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Jason catches a flash of black from the corner of his eye and turns his head, surveying the top of the shelf behind him with suspicion. That’s the third time he's seen that particular head of black hair pop over the top of a shelf. And it is a head of hair, because it’s that or some kind of shadow beast is stalking him.
This is Gotham, so it’s not as unlikely as it should be, but he prefers to think that Gotham citizens, even ones blinded by holiday shopping mania, are observant to notice some kind of shadow beast. Someone would have screamed by now or something. Besides, the black he’s catching at the edge of his vision is distinctly more solid than most shadow creatures.
Which means he’s being stalked by someone actually corporeal. Someone with black hair, who’s tall enough to look over the admittedly only chest-height shelf. Well, that rules out Damian, anyway, which is a nice reassurance that he’s not about to be ambushed by a pint-sized assassin for whatever inane reason has come up now.
Jason’s not sure that he’s up to be ambushed right now; he’s got a couple dozen things to pick up and an ever-shortening supply of time. Two days till Christmas; Tim works a half-day at Wayne Enterprises on Christmas Eve which is tomorrow and he’s got to have everything together by then. Damn the fact that his boyfriend is such an investigative genius, meaning he has to pull everything together just beforehand or risk Tim hunting through his supplies and figuring out what he’s planning.
…
Speaking of snooping boyfriends.
He squints at the shelf, and then pulls out his phone and dials, keeping his gaze loose enough to catch it if there are any black flashes at either side of the aisle he’s on.
Barbara’s voice is friendly, if tired, when she answers with a, “What’s up, Jason?”
“Would you do me a favor?” he asks, keeping his voice carefully low; inaudible to anyone not basically directly next to him.
“Depends what it is,” she answers, without missing a beat.
"Where is Tim right now?"
A pause, a muffled snort which is either amused or derisive and he can't quite tell which, and then, "You can't find him on your own?"
"Usually," he answers, glancing down the aisle in either direction, "but I'm out shopping and I'm pretty sure he's stalking me. So for the sake of unspoiled presents, tell me where he is?"
"Sure," Barbara says, and now she's definitely amused. "Give me a second."
Faintly, he can hear the tapping of a keyboard in the background. He wonders, for a moment, whether she has a laptop with her at all times or was just at her computer. Even odds, really.
"Basically right on top of you. Yeah, he's stalking." A yawn. "Say hi for me; I'll see you both at the manor."
"Yeah, see you then."
She disconnects them, and Jason tucks his phone away before spinning around in a slow circle, looking around at the shelves. Tim’s probably still behind his original one; Jason’s kept enough on guard that unless Tim detoured around half the store he probably didn’t get around him. He heads over, shouldering the first of his bags — he’s just getting started — a little more securely before heading up to the shelf. The store is a generic, brand store, and honestly he’s mostly here because he has a mission to find the absolute ugliest sweaters he can for both Dick and Damian.
It also means there’s a whole shelf and a half of shitty, jelly-looking candles with very questionable scents and no real explanation.
He picks a couple up, and then comments, “I wonder if Tim would like a ‘fresh breeze’ candle to keep the house from smelling when I’m gone.” There’s a small noise from the other side of the shelf, and he looks up and adds, “What do you think, Tim?”
After a moment of silence, Tim slowly rises from the floor of the other shelf. His head about half clears it. He looks a little guilty.
Jason raises an eyebrow, and offers, “Barbara says hi.” Tim shuffles in place, and Jason sighs and rolls his eyes. “C’mere, you dork.”
That gets Tim moving; circling down to the end of the shelf and coming around. When he's close enough, Jason reaches out and tugs him in, pulling him into a small hug. Even when Jason lets go, he doesn't let Tim pull away more than a few inches, and keeps an arm slung around his shoulders.
"Hey," Tim says, looking up through his hair with a small, sheepish smile.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" he counters, squeezing Tim closer for a moment before steering them down the aisle, away from the offensive candles. "You know, actually working and not stalking me?"
