Archive of Our Own

Falling in love was a bad idea. Jason’s worst one yet, and he’s had a lot of them.

His body and brain are sick with it. Dread sits in his stomach, a constant churning of agitated nerves. Wondering when it might fall apart, if this next word is the one that ruins it. Restless thoughts keep him up at night, ones of doubt and perpetual inadequacy. He can’t close his eyes without seeing him, can’t walk down the street without some reminder. His bones won’t settle, and his fingertips ache with an unease that only calms when they find something of Tim.

And then everything is okay. His heartbeat soothes to an excited thrum, and the worry melts away. He is wordless and bruised by Tim’s presence. Drunk on the feeling, on the warmth of a body alongside his own. When they’re together, he feels real. Solid. Even when Tim steals his breath, when he smiles like it isn’t an attack on Jason’s soul, he feels more substantial than he has done in years.

It’s nice, all in all. Maybe it’s the strangeness of it, how foreign it is to feel himself go soft in his presence. Heart thumping, mouth dry, every thought and sentence second guessed until he can hardly get a word out. All over a man with pretty eyes and a smile like gold. Who takes his coffee too sweet and thinks like everything is a mathematical problem to be solved. He bites his lips and nails when deep in thought. His ears lift when he smiles. He talks a mile a minute, without much concern for if he’s even being listened to.

But Jason always listens. Hanging onto every word with rapturous attention. There’s a smoothness to his accent that snags on the speed at which he speaks. Excitement turns to stutters and stumbles, and Jason can only smile at him like he’s watching a puppy cock its head to the side. He talks about video games and tech upgrades and the warmer weather and scientific technicalities and baseball and whatever; Jason is in-fucking-love.

Tim always notices the dopey way that he stares at him. He can see the blatant heart eyes and the roaring adoration. Tonight is no different. He’s in the middle of a speech about a half baked plan, his options, potential problems, when he notices the way that Jason watches him. He’s been talking with his hands for nearly ten minutes now, almost as if Jason weren’t lying beside him. Nights like these are his favourites. To watch Tim talk, to just be in his presence, it’s…

He doesn’t know. Tim makes him question everything that he thought he knew about being in love. It’s like the sparks of a low current in his bloodstream. The precarious balance between pleasure and danger.

The spring breeze is cool around them, the air damp and heavy. Another rain shower threatens in dark clouds overhead. The petals of plum blossom trees, blown in from the park, lie stamped and muddied underfoot. They’re a sickly brown-pink, torn up by the gravel of their rooftop perch.

A blush coats Tim’s cheeks, eyes momentarily wide beneath his mask as his lips purse themselves silent. He turns away from the burn of Jason’s stare, fidgeting with his hands. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jason shrugs, still smiling. “I just like listening to you talk.”

His blush deepens, a pretty pink in contrast with the black of his domino. He shifts, legs swinging over the ledge. “Do you? Really?”

Jason props himself up on his elbow, frowning. Tim’s shoulders are slouched, his hands curled in his lap. He fidgets with his gloved fingers, tracing the shape of his nail beneath the leather. Some old doubt, a deep seated insecurity bleeds from his narrow frame.

The sight of him makes his throat constrict. Maybe lying quietly, and interrupting with the occasional hum or laugh, wasn’t the correct response. Maybe he’s coming across as disinterested. The way that his hands reach idly for his hips or his back might feel more like a request than a simple need to touch him. A hazy guilt thickens on his tongue. He fidgets with the hem of Tim’s cape, fighting for the right words. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell a guy that you like him if you don’t back it up with proof.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks softly in return.

“You’re just so quiet, sometimes I feel like I’m boring you.”

“You could read the dictionary to me and it’d be the most interesting thing I’d heard all day,” Jason argues with a huff. Says something about the company that he keeps, right?

Tim sniffs, a grin appearing for the briefest moment. He looks up at the sky, his face shadowed as a heavy sigh leaves his shoulders. He licks his lips, chasing words that his chest seems hesitant to let go. “Is it weird that I think of things that I want to tell you, and I’ll hold onto them until I see you?” Finally, he looks over at Jason again. He smiles, toothy and self deprecating. “And I only want to tell you. It doesn’t matter who I run into or how long I have to wait, I want to tell you everything.”

Jason sits up, shifting his body too close to Tim’s. He’s warm, suit a little rain soaked. He wants to be more reassuring, but his throat is too dry for that. “I hope you don’t ever stop telling me stuff,” he says quietly, in lieu of anything better.

Tim leans into the touch, a soft little sound escaping him. “I just don’t want you to get bored of me,” he sighs, whining.

As if Jason could ever get bored of this. Lying on his back on a damp rooftop with the swings of Tim’s voice in his ear. Just watching him. Just basking in his presence, admiring him quietly. When Tim talks, Jason gets to slip away and into the feelings that Tim stirs within him. A ghost, or a wallflower maybe. Just a disciple, believing and trusting implicitly. That can only be love.

“Not bored,” Jason confirms, swallowing around the building guilt. “Just…” Amazed. Dizzy. In love. “I just like listening to you. I like knowing what you’re thinking.”

They sit in silence for a while, Tim’s head on his shoulder, Jason’s hands useless and empty. The city sings and wails beneath them, all sirens and barking dogs. From their vantage point, it’s distant, like a soundtrack looping in the background. No matter how much Jason tries to bury his mind under the sound, the guilt sits there. Forefront and proud of itself, weaving in between the gaps of his neurons.

Jason’s presence must feel quite lonely to someone like Tim. Like pouring your soul out against a brick wall. Tim, and the Robin that hasn’t yet been beaten out of him, was built for connection. That’s what made him a good Robin, right? A better Robin. He’s terrified of being alone in the same way that Jason is terrified of someone noticing how desperately lonely he is. So he talks and talks and talks and hopes that the brick wall will answer.

It’s not that Jason has nothing to say. He found a weird looking bug last night. And there’s this tabby cat on the south side of Crime Alley that seems to like him, especially when he brings it tins of fish. That’s the kind of thing that Tim wants from him. The smaller parts of his life that no one ever sees. But maybe if he tells him, those things stop being his.

