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“Name your price,” Jason grits out.
“It’s rude to talk business over breakfast,” Klarion counters, lifting a plump strawberry between two fingers and popping it into his mouth.
“You suggested the breakfast,” Tim interjects incredulously, but lapses into a stunned silence when Teekl dunks his head into Tim’s coffee mug with glee.
Klarion looks at Tim with a saccharine smile. “We can’t discuss terms on empty stomachs. You two really ought to eat.”
“Not hungry,” Jason sneers, shifting his wrist irritably on the diner table top. Tim’s wrist shifts with it.
Tim nods an agreement. “Hard to work up an appetite when you’re magically handcuffed together.”
Klarion skewers a blueberry with his fork, chewing indulgently. “Better get used to that then, you’ve got them for a while yet.”
Jason’s head whips around from where he’s been glaring at the 70s wallpaper. “What do you mean 'a while'? You said you’d take them off if we bought you breakfast.”
“I did not,” Klarion snorts, portioning himself a stack of pancakes. “I said I’d help you work out how to get them off. I never said I’d do it myself. I can’t.”
“You’re wasting our time,” Tim snaps, shoving to his feet in the booth. Teekl’s head shoots up from his mug, teeth bared in a hiss. Tim slowly lowers himself back into his seat, the heavy manacle on his wrist chiming on the table top. The pink rope of energy that connects it to Jason’s flares and wanes.
Klarion spreads his hands affably. “You don’t have to take my help. I can just as easily leave you to your own devices. I’m sure you’ll figure out eventually how to open them. Could be weeks though—”
Jason chances a worried glance at Tim, and sees his concern reflected in Tim’s lenses.
“—months,” Klarion continues, with mock apprehension, “years—”
“We get the picture,” Jason cuts in sharply, bringing his palm down on the table. The cutlery jumps around Klarion’s plate.
Klarion eyes him up and down, licking maple syrup off his knife. “You know, you’ll catch a lot more witch boys with honey than vinegar.”
“That’s why we bought you breakfast,” Tim says, trying to bring the conversation back to their side. “You’re enjoying it, right?”
The smirk Klarion gives him is wickedly smug. “Immensely.”
“Superb.” Tim’s tone is deadpan. “So please, share your wisdom with us.”
Klarion takes his time sipping from his towering milkshake before he answers. Jason watches the perfect little cherry sink with its whipped cream float into its depths of the glass. “They’re an ancient relic, called adulation bonds. Or, for the more romantic among us, bonds of fate.”
Jason’s fist clenches on the table top, the veins of his wrist jumping against the enchanted metal. “We’re not here for a history lesson. Skip to the part where you tell us how to get them off.”
Klarion rolls his eyes like it’s obvious. “True love’s kiss, of course.”
Tim reels back into the booth seat, feeling Jason’s own surprise like a physical force. “What?!”
Fishing the cherry’s stem from the glass, Klarion continues, “You need to kiss with pure intentions. A kiss for kissing’s sake. That will satisfy the enchantment, and the bonds will release.” He smiles to himself for a moment, pointing at the glowing pink shackles. “Well, those bonds, at least.”
“We have to kiss,” Tim clarifies, as Jason demands, “Pure intentions?”
“Put simply, you need to kiss him because you want to kiss him. Not because you want the cuffs off. But by all means, feel free to set a baseline now. I’ll bet you two are great kissers,” Klarion adds, leaning his chin into his palm.
Jason’s nose wrinkles, and Tim feels the same burgeoning revulsion. “I’m not going to kiss Jason. We’re not going to kiss, full stop. There has to be another way to get these off.”
“What if we don’t even love each other?” Jason demands, drawing Tim’s gaze. His eyes are fixed on Klarion, pinning him to the booth seat. “How are we supposed to have a pure kiss if we don’t even like each other?”
Klarion shrugs. “Fall in love with each other.”
“That’s—” Jason splutters, and barks a strangled little laugh before he tries again, “That’s—”
“You don’t just choose to fall in love,” Tim snaps, gripping the edge of the table. Everything feels a little unsteady at the moment, the diner floor slipping away beneath his feet. “It’s— it’s destiny, or whatever.”
