, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s letting this happen. “I hate that this is working.”
Jason reaches out as they pass each other and claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
They reach the edge of the next building and drop together, grapples firing in near-unison with the practised synchronicity of something they’ve done too many times. The city opens beneath them in neon and shadow and reflected light. Wind rushes past. For a moment, there’s no weight at all.
They land in an alley three blocks down, boots striking pavement in staggered rhythm. Jason straightens first, already scanning exits, already mapping routes in his head — which bars are still open, which bartenders owe him favours, which places won’t ask questions if a kid in a domino mask orders something that isn’t soda.
He glances at Tim as they start walking. The kid’s shoulders have dropped a fraction. Still wound tight, but less like he’s about to draft a policy memo about it.
Jason hums to himself.
Maybe he’s a terrible influence.
On the other hand, Bruce raised him.
This feels like community service.
•·················•·················•
The diner smells like burnt coffee.
It’s the kind of place that hasn’t updated its décor since at least one citywide catastrophe ago. The vinyl booths are patched with duct tape in three different shades of almost-matching red. The laminate tables are permanently sticky, no matter how often they’re wiped down. In the front window, a flickering neon sign that once said DINER now just reads DIN, the rest of the letters long since surrendered to time and electrical fatigue.
The waitress calls everyone hon, doesn’t matter if you’re a night-shift construction worker, a man in tactical armour, or a known crime lord. Hon is democratic.
Jason likes it here.
He’s halfway through a heroic stack of pancakes — syrup soaking through the top layer, butter melting into the middle — when the bell over the door jingles and Dick slides into the booth across from him. Dick doesn’t even bother with a preamble. He just drops into the seat and lets his forehead thud gently against the table.
Jason pauses mid-cut, fork hovering in the air.
He studies this.
“…What’s wrong with you?”
Dick lifts his head just enough to squint at him. His hair is a mess, his eyes bloodshot in the particular way that suggests very little sleep and far too much emotional labour. “Bit tense at the manor last night,” he mutters.
Jason hums. Yeah. That tracks. He cuts into his pancakes with renewed focus, like this information is ambient background noise. “Where’s the replacement?”
“Grounded.”
Jason blinks.
Slowly lowers his fork.
“Huh.”
He gives that tidbit of information some consideration and then tilts his head with a shrug. Funny as that is, it doesn’t answer his question as to what’s up with the golden boy.
He chews. Swallows. Keeps his expression carefully neutral, like this development is neither surprising nor deeply, deeply amusing. “What did the old man give you grief over time?”
Dick rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “It was all Timbers, actually.”
Jason arches a brow. “Oh?”
Dick lets out a tired breath. “Baby bird in trouble. Rare sighting.”
Jason leans back slightly, folding one arm over the back of the booth. “What’d he do. Hack NASA.”
“Got caught smoking at school,” Dick says, voice dry. “Apparently.”
There’s a beat.
Jason nods once.
Calm. Reasonable. Entirely composed.
“…Oh,” is about all he can manage without the corners of his mouth betraying him.
Dick peers at him across the table, suspicion sharpening through the exhaustion. “You’re being weird.”
Jason takes a long sip of coffee. It tastes like motor oil and something that may once have been ground coffee beans, but that’s debatable. He swallows carefully. “Am I.”
“Yes.”
He sets the mug down with exaggerated care, like it might explode if handled incorrectly. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”
Dick narrows his eyes. “Jason.”
“What?” Jason says innocently. “Kids these days. No respect for the law.”
Dick stares at him.
Long.
Knowing.
“…Did you have anything to do with this?”
Jason considers lying.
Really considers it. It would be easy. He’s good at easy lies. But this? This is too funny.
“I mean,” he says slowly, tilting his head as if genuinely parsing the question, “define have anything to do with.”
Dick groans and lets his forehead drop back to the table with another dull thunk. “I knew it.”
Jason grins into his coffee. “In my defence, I told him to stop. That was definitely the first thing I told him.” He pauses, genuinely thinking. “But then, because I have realistic expectations, I also told him not to do it where Bruce could see.”
Dick lifts his head again, scandalised. “That is not a defence.”
“It is in Gotham.”
Dick exhales through his nose, long and suffering — the sound of a man who has accidentally co-raised at least one child. “He gave a whole speech. Symbols. Responsibility. Expectations.”
Jason snorts. “Classic.”
“And then Alfred brought tea,” Dick continues, rubbing at his temple. “Which you would think would help, but somehow made it worse because he was clearly only pretending to smooth it over. You should have seen the look he gave Tim, I swear to God.”
“Oof,” Jason says sympathetically. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
Dick watches him carefully now. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jason shrugs, unrepentant. “Little bit.”
Dick shakes his head, but there’s a faint smile creeping in despite himself. The exhaustion softens into something more familiar: fond exasperation rather than genuine frustration. “You’re the worst influence.”
Jason spears another bite of pancake. “And yet.”
“Don’t ‘and yet’ me.”
Jason grins openly now. “You love me.”
Dick sighs again, but this one’s lighter. “Unfortunately.”