He isn’t sure that he could explain it if he were asked to. All that he is can be held in his hands. Rough edges and a soft centre. There’s so much of him that Tim has already picked apart, that all that’s left is the private stuff. The parts that remind him that he’s less of an island and more of a peninsula. Connected to the mainland by the skin of his teeth. And the thought of Tim noticing that? When he looks over midspeech and really notices him, with a soft smile and a little stutter, Jason can feel the adoration. One day, Tim might look over at him and whatever it is that he sees in that moment, it’ll fade away until all that’s left is Jason. Quiet, faceless, surrounded by a rising tide, and Tim will realise that he’s tired of pouring his soul out to a brick-wall-man, and Jason will crumble without him.

He’s really not good at this; at being Tim’s, at being in love. Maybe if Tim were anyone else, a lesser man, this would be easier. Jason would feel less like a pretender, and more deserving of the way that Tim snuggles against his shoulder like a cat.

Suddenly, Tim’s neck snaps to the sky, body stiffening. He raises a hand to his ear. “Red Robin here, I’m three minutes away, give or take,” he tells the clouds - Oracle, somewhere across the city.

And it’s over. Tim is quickly untangling himself from Jason’s body before he can realise that he misses him already.

“I’m sorry,” he huffs, stretching out rain sodden limbs.

“Need a hand?” Jason offers, if only to drag out the time that he has with him. Maybe a little violence would do them good. Prove that this is more than sex.

“Robin is already on his way, we should be fine between the two of us,” Tim replies, checking his belt, his gloves. Jason does his best to not take it as rejection. It stings anyway.

When he’s done, he beckons with two fingers for Jason to look up at him. He’s frowning under his domino, face downturned as he leans in. The kiss is deep and quick, bruising. Tim kisses him like he’s feeling for a pulse.

“Stay safe, baby bird,” Jason sighs against his mouth, pressing their foreheads together. It isn’t lost on him that every kiss might be the last one. He savours them all, cataloguing the way that he tastes so that he won’t ever forget.

“You too, Hood.”

He’s gone with one final, gentler kiss, and somehow, the whole city feels empty without him.

***

This thing they’ve got going on - the short breaks on rooftops and sneaky sex like they might be caught - isn’t really working. All that he has of Tim isn’t enough. Teeth and scars and stretch marks. Vetiver cologne, calloused hands, too-sweet compliments and hurried promises. How can it not be enough? He wants his sleepy good mornings and drunk secrets. In the pitch black, he wants his guilt and regret and the things that he hasn’t told anyone. To be the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. Slow dances, kisses in the rain, the security of knowing that someone will always find the best in you. Dumb stuff. The stuff that Jason wasn’t ever supposed to have or want, let alone from second Robin and previous irritation Tim Drake.

When his love feels more like greed, he reminds himself that this isn’t enough for Tim either. He wants his trust to be reciprocated. For Jason to open up a little more about the things that haunt him. He catches him in his peripheral sometimes. Watching him with a soft brow, dreaming. A hand will snake across the rooftop until the tips of their fingers are touching. Tim will blush, looking away so quickly that his neck cracks. It’s all so childish and juvenile. Sneaking around to hold hands and steal kisses in the shadows. When Tim looks at him, the ‘more’ that he’s asking for isn’t his body. He wants Jason to hold his hand a little tighter, and tell him something dumb and meaningless.

This nameless thing that they’re doing, out of order and skipping steps, needs to end. He wants Tim as a lover. Concrete. Substantial. Fears be damned. And Tim, with his stupid blushing face and stupid creeping hands, wants the same thing.

Easy, right? Fuck no.

Which is why he’s here, in his kitchen, laptop casting a blue glow across his face in the dim light. This is possibly a worse idea than falling in love, but he’s out of options. It should be so simple! ‘Hey, you wanna go on a date sometime?’ But he can’t get the words out when Tim looks at him like he hung the stars. He’s all red-black grace and wide eyed wonder. Everything that he wants to say melts under Tim’s ice blue gaze. The words dry up on his tongue, his throat constricts him silent. When he smiles with too many teeth and laughs at something silly, Jason can do nothing but laugh along with him. And just as his bearings are coming back to him, Tim disappears again with a quick kiss to his helmet and a promise to see him later.

There are ways to do this quietly. Stakeouts, stitched wounds, shared intel. Keep showing up in those gentle, helpful ways that Tim seems to really appreciate. But Tim deserves more. Intentioned affection, that isn’t mutated by fear and doubt. He deserves to know that he is loved beyond the costumes and the theatrics. He sees the greatness in the sum of his parts, the complexities that make up who Tim Drake really is, depending on who’s watching. Jason wants to make him feel seen, past the masks and the barriers. He sees him, all soft and insecure. That Tim (his favourite, but who’s counting?), is rarely found in Red Robin.

He spent a few days trawling through Wayne Enterprises’ employee portfolios, looking for weak links. Older people, mostly. People with nice faces, who seem easy to fool. He sticks to the HR and IT departments, thinking that they’ll give him quicker access to the database that he needs the most.

His mark, when he finds her, is a sweet HR professional named Marie. Relatively new to the company, round faced, a smile that screams a discomfort with being photographed. Poor Marie. Not her fault. Sort of. She should know by now not to click links from email addresses that she doesn’t recognise. Jason didn’t even do a particularly good job of hiding his nefarious intentions. Just a warning that her password is about to expire and a handful of official looking banners.

But it works. She clicks the link a day later, and Jason is let loose on the entire Wayne Enterprises’ employee database.

It only takes five minutes before he has what he needs. Tim Drake’s employee profile. Full name, date of birth, address, salary (good lord, Tim), and his phone number. He doesn’t snoop anymore than he needs to, despite the temptation. He could get a leg up on this whole dating thing before it even starts.