“Like those cuffs,” Klarion points out. Tim feels his irritation spike. The witch boy must sense his temper, because he waves Tim off placatingly. “Look, subject two people to enough time and pressure, and I guarantee you’ll find something to kindle with. Fires can be built, just like love.”
Tim feels a little delirious when he throws his free hand skywards. “That could take years. Who knows how long it would take Jason and I to like each other, let alone fall in love. Where the hell are we even supposed to start?”
Jason turns to him, one eyebrow raised. Teekl’s head lifts from Tim’s coffee mug, froth in his whiskers. “I didn’t realise we were that diametrically opposed. Am I that hard to get along with?”
Tim meets his gaze, equally incredulous. “I mean, you haven’t exactly been warm and peachy these last few years. Heck, since I became Robin, really.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jason sneers. “I didn’t realise not being a doormat makes me entirely unlovable.”
“Ooh,” Klarion hums, his grin growing as he glances between their standoff. “That’s going to set you back further.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“No, I’m not sure I do, actually,” Jason retorts. “What did you expect from me, Robin? A hug and a high five? A pat on the back for being so eager to take my place?”
“Not this again,” Tim mumbles, massaging his brow. It only serves to incense Jason further.
“‘Not this again’? I’m sorry, am I supposed to just ‘get over it’? ‘Be cool’? How the fuck am I supposed to feel about dying and being replaced?”
“You weren’t supposed to come back at all!” Tim shouts, aware that they’re now drawing the attention of even the most steadfastly uninterested Gothamite. “It’s not my fault that the universe put you back on this earth! Stop blaming me for something I had no control over and no say in.”
Jason’s gaze narrows, his tone dropping to arctic levels of cold. “I don’t have an issue with being replaced. I take issue with you telling me I’m not allowed to feel a certain way about the hand I’ve been dealt.”
“Oh my god. Everyone gets a bad hand once in life, Hood.”
“And because I refuse to take it on the other cheek,” Jason says, volume rises over Tim’s glib jabs, “that makes me unlovable?”
“Right now?” Tim snaps. “Yes.”
The silence that follows his outburst could rival a morgue. There's not even the scrape of cutlery on plates to break the stifling quiet as Jason glares at Tim like he wants to burn a hole through him.
Klarion is the first to break the impasse, straw slurping at the bottom of his empty milkshake glass. “Well,” he says, linking his long fingers together, “this feels like a great start.”
“Cram it, witch boy,” Jason sneers, bolting to his feet and turning for the walkway. Tim’s dragged along with him, awkwardly trying to extricate himself from the booth with one wrist in tow.
“Jason, stop. Jason, wait!”
Jason does, abruptly, and Tim crashes into him, the momentum sending them both to the tile in a mess of limbs. Tim can feel embarrassment burning his cheeks as he tries to extricate himself, thwarted by Jason’s own efforts.
From the booth behind them, Klarion’s peel of laughter cuts like a knife. “You two better get coordinated, and quickly. Plenty more of that in your future if you don’t.”
Jason sits up, glaring daggers at the witch boy. “Keep up the commentary and you won’t have much more of a future to look forward to.”
Tim groans, finding his feet and offering Jason a hand up. He doesn’t take it, hauling his bulk upright with the aid of a diner bench stool. “It’s not worth the fight,” Tim mutters to him, letting his hand drop.
“On that,” Jason returns, “we finally agree.”
“He’s not going to help us,” Tim says, keeping his voice low between them. Klarion beams from the booth, proud. “We’re wasting our time here. We need to go figure this out ourselves.”
“Sure,” Jason says, and turns for the exit. Slows his pace when Tim hurries to match it. “We’re smart. We’ll crack it.”
“Yeah,” Tim agrees, and wishes he felt more confident in his conviction. He forces a bleak laugh, attempting humour as Jason holds the door open for him to duck through. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
He’s interrupted by a crack of thunder, and the sky opening to shower fat drops of rain down on the diner steps.
“Sure,” Jason repeats, sighing up at the unforgiving Gotham sky. “What’s the worst that could happen.”
Between them, the shackles hum, warming them with their pinkish glow.