"I got the important things done," Tim defends, staying in step with him. "The rest is just busy work, and—”
"Probably still pretty important to actually get done at some point." Tim huffs, and he snorts. Then Jason stops, pulling Tim to a halt and turning to face him with a small smirk. "Tim, sweetheart, go back to work or go home, and stop trying to figure out what your present is, alright? It's one day. You can deal with a mystery for one day, I promise." Tim's eyes turn big and blue and sad in a heartbeat, and he raises an eyebrow for the second time in as many minutes to point out, "That has literally never worked on me. Why do you even try?"
Tim whines, and damnit but that still works enough to make him waver.
"Fine," he concedes after a couple moments struggling with himself, and Tim's sad eyes instantly turn to a smile. He's quick to add on, "Until Bruce sends a text or calls wondering where you are or demanding you come back. Then you do go back, got it?"
Tim slips to the side and links an arm with his free one, pressing up against his side. "Thank you, baby."
Another snort escapes him, as he shakes his head. "Don't make me regret this. Now come on, help me pick out the most god awful sweaters we can find to get golden boy and the demon brat. Matching, ideally."
Three stores — he hates malls in general but they're so convenient — and two hideous sweaters later, Tim gets that call from Bruce. Jason can hear a small fraction of it, what's loud enough for him to hear standing next to Tim like he is, but the expressions and level of sheer reluctance on Tim's face tells him worlds more. He fights a smirk for most of it.
When Tim hangs up he sighs, and then reaches over to grab Jason's hand and lace their fingers. "I have to go," comes the resigned announcement.
The smirk wins, and Jason leans in and brushes a kiss over Tim's forehead. "Come home alive. Let me know when and I'll have dinner ready; something good."
"Everything you make is good." Tim chases him back up, catching his mouth for a moment and lingering there, before pulling back. "I'll see you later, Jason. If you don't hear from me by eight mount a rescue."
He can't help the chuckle, even as Tim's fingers slip from his. "You got it, babe. See you later."
Tim sighs and walks off, and Jason watches until he's actually vanished through the door before setting down his bags and pulling out his phone. He doesn't have the number saved (not that he thinks Tim would ever go as low as searching his phone, but just in case), but it only takes a minute to pull it up and dial.
The line rings, and then is answered by a male voice that says, “Fox Jewelry, how may I help you?”
He takes a last glance around just to guard against the very minuscule chance that Tim doubled back around. All clear. “Hi, I have a piece waiting to be picked up?”
A brief half-moment of silence. Then, “Of course, sir. The last name on it?”
“Hood.”
(Tim can tease him all he likes for not being creative about his fake names, but he is when it counts. He just keeps a couple easy ones that he doesn’t have to actively remember the details for when he doesn’t want to. He’ll take that over ‘Alvin Draper’ any day, personally.)
“Alright, according to our systems you’re all paid and ready to go, Mr. Hood. Will you be coming by to pick it up today?”
He grabs his bags, shoulders them again, and heads for the front of this particular mall store. “I actually talked about this briefly with the woman I bought it from, and she said she’d make a note about it. The short version is that my partner is very curious and with Christmas coming up he’s trying to figure out presents in advance. I was told it would be possible for one of your associates to come out and meet me a couple stores away. Is that still right?”
He’s honestly not sure whether the brief pause is considering his request, or because the gender isn’t what the man is expecting, but at least he doesn’t have to prompt again before the man speaks. “Of course. I’ll send one of our girls out to deliver it, sir. Where would you like her to meet you?”
He’s still never quite gotten used to how higher level retail people bend over backwards for you if you have actual money to spend in their stores. Or how quickly some of them backtrack from looking at him like he might steal things to falling all over themselves to help him pick things out. Money talks, he supposes, even if it's hypocritical and frustrating a lot of the time. (He'll get used to it someday, he hopes. He's too close to Tim and by extension Bruce not to feel the trickle-down effects of their fortunes, even if he didn't have his own sizable stash.)