He forces himself to reach for his phone before he can second guess this. His hands shake as he types, fingers slurring his words like he’s talking directly to him. He checks the number five times before he hits send on the message.

‘Figured you won’t answer a call from an unknown number, so, hi baby bird. Call me when you get the chance.’

He throws the phone down like it’s burning him. Done. Fuck. His heart is racing, like he’s just ran a marathon. The nerves feel like a fire within him, hot and itchy all across his skin. He takes a few deep breaths, closing his eyes against the onslaught of adrenaline that simmers itself cool through his blood.

He’s only just disconnected from the database when his phone vibrates against the counter. He didn’t expect the call to come immediately. If he’s being honest, a part of him doubted that he’d get a call back at all. When they inevitably stumbled upon each other later that night, Tim would rant and complain about a hack on his office systems, and the weird text that followed it.

Deep breaths. He picks up his phone and hesitates only for a moment before answering the call. “Tim?”

“Did you seriously hack Wayne Enterprises’ systems just to get my phone number?” Tim sounds frazzled as the words come out as a whispered hiss. In the background, Jason can hear a busy office, ringing telephones and conversations cut off by the huff of Tim’s irritation. He’s there right now, probably watching it all happen.

Jason grins to himself, biting his lip to keep the nerves away. “It worked, right?”

“You couldn’t just ask? Like a normal person?”

“Just keeping you on your toes, honey.”

Tim sighs, exhaustion thick in his voice. For a moment, Jason worries that he’s crossed a line. One that he can’t uncross, one that proves that he’s just as crazy as everyone wants him to be. But then there’s a huff, a half-laugh smothered by static. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”

The relief is warm and tingling. Soft in his stomach. Jason lets out a breath, laughing along with him. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone's done for you? You need to pick better partners, Timmy.”

He cringes at himself. Stupid. Playing his hand too early.

But Tim doesn’t seem to notice. Jason can hear him moving through the office, the way that his words catch around polite smiles to colleagues. “You should see Lucius right now, he’s losing his mind,” he chuckles darkly.

Jason hisses. “I was really hoping it’d be Bruce that has to deal with this,” he concedes, laughing a little. “Tell him that I’m sorry? As an apology, I can give you the name of the person who let me into the system? Retraining or something, I don’t know,” he offers.

“Two birds, one stone, huh?” Tim replies, and Jason can hear the sound of a door clicking shut. The background chatter disappears as he stands in an echoing silence. “So, why the dramatics?”

He can imagine him there. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leaning against a wall in an empty meeting room. Long hair in his face, bullied by stressed hands. Smiling softly, the sharps of his teeth playing with his lower lip. In his imagination, he’s sweet enough to kiss. Tim is always sweet enough to kiss, but right now, safe and perfect where Jason makes him, Tim is downright undeniable. He can picture himself pressing him to the wall, hands on either side of his jaw as he shushes him. He’d kiss him slowly, take his time. Let Tim melt into him, let him sigh and whine and whisper everything that Jason wants to hear.

He swallows hard. Even without his eyes, his scent, forcing their way through Jason’s nervous system, he’s struck dumb. He planned this. From finding the perfect mark to this point right here, Jason knew exactly how it was supposed to go. He had something suave and charming to say, something that would make him irresistible to Tim. But now, his mouth feels empty. His preprepared speech sounds stupid.

With another deep breath, clinging to the counter for balance, he commits any word that comes to mind to his tongue. “You know that art gallery near the old cathedral? They have this new exhibit, local artists and their favourite literature or something, and - I don’t know, I think it would just be nice to have a day where we can pretend to be normal and - and it would be nice to go with you. If you’re interested. Because I’d like to take - I’d like… I’d just like for us to have a normal day. Together. You know, um, like a -”

His rambling is interrupted by a giggle. “Hold on, are you trying to ask me on a date?”

He shuts himself up, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sounds so pathetic. So absolutely hopeless. “Yeah, trying to,” he grits out, throat hoarse as an embarrassed flush creeps down his neck.

There’s a beat of complete silence, and for a moment that feels both like relief and pure horror, Jason thinks that they’ve disconnected. Then laughter, silvery and cut short. “Oh my god, you’re nervous!”

Jason hates the emphasis. Nervous. And that incredulous tone, the utter disbelief at the idea of Jason Todd being frightened by anything. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to fill the silence. A part of him wants to argue, or maybe deny it. There’s nothing judgemental about Tim’s tone. He sounds soft. Endeared almost, like every realisation that Jason is more than a wall of muscle is like a punch to the chest.

Gripping the counter a little harder, Jason sighs. He closes his eyes, and tries to pretend that he’s nowhere. Nothing is happening. There is no handset pressed to his ear, no humming static. He isn’t talking to Tim. “I think I want more than we have right now. And - and I guess that’s the place to start. A date,” he sighs, neck bending under the weight of the humiliation. His cheeks hurt, and his eyes sting as he tries to push through the feeling. But it’s hopeless. It’s got his chest and his heart in its grip, and he’s almost incredulous that he ever found the balls to get this far. Tim isn’t the first person that his self-hating arrogance has led him to. “Shit, Tim, this was a bad idea, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re such a softie,” Tim tuts. His voice is little more than a sweet whisper. “I’d like that. A lot. It would be nice to be normal with you. To go on a date with you.”

For a moment, Jason thinks that he can hear nerves in Tim’s voice too. Stretched around a smile, one hand pressed to his chest to soothe a quickly beating heart.

“Really?” he asks quietly, and he doesn’t mean to sound so disbelieving, so childishly hopeful. It’s just a little uptick in his chest, a confidence that he hasn’t really let himself feel. Until now, until he’s listening to the smooth sounds of Tim’s breathing down a phoneline, and wondering what it might be like to fall asleep to that staticky hum.

“Really,” Tim affirms softly.

The plan follows smoothly after that, dates, times. Jason hands over the name of the person who let him into the system and promises that (aside from Tim’s phone number), nothing has been stolen. Gradually, it gets easier to talk. His grip loosens on the countertop, hand aching in punishment. The sickly, panicked feeling ebbs away with the adrenaline, until they’re just two people again.