They lapse into companionable silence. The diner hums around them; the scrape of cutlery against plates, low conversations bleeding together into background noise, the hiss of something hitting the griddle in the kitchen. The waitress refills their coffee without asking, like it’s a public service.
Jason’s phone buzzes against the table.
He glances down at the screen.
Doesn’t open it.
Doesn’t need to.
He smirks and flips it face-down.
Dick notices. Of course he does. “That better not be him.”
Jason lifts his mug, unbothered. “Grounded, remember?”
Dick closes his eyes. “I’m going to need more coffee.”
Jason raises his mug in mock solidarity. “Welcome to pseudo-parenthood.”
The waitress appears again as if summoned by narrative convenience and sets down another pot.
Jason considers that a win, too.
•·················•·················•
Jason knows someone’s on the fire escape before the knock comes.
It’s not the sound, though there is one. A careful scrape of boot against metal, the faint rattle of the old ladder shifting under redistributed weight. It’s the rhythm of it. Too measured to be a burglar. Too light to be Dick. Dick lands like he owns the building. This is quieter and noticeably more controlled.
Jason doesn’t move from the couch.
The TV is on mute, flickering useless light across the walls. A takeout container sits open on the coffee table, chopsticks abandoned halfway through. The apartment smells faintly of detergent and city air, and something else that’s been clinging to the place for weeks now.
He doesn’t turn his head. Just raises his voice.
“It’s open.”
He’s frankly perplexed that he even has to say it because it’s not like any of them ever wait for an answer when they break into each other’s places.
The window slides up a second later with the soft, familiar squeal of something that should probably be oiled. Tim drops inside in one smooth motion, landing lightly on the hardwood as if this is a perfectly normal entrance for someone who is technically grounded.
Jason glances at him over the back of the couch.
“You’re supposed to be in your room.”
“I am,” Tim replies calmly, already brushing invisible dust off his gloves. “My room is very portable.”
Jason snorts.
Tim doesn’t look rebellious. Not in the theatrical way that Jason remembers Dick going for. There’s no cigarette tucked behind his ear, no defiant energy radiating off him. The kid’s just tired. Not physically — which is fucking miracle because Tim runs on caffeine above all else — but tightly wound in that specific way he gets after Bruce has delivered The Talk.
Jason studies him for a moment, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows that hasn’t quite smoothed out yet.
“You know,” he says casually, like this just occurred to him, “you’re not actually his kid, right? He can’t ground you.”
Tim freezes mid-step.
“What.”
Jason props his boots up on the coffee table, leaning back into the couch cushions like he’s about to deliver a legal seminar. “Christ, chill out, I don’t mean emotionally. I mean legally speaking, I’m pretty sure you could just… leave.”
Tim stares at him like he’s trying to determine whether this is a trap, a joke, or a genuine lapse in cognitive function.
Jason presses on, conversational and entirely too comfortable. “I mean, sure, he could call child protective services on your parents—”
Tim’s head snaps up so fast it’s almost impressive.
“—but I’m not sure that would actually be much of a punishment.”
Silence settles over the room.
Tim just blinks at him.
Then, very clearly: “What the actual fuck, Jason.”
Jason grins, slow and delighted. “I’m just saying. Options.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You’re welcome.”
Tim drags a hand down his face, but there’s a reluctant huff of laughter buried in it. He crosses the room and drops into the armchair without asking, folding into the space like he belongs there.
Which, unfortunately for Jason’s reputation, he does.
They sit in the quiet for a minute.
No patrol chatter. No TV noise. Just Gotham breathing through the cracked-open window. Jason watches Tim out of the corner of his eye.
Tim’s fingers drum once against his thigh. Stop. Start again. Stop.
Jason reaches into his jacket pocket without really thinking about it. Pulls out a crumpled cigarette pack. It’s soft at the edges, nearly empty. He turns it over in his hand for a second.
Then, without looking at Tim, he stands, crosses to the small kitchen, and tosses it into the trash.
The pack lands with a soft, unimpressive thud.
Tim’s eyes flick toward the sound.
He doesn’t comment.
Jason doesn’t explain.
Instead, he steps to the window and pushes it open wider, letting the night air spill in properly this time. The city smells cleaner from this height.
“Bruce still mad?” he asks, voice neutral.
Tim shrugs from the armchair. “He did the voice.”
Jason winces. “Oof.”
“Yeah.”
Another stretch of quiet.
Tim shifts slightly, glancing sideways at him. “You going to lecture me too?”
Jason leans back against the window frame, arms folding loosely across his chest. He considers it for a second— what Bruce would say, what Dick would say, what he probably should say.
“Nah,” he decides. “You know it’s stupid.”
Tim nods once.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not dumb.”
Another nod. Smaller this time.
They don’t elaborate. They don’t need to.
Jason jerks his chin toward the fire escape. “You’re still grounded, though.”
Tim squints. “You just said—”
“Yeah, well,” Jason replies evenly, “I can ground you.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“That’s exactly how that works.”
Tim rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.
And he doesn’t leave.
They sit there.
Window open.
City breathing.
Smoke nowhere in sight.
Jason doesn’t say anything else.
He doesn’t need to.