Jason rattles off the name of a nearby outlet that he looked up beforehand, nodding at one of the salespeople of the store he's in as he slips out the door. "I should be there in just a few minutes; I'm at the opposite end of the mall."
"No problem, sir. She'll be there. Please have your ID with you; she'll just need to confirm that and grab a signature from you before she can hand it over."
"Sure," he agrees easily. "Thanks for the help."
"Thank you for your business, Mr. Hood," is the man's immediate, clearly practiced response. "Have a good day."
He echoes a brief, "You too," before he hangs up and then tucks the phone away so he's got a second hand for his bags.
Presents (real and mocking) for Dick, Damian, and Steph; normal presents for Cass, Barbara, Alfred, and (yes) Bruce; and everything he needs for dinner and setting the mood tomorrow that isn't perishable. Groceries and such he'll get after he's put all of this away into the car he borrowed from Bruce's collection for exactly this reason, and he'll get them from somewhere that isn't a big mall store. Somewhere healthier, for one, and with more unique stuff and less generic frozen packages.
The mall is packed, and he keeps a careful eye on the crowd around him as he travels through it. It's the holidays, and this is still Gotham; it's prime time for a lot of pickpockets to make some extra change, which he's very aware of because he used to do it himself. He keeps his bags held close, letting instincts born and honed on Gotham streets — both as a street kid and then as a vigilante — see him through the crowd without any kind of problem.
The woman from the jeweler isn't hard to spot when he gets to the place where they're supposed to meet. Most people in the mall aren't in neatly pressed, semi-formal looking black uniforms, and there aren't many that are craning up on their toes to peer around at the crowd either. He approaches, pastes a smile on his face that probably looks right, and swaps his bags back over to a single hand so he can pull out his wallet with the other. She sees him just a moment later, and the way he's headed for her must be cue enough because she smiles and turns to face him, dropping back down onto her heels.
"Mr. Hood?" she asks, as he comes up to her. There's a bag in her hand; small, silver with tissue paper and a ribbon-tied handle.
"That's me," he says, letting his smile go a little crooked as he finally manages to balance everything well enough to pull his ID out of his wallet. (He takes just a second to make sure it's the right ID before he hands it over.)
She looks from the picture, up to him, and then offers it back. "Wonderful. If I could just grab a signature from you, sir? To confirm you picked it up?" She procures a small clipboard from beneath her arm and offers it as well, and he juggles his wallet back into the inside pocket of his jacket before taking it. The signature is an easy enough thing to fake, considering the original was a fake too, before he hands it back.
"All good?"
"Yes, sir," she answers, after a look at the clipboard. She offers the small bag with a smile.
"Actually," he starts, "would you mind pulling out just the box itself? The bag is lovely but I'm doing my best to hide it."
"No problem." It only takes her a moment to untie the top of the bag and reach inside, pulling out the small, black, velvet-covered box and offering it to him. "By the way, sir; good luck."
He crack the box for just a moment to make sure, exhales, and tucks it away with his wallet. The quiet, "Thanks," is entirely sincere. "Happy Holidays, miss."
A wider smile. "Happy Holidays, Mr. Hood."
He turns and heads back into the crowds, off towards the parking lot where he left the car. He just has to store these, and then grab groceries for tonight and tomorrow. Then he can head home, and get to work hiding everything so Tim won't find it between then and now.
Piece of cake, really.
"So should I search the house?" Tim asks, as they're lying in the dark of the bedroom.
Jason offers a grumble of a response, pressing closer to Tim's back and burying his nose in his hair. He can still smell sex in the air, and really only the thought of tomorrow is stopping him from keeping Tim up for a second round. "You can if you want to," he answers, making no effort to pull himself away from the approaching blackness of sleep. "You know me better than that though; you won't find it. I haven't underestimated you in a long time, babe."
"True." Tim huffs out a breath, squirming backwards and up against him, pulling the covers higher over both their shoulders. "Alright, fine. But I get to know the minute that I get home tomorrow."