“What made you finally get brave enough to ask me on a date?” Tim asks with a hint of disbelief lingering, his tone teasing.

“I want to feel like I deserve you, like I’ve earned the way that you look at me,” Jason replies, surprised by his own quick honesty. It stops there, and falters back into the safety of half-truths. “And - and I like liking you. I like the way it feels.”

Like a safety blanket. Security. Tim has seen the worst of him and somehow, he’s still here. Not pretending that it wasn’t all that bad, but recognising that Jason is capable of change, deserving of a second chance. Feeling like he deserves anything is so foreign to Jason, that a part of him worries if he’s mistaking that for love again.

“You don’t have to earn anything. You already deserve it.”

He doesn’t give an answer to that.

***

The gallery is cool, clean and crystalline. Open skylights in the high ceiling let in a cool breeze that swirls down through every open air walkway and staircase. The building is hollow at its core, gutted to make way for the column of natural light. On a rainy day, it must sound heavenly in here. Reverberating like a tropical storm, thunderous on the roof.

Today, sunlight pools in the atrium like a warm bath, glistening across marble tiles. Voices echo through the space until they are hushed and mangled sounds. Everything is so white, so shiny. For all of that gothic exterior, this place hardly feels like Gotham at all. It’s too…nice? Those skylights up above and the stream of cool air, sunwarmed and glossy as it falls down through layers of dust like glitter, they seem otherworldly. Better suited to Metropolis than Gotham.

Jason can’t help but stare up at those skylights, momentarily forgetting why he’s here. The cool air is a welcome relief from the heat outside, unseasonably warm for midspring. The space is overwhelming, so much light and sound that his anxiety presses against the seams of him until he feels as if he’s about to burst. He tries to breathe, scratching his thumb against the ridged edge of his car keys in his pocket. He centres his body on that feeling and the light shining down from above, and does his best to think.

None of this is new. He’s been on dates before, albeit not very successful ones. He’s better at this in the mask, when the most truthful thing that the other person knows about him is his name. Which leads to risk, and violence, and damage, and ultimately, it falls apart. He’s not really worth it to end up on some homicidal maniac’s hit list. He’s too insecure, too paranoid, to make things work for more than a handful of weeks.

But Tim is different. There’s no space to lie or hide from him. He already knows exactly what he’s getting into, with or without the masks. And maybe that’s a new problem. The pendulum has swung too far in the other direction. There's too much commonality. They’re alike, too alike sometimes, and often in the worst ways. Angry, suspicious, duplicitous. He already knows practically everything that there is to know about Jason. He studies him like an academic with a lifelong obsession. Tim has this idea of him that he can’t live up to, has never lived up to. He has a willingness to forgive that Jason doesn’t deserve. A greed for more, even when Jason is as empty as the white-eyed stare of his helmet.

Tim isn’t even here yet, and already, Jason is questioning if this is even a good idea. Taking Tim on a date. Making some sort of shallow commitment. Wanting to prove that it’s more than sex with a side of feelings. The idea came to him after one too many romcoms, and he forgot that he isn’t some English gentleman, who despite his myriad of flaws, manages to clumsily win over the girl that’s too good for him. He’s just Jason, and he’s not sure if that can be forgiven.

He digs his keys into his fingers and tries to slow his breathing. The skylights are nice, the breeze is cool. He won’t know unless he tries. Some things are worth the risks.

“You look like you’ve never seen sunlight before.”

To say that he jumps out of his skin would be the understatement of the year. One moment, he’s alone under the skylights, and in the next, there’s a body standing alongside him. Close enough that their elbows brush, the contact so sudden that it’s almost sharp like a static shock.

He curses under his breath, head whipping around quickly to find -

Fuck.

He’s-

Fuck.

Jason is screwed. So screwed. So stupidly in over his head that he can’t even pretend that he isn’t drowning. Tim looks beautiful. Handsome. Gorgeous. Jason isn’t sure what the right word is, because he’s all of it. He watches him with eyes too blue, too round, a smug smile stretching across his face.

That smile grows just a fraction as Jason fails to catch his breath. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, how helpless Jason is for him. It shouldn’t be possible for anyone to kick the wind out of him like this. Maybe Tim is special, or secretly superpowered. Either way, he hopes that this feeling never goes away. That there won’t ever come a day that he looks at Tim and finds himself unaffected by the sight.

Tim leans in to press a fleeting kiss to his cheek. He isn’t wearing his usual cologne, instead, he smells of clean linen. Cotton on a fresh spring day. “Guess I can sneak up on you after all,” he teases, his voice a low rumble.

“I let you have that,” Jason denies too quickly, flushing warm as Tim pulls away from him. He smells good. He looks good. He scared the life out of him.

If he’s being honest, he’s a little impressed by that.

He takes Tim in for a moment, drinking in the sight like he might forget. The crisp white t-shirt under a red unzipped hoodie, pale blue jeans rolled up to sit over his hightops. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, neck craned as he looks to the sky, displaying the swell of his Adam's apple. His hair is growing out a little too long, curling around his ears and at the nape of his neck. It suits him. Makes him look a little older, undercuts the spirit of stuffy boardrooms that clings to him.

“Sure you did, you weren’t just standing here about to panic,” Tim teases back, jabbing him in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

He isn’t quick enough to dodge the hit, and the contact burns through his ribs until his lungs are failing all over again. He’s in for a long day. It’s probably going to be the best day of his life.

The silence that settles isn’t quite easy, nor comfortable. Nerves run in the undercurrent of it, the two of them fidgety and restless. The backbone of their shared history feels less like the reassurance that Jason was expecting, and more of a constant reminder of how things can go catastrophically wrong. They’ve gotten so far off track from where they started, that the road isn’t even visible. But really, who can blame them? He knows the smell of Tim’s blood. He knows how he sounds when in pain and pleasure alike. Here’s not sure how to balance all of that with the nervous, blushing man in front of him.

Jason’s thoughts catch on the way that Tim’s mouth shapes half-sentences, abandoning them just as they find his tongue. He tries to be patient, to let him get the words out before he interrupts. He almost wants to step back, give Tim a little more space to breathe and think.

Fuck it. Being quiet isn’t the point.

“You look good,” Jason breathes softly, cursing himself internally for not saying it louder. There’s a thousand words to compliment Tim with, and he picked the second worst one, bar nice.

It works, anyway. Tim flushes another pretty shade of sunshine pink as he tries and fails to bite back a smile. His eyes dart around the room before settling at his feet, hair over his eyes. “So do you,” he breathes in response, and Jason can just about see the way that his teeth tear into his lower lip. His smile is pinched around them. It encourages Jason. Fills him with something like pride, that he can make Tim blush like that. All pretty and pink and trying to bite back a smile, hiding behind his hair. He really is a doll, from his lashes to his freckles to the dusting of pink on his cheeks.

He’s about to say something else, develop that compliment into something more substantial, when Tim interrupts him. “What’s got you so nervous, anyway?”

Jason scoffs. Isn’t it obvious? Tim is standing in front of him, looking as beautiful as ever, giving Jason a chance to prove that he isn’t bored. There’s about a hundred ways that he could fuck this up, and if this doesn’t go perfectly, Jason’s self esteem might never recover. He isn’t sure how to put any of that into words without sounding demented, or obsessed. So he just shrugs, gesturing to the space around them, and hoping that it does a better job of conveying ‘I’m scared shitless right now’ than his words could.

Tim swallows as he nods, a pursed smile on his face. He smooths his hands down the front of his jeans, pushing himself up onto the balls of his feet before dropping down again. Still, he finds it within himself to be reassuring, stepping in just a little closer. That clean cotton scent threatens to overwhelm him again, reminding him of sunny days on the manor’s lawn.

“There’s no pressure,” Tim affirms. If he’s telling himself or telling Jason, he can’t really decide. His voice is low and measured like the exhale that he makes. Breathing out anxiety and letting a wobbly smile take shape. He’s pretty, with his doll-like eyes.

“No pressure,” Jason breathes, but fuck, there’s a lot of pressure. His dignity sort of depends on this.

Tim’s hands look empty at his sides. It would be quite nice to hold his hand. Looped fingers and stroking thumbs. Jason can’t take his eyes off of them, bony knuckles and veins blue through his pale skin. His fingernails are bitten down and uneven, the chips of what must’ve once been black polish lingering in the cuticles. Tim has really pretty hands, and the way that they dote attention on Jason’s body is something to be savoured.

He could use some of that attention now. He steps in an inch closer, so close now that they’re nearly chest to chest. The temptation to kiss him feels endless, heavy in the pit of his stomach. Tim cranes his neck upwards as Jason loops their pinky fingers together, giving him a comforting squeeze. His eyes are wide, his smile finally losing its strain. Their hands fit so nicely together, Tim’s being smaller than his own. The pads of his fingertips are ice cold, palm warm with nerves. Tim squeezes him back as his fingers slot between Jason’s knuckles.

“There’s no pressure,” Jason affirms again, instructing Tim and ignoring the directive himself. Tim is going to have the best date of his life, or so help him. He manages to smile, adjusting his grip so there is a little more insistence in the hold. Something that communicates an unwillingness to let go. “Come on, second floor.”

He leads the way, holding Tim’s hand tight in his own. Up the staircase and onto the first sky bridge. The atrium looks even more beautiful from above. Or maybe that’s just the power of Tim’s hand in his. It’s quieter on the skywalks, echoes from below sound like whale calls in the distance. Jason tries to keep his composure as Tim glances up at the skylights, and the light bathes his face in warm white. It isn’t fair that one man can look that pretty, squinting, shielding his eyes from the sun. They stop for a moment, giving Jason the perfect chance to take in the view. His mouth runs dry, his body totally forgetting what it’s meant to be doing.

Putting the way that Tim seems to glow to the back of his mind, Jason sort of remembers how to function like a person again. All of that functionality flies out the window when Tim lets go of his hand. His fingertips linger, as if they’re reluctant to follow the movement of his wrist upwards and into a point. He’s seen something behind the column beaming down from the skylights.

It takes Jason a long few moments of trying to blink through the lights to understand what he’s looking at. Shadowed and nearly obscured, a limestone statue looms over the atrium. Darkness pools into it. Clinging, almost, like there’s something about the limestone that eats the air. When he focuses on the shape, clarity strikes him like a cold stone in his stomach. Reaching from the shadows are long clawed fingers, ready to strike. Muscled arms and thighs crouched mid jump, a sick snarl on a cowled face. Teeth as sharp as fangs, too many of them, open jowls crowded and overflowing and dreadful. Its body is aimed downwards, as if descending on the foyer on cape-wings, plummeting to earth uncontrolled and violent.

The piece feels like a warning. As if this artist has seen through the facade of justice and kindness to the monster beneath. Tucked away in the shadows of the open space to linger and loom, a friend that could turn on you at any moment. The public good of vigilantism laid waste to an idea that doesn’t align with your own self righteousness.

Jason didn’t notice it when he stepped into the building, too absorbed in his own head to feel the oppression of it from above. Looking at the sculpture now, he can’t shake the feeling of it from his skin. Goosebumps, hair on the back of his neck standing on end like eyes are boring their way through his brain stem. Under all that, the low simmering panic and the dread and the brutalising insecurity, he can’t feel Tim’s presence at this side anymore. His hands are empty.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe he’s on a fast track to self destruction all over again. But this time, he’s dragging Tim down with him. For fun? For the sake of proving that he was the better Robin? Jason isn’t sure, but he knows that the Batman surging towards him would have a judgement to cast.

He thinks of everyone who couldn’t tolerate the walking risk that Jason is. He doesn’t blame them, not really. But Tim knows better. He knows Jason well enough that he should be keeping his distance.