"Dinner first," he counters. "Come home, eat dinner, and then I'll give you whatever it is that I have."
It's Tim's turn to grumble. "Or lunch. It's an early day; I'm sure I can get Bruce to let me go a couple hours before it's officially time. Or just… leave and don't tell him."
His mouth curls into a small grin. "Just let me know about fifteen minutes before you're leaving — whenever that is — so I can actually have things ready. And be hungry."
"Sounds promising." Tim's tone has slipped to teasing. "Should I wake you up in the morning?"
The hum that comes out of his mouth is considering. "I wouldn't say no; if you want. There's leftovers in the fridge too, if you want to just heat those." A yawn strikes him, and he muffles it into the back of Tim's head before he murmurs, "Go to sleep, Tim."
He gets another small grumble for that, but Tim doesn't answer. Just presses back and tangles legs with his.
Tim arrives home at about two, and a lunch is spread out and waiting. Jason's stomach is in knots, but he does his best — which is pretty damn good — to disguise it and just lead Tim through the meal. All of his partner's favorites; at least all of the ones he could make into an actual meal that sort of works together. He doesn't eat all that much himself, but Tim more than makes up for it by eating an amount that logically shouldn't fit into the flat, trim, incline of his waist, but somehow does.
"Coffee?" he asks, when Tim's slumped back into his chair, looking a step away from a coma. "There's dessert too but I figure probably wait a couple hours for that?"
"You are sin," Tim halfheartedly complains, but tilts up into the kiss he leans down for as he walks past. "Coffee. Please."
Jason squeezes Tim's shoulder and then slips out into the kitchen, where he has to take a second to lean against the counter and breathe, slow and even.
This'll be fine. It'll go well. It's been years and Tim... Tim loves him; he doesn't doubt that even a bit. They're good together now, better, and this is just the next step in all of it. He wants this.
He picks up the coffee mug he'd left out by the machine (Tim's favorite), ignores the just-ending brew cycle that's filled the pot over the course of dinner, and reaches up to the utmost tallest cabinet in the kitchen where that innocuous, little black box has been sitting since he took it out of hiding this morning. He sets it carefully in the mug, takes one more steadying breath, and heads back out to the table. He takes the seat next to Tim as he hands over the mug, scooting it closer so he's almost up against his side.
Jason's mouth curls into a small, fond smirk, unbidden, as Tim just raises the mug to his lips and tilts it without even looking. Then open his eyes and blinks, confused, before looking down into it. There's a moment of frozen pause, and then Tim carefully sets the mug down and reaches inside, pulling out the box.
"Jason?" comes the quiet word, as Tim glances to him. "Is this…?"
"It's a question," he answers, keeping his voice soft and trying not to betray the nerves that have coiled up again. "If you're willing to answer."
Tim pushes the lid open, and then very delicately pulls out the ring at the center of it, holding it between his fingers as he sets the box on the table. It's gold, with two dark rubies set into the top of the band, slightly diagonal in regards to each other.
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you," Jason manages to say, reaching over to brush fingers down the outside of Tim's shoulder. "Officially or not; I don't care. But uh, consider that my statement of intent." Tim looks over at him, and Jason lifts his fingers and traces them down the angle of Tim's jaw, letting his touch linger. "I'm with you," he promises, softly. "Ring or not, public or not, for as long as you want. Forever. I love you, Tim, and if you're willing, I want to marry you."
Tim takes a sharp breath, staring up at him, eyes wide.
"So," Jason continues, as he slips off of the chair and sinks down to one knee, kneeling by Tim's chair, "I guess the question is: Will you marry me, Timothy Drake?"
And Tim's face lights up, mouth curving into a wide grin, a laugh escaping him as he clasps his free hand over his mouth. Removes it again a half moment later to lean down and kiss Jason, bright and happy and easing the nerves in Jason's stomach with every moment. Then the kiss is breaking, and Tim is pressing the ring into one of Jason's hands and offering his left hand, palm down, with clear implications.
"Yes."