When he finally finds the courage to drag his stare away from the statue and find him again, Tim is a few paces away. He watches Jason with something cold and analytical, head cocked to the side. He’s observing the reaction, cataloguing responses like this is an experiment.

“Where is your head right now?” Tim asks.

Jason swallows the bitterness at the back of his throat. “Does it matter?” he replies quickly, forgetting everything that Tim has taught him about honesty and absolution.

“It does to me.”

Jason shrugs, and crosses the rest of the bridge to be at his side again. In one strange breath, guilt and safety flood him. Like Tim is the human shield clutched to his front. He tries to smile through the feeling, bumping Tim’s shoulder in a mockery of casual ease. “Right here. With you.”

It’s not a total lie. It earns him a soft little smile from Tim, at least. One that makes his heart sing like a dog being called a good boy. He throws one last look over his shoulder at the creature reaching out of the shadows, and puts it out of his mind. It doesn’t matter if taking Tim on a date is a bad idea anymore, he’s committed to it now. He’ll think about it later.

As Tim leads him to the gallery door, he seems content not to push anymore than that. His face seems a little grim too, his smile contrite again. There’s something underneath it all that he can’t quite pinpoint, a lost emotion that he should’ve picked up on sooner. Jason hasn’t spent much thought analysing Tim’s own relationship with Bruce, but as he stands with his back to the open exhibit door and offers a wobbly smile, he sees it. A strain. Heavy eyes and tight shoulders. But he doesn’t elaborate, and Jason isn’t sure if the silence is good or not.

He follows him inside, feeling the loss in his hands like nothing else could warm them up. The exhibit is quiet, air hushed like silence is mandatory. There’s a clinical smell lingering, conditioned and cleansed to perfection. A few people mill about, couples standing too close together, students sketching on velvet-padded benches. The floorboards creak under footsteps, conversations are whispered like this is someplace sacred. And for Jason, it sort of is. He’s thought about this exhibit since he first saw an advertisement for it, plastered on the side of a rain-splattered bus stop. Local artists giving their takes on their favourite pieces of literature, bringing the stories that impacted them to the city.

Jason wouldn’t consider himself creative, his brain is too hung up on strategy and imperfection to ever dedicate time to making something for the sake of it, but he has always been a reader. It’s the quiet in an apartment full of shouting, it’s the brief reprieve from painful, healing wounds. It’s a moment to himself, without masks and secrets, in a world that asks nothing of him but to listen. He’ll tear through anything; romances, science fiction, biographies, Greek tragedies. Pencilled notes in the margins, sentences underlined. Every second with his nose in a book was a second that he didn’t have to spend in reality.

He thought about coming here by himself but maybe it would be more special to share it with someone. And who better to share it with than Tim? If Tim wants to know him, underneath everything that Jason does to avoid being seen, this might be the place to start. He finds pieces of himself in novels that he can’t verbalise, because he doesn’t really understand them. This whole room feels like a reflection of Jason’s soul.

He remembers clutching his very own library card in his hands for the first time. He treasured that little piece of plastic like it was everything. Over time, he learnt to slow down when reading the works of Austen and Shelley. He learnt that Shakespeare is fun, but best read in groups. Some stories demand contemplation and others would treat him like a friend. A good romance will use the paper like a mirror in the same way that a horror story would. Poetry is best read aloud, even if it can only be whispered in a quiet hiding place.

“Why here?” Tim asks, his voice a low hush that snaps him back from the past. He steps a little deeper into the room, eyes wide and head on a swivel.

Something knots itself in his stomach. Tim and his long legs, narrow hips, the shape of his ass in those jeans as he walks away. His eyes are wide and so perfectly blue, like they’ve always belonged in a space like this. If Jason could, he’d make every artist in this city pay a little more attention to Tim Drake. But what would be the point? There isn’t anyone who could do justice to the cut of his nose or the variations of his smile.

Tim asked him a question. One that he’s failing miserably to answer. He swallows, clearing his throat and trying to shake the image away. When he catches up to Tim, he’s busy admiring a set of black and white photos, joined together with red string.

“You know, I read this in high school and I hated it,” he begins, glancing up at Jason as if his opinion needs approval. “I get that it was the first of its kind or whatever but I just couldn’t get into it.”

While Tim thinks over the cultural significance of In Cold Blood, Jason tries to think of an answer to his previous question. One that doesn’t sound sad, desperate, lonely. ‘A book is the only consistent friend that I’ve ever had, and I need you in a way that I wish I'd never needed anyone.’ No, no that’s bad. Very bad. ‘I’m sorry that I’m so bad at this, I wish I wasn’t and I’ll do anything to be a better man for you - you deserve it and I’m sorry that I’m-’

Fuck’s sake. Just tell the truth.

“I like reading, and you’re a photographer. Seems like if there’s a cross section of us, it would be here.”

Tim blinks at him, owlish and adorable, and Jason realises a moment too late that the conversation has moved on without him. He can feel his cheeks heating up, mouth already open to try and diffuse the awkwardness. His shoulders sag, and his smile gives away his desperation to have the earth swallow him whole. If it wasn’t already obvious from the way that it practically drips from him.

But Tim only smiles, softly, like there’s something precious in front of him. Or rather, he’s remembering something precious. He’s got that fuzzy look in his eyes reserved for widowers, a warm kind of remembrance of rose-tinted times. “I have a lot of photos of you,” he says, and if Jason had expected any embarrassment at that fact, he doesn’t find it. Tim looks…proud? He looks like he knows that he owns the only surviving record of Jason’s childhood. The only proof that it was real.

“I know you do, little stalker, you should show me sometime.”

Tim wrinkles his nose, and god, Jason wants to bundle him up in his arms and press a million tiny kisses to that nose. He hadn’t expected today to be a test of his ability to keep his hands to himself. “Are you sure? There’s newer ones too, my portfolio has diversified since then,” Tim replies like this is an argument, a guilty blush warm on his cheeks.

“Newer ones? So you’ve not broken this stalking habit, then? I’d still like to see them,” Jason laughs, poking him in the ribs. Keeping his hands to himself is not going well. He steps in closer, crowding his space to watch that red flush work its way down his neck.

“I can’t promise that they’re any good,” he barters, hands twitching as if he’s struggling with the exact same thing as Jason.

It’s fun to tease him, to watch that pretty shade of red deepen as he fights hopelessly for a way out. The way that his eyes dart, settling on Jason for just a second before his confidence breaks, and he looks away.

“Why wouldn’t they be any good? When have you ever done anything that isn’t at least good?” he argues back, brows furrowed.

That same insecurity under the statue of Batman is in his face again, eyes trying their damndest to appear calm. The sound that Tim makes is magic, animalistic. A frustrated little whine in his throat, like a puppy attempting to growl. “I don’t know! No one was ever supposed to see them, they’re mine!” Tim complains, hiding his face in Jason’s shoulder.

Jason gives up on the pretence that he can resist Tim, and lets one hand stroke through his dark hair. He cradles him close against his chest, trying and failing not to laugh. It’s hard to care that there are other eyes in the room. Not when he’s got Tim like this, trying to hide in the junction of his collarbones. He kisses his brow, letting it linger for a moment too long. Isn’t that the best part of being taller than your lover? The whole top of their head is constantly exposed for kisses, affection.

“Come on, we can argue about this later, but I am getting my hands on those photos,” he insists, peeling Tim away from his front to take his hand again. He’s not sure where this stubbornness comes from, and if he’s being really honest with himself, he probably doesn’t actually want to see them. It’s nice enough to know that Tim has them. Whether he ever does get his hands on them or not, it’s okay. Their existence is enough.

They drift together, steps slow, bodies close. It gets easier to talk as the nerves settle. It always does, he just has to remember to let himself get to that point. Talking to Tim is easy, when he forgets everything that brought them here. Bedrooms and bloody floors and splintered marble. They’re just two people in an art gallery, swapping memories, pretending that this is their first time meeting. Every time that their hands drift apart, Jason feels the loss of it like a little sting in his veins. He feels unmoored, surrounded by art and people and Tim, never more than a step or two away, isn’t close enough.

The separation is worth it to watch his reactions. He wrinkles his nose at a mezzotint of The Haunting of Hill House, because “it looks like one of my old boarding schools.” He grins at the splotchy, staggering shapes of a zombie apocalypse, he seems reflective at the bodies of young women swimming in a violent, neon blue ocean. Something about a blood red sunset and a charcoal figure on horseback freezes him. He marvels at a cross-stitched fairytale, caught up in the detail, the craftsmanship.

It becomes a game. They stand before a piece of art and take turns at guessing the inspiration. Some seem obvious, like a man with an arrow in his leg, clutching the hand of a young boy. Others are a little more abstract, or maybe they’re just older. Jason loves watching Tim’s face in front of those. Narrowed eyes, straight posture. Thinking it through like a case to be cracked. It gives Jason time to admire him, to revert to the silence that’s so comfortable to him. He practices patience, hands restless at his side as Tim’s hips and middle back call out to him for attention. Resistance feels pointless but he’s doing it anyway. Maybe it’s the bleeding heart romantic in him, forcing some pretense of a gentleman onto him, like he hasn’t done dramatically less gentlemanly things to Tim than touch his back.

Regardless, it’s nice. It’s nice to answer the lost, clueless looks that Tim gives him when he abandons his attempt to identify the piece. It’s nice when he’s just as oblivious to it. It’s nice when Tim talks about technique, details that Jason missed in his first appraisal. And it’s especially nice when Tim’s eyes land and linger on his lips for a moment too long.

He thinks about kissing Tim a lot, mostly when his back is to him. He runs his hands through his hair and exposes the nape of his neck as if it’s a target, and Jason feels his knees grow weak every time. Again, the art gallery feels like a mistake. He could have Tim in his apartment right now, away from prying eyes and decency laws. But it’s nice to watch him, and he seems more in place here than he does in the cramped confines of Jason’s apartment.

Tim stands with arms folded across his chest in front of a watercolour scene from The Woman in Black, bluegrey eyes moving a mile a minute. Marshland stretches and drips in watery greens, craggy rocks hinting at a causeway beneath the perfect surface. The house looms in the distance, the blurred shapes of a horse and trap dark in the moss. “She isn’t there,” he concludes, scanning it one more time. Then he grins, slow and devilish in understanding. “That’s the point, right? She might be there, but if she doesn’t intend to be seen, you won’t find her.” He glances up at Jason, as if seeking approval.

“Or maybe you can’t see her, but there’s clearly someone at the house. The tide is high, but the weather is clear, so what happens to Arthur hasn’t happened yet, but it’s soon, and you can’t stop it.”

Tim purses his lips, thinking. His brows knit together for a moment, before his back straightens. He clicks his tongue, levelling the painting with a glare like he’s trying to boil the watercolours away. “I like your theory better,” he states, glancing across at Jason to confirm the conclusion.

“And I like it when you admit that I’m smarter than you,” Jason quips back.

Tim elbows him hard in the ribs, still grinning, and Jason is helpless to do anything but chuckle, trying to reach for him. But Tim is gone, moving deeper into the gallery, with just a satisfied glance over his shoulder in retort. His eyes are heavy under long lashes, and the way that he looks Jason up and down feels deliberate, hungry.

The look that Tim fixes him with is almost enough to distract him from where they’re headed. He stops, breath held tight in his lungs.

The painting is a beautiful oil pastel piece. Exaggerated to fill almost the whole wall, every detail is excruciating and deliberate. A ram with twisted horns and matted fur illuminated in the headlights of an oncoming truck. The world surrounding it is barren, greyed. There’s no other life, no trees or grass or insects. The ram is alone, and in the reflection of the machine that will kill it, it sees another one of its kind. The only other one, Jason remembers. Jason read the passage about the ram and the truck and he sobbed, sobbed at a lonely life snuffed out. An entire species just… gone. Without anyone to notice, but the ram and the truck. And it wasn’t even a passage. It was a sentence, a throwaway simile to mark the end of this creature’s existence.

He can feel Tim’s eyes boring into his cheek. He doesn’t dare look over at him. He stares at the ram facing down its death, watching the end to its loneliness hurtle towards it. “This means something to you,” Tim notes, as analytical as always.

“Dead Astronauts. It’s not an easy read by any metric, it’s more of an experiment with what can be done with language than a story, but it… I think it changed something in me, you know? I can’t even tell you what it’s about but… but survival, I guess. Environmental apocalypse. There’s a behemoth, foxes, a person made of mathematics. It’s… sad, I guess. It’s the kind of book that makes you want to die to save what’s left of the world.”

Tim nods slowly, and looks back to the ram. Jason can’t help but wonder if he understands. As an outsider to this story, does he know that this is the last ram? That it’s dying, and in that moment, it thinks it’s found a friend? It goes to its grave in pain, betrayed, bewildered. And it’s your fault. You let it happen.

“Do you think I should read it?” he asks, eager and honest. Probing for a way past the few barriers that Jason just can’t let go of.

He can only shrug in response. The thought of Tim reading this book, this book that sang to a sad and hopeless part of him, and seeing it too? He feels a little sick. That Tim might feel sympathy for a monster like he did, that he’d find parallels that Jason tried to convince himself he was crazy for seeing. Tim would see a part of him that he can’t put back in a box.

He takes a deep breath. He… he wants that. To be seen. Even if through literature. The abstractions of himself that he finds hidden in that book might take some of the pressure of trying to explain it.

“If you’re up for a slog. A good slog, but it’s a slog,” Jason agrees. “I have a copy. It’s a little mangled, lots of pencil notes, but if you don’t mind that, you can borrow it.” The urge to retract his offer as soon as the words leave his mouth threatens to swallow him whole.

But Tim just beams at him, and fuck, Jason is weak for that smile. He’s never going to stop being weak for the way that Tim lights up, wide eyes and lifted brows.

“It’s got your handwriting in it?”

“It’s messy,” Jason warns, before Tim can get too carried away.

Tim is excited. So excited at the thought of holding and consuming something that Jason made. And it’s barely legible, faint etchings in pencil. Chicken scratch. A pointless analysis meant to be shared with no one but himself, and Tim wants that. With his sparkly eyes and too wide smile, he knows exactly how to get what he wants.

“I’ll trade you the book for the photos,” Tim adds, as if the puppy dog look isn’t enough.

His heart kicks in his chest. Fuck, he’s going soft. “Deal.”

Tim smiles, stepping in close until their shoulders bump. He’s a comfort that Jason is desperate to cling to. He can feel the anxiety in restless fingertips again, jamming them hard into his pockets to find his keys. He clenches them tightly, letting the metal bite into the skin of his palm.

He’s not sure where his mind goes, other than away. There’s an empty, low simmering panic beginning in his blood. It’s directionless and without clear cause, just a build up of stress until he can’t quite breathe through it anymore. He tries to point it at something, so at least then there’d be a reason that he’s nearly shaking. Tim reading the notes in his favourite books. Seeing photos of himself from Tim’s perspective. Tim looking at him and realising that this was all a big mistake.

There’s a hand under his jacket. Warm, grounding him in reality again. The thumb strokes in soothing little circles, reassurance in every swipe. It forces Jason to realise that he’s been staring into space for too long, unblinking. His eyes sting. The ram still stares into the headlights.

“You don’t ever talk about it,” Tim says softly, cementing his place in reality. His eyes remain fixed forwards, tracing every inch of the painting with precise slides.

Jason reels for a moment, trying to put the pieces together. Did he miss something? Tim refuses to look at him, refuses to help. He just stares dead ahead at the ram and the truck and Jason isn’t sure what he means. His face holds all the careful consideration of someone who knows they’re about to stamp on a hornet’s nest.

“About being dead?” Jason guesses, looking back at the painting.

Tim nods wordlessly.

“I talk about it all the time? It’s Dick’s primary complaint about me.”

“No, you joke about it, joking and talking are different.”

Jason sighs. Isn’t that the point? Aren’t they the same thing, once all implication has been understood? And isn’t the implication always understood? It’s not like anyone can miss the gaping, festering wound that dying left him with. “There’s not a whole lot to talk about, unfortunately. It’s just being dead.”

“So you’re not going to tell me what comes after?”

“Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

Tim laughs, rolling his eyes. His laugh sounds so pretty in this echoing room, but the grave look on his face doesn’t let up.

“I think talking about the time that I died is really more second date material, don’t you?” he offers, running a hand through his hair. The urge to run is coiled tight in his thighs, and it doesn’t matter how soothing the hand in the small of his back is. It’s like that hand has found the wound, and is dipping its fingers into the mess and mucus, clawing its way to where it hurts the most.

“Then I will remind you on our second date,” Tim teases back, finally steering him away from that awful painting. He’s got nothing against the artist, it’s a beautiful piece. It’s just… he thinks of that ram more than he should. And the foxes and the man with a bat’s face and the torture that made him. The hopelessness of existence itself.

Hopelessness that drifts away when Tim’s words register in his mind. “So I’m getting a second date?” he checks, his voice embarrassingly hopeful.

“Keep playing your cards right and we’ll see.”

If that’s not motivation, Jason doesn’t know what is. To keep recommending books and holding Tim’s hand like that was what he was always meant to do. He forgets all about the ram and pours his soul into making Tim smile. His laugh is infectious, needling its way into the tight coil of his joints and loosening him inch by inch.

The game evolves until they’re taking mock bets on which rogue is using a pen name to hide their art in here. In a charcoal painting of a group of elderly people huddled at the edge of a boat, Tim sees a fear of death that reminds him of Ras. He finds Doctor Strange in the slumped, bleeding body of a psychologist against a lighthouse, and Ivy in the strange sketches of mutated animals that accompany it. There’s an abstract piece depicting the towering, drizzly dystopia of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? that feels like Riddler. He’d pick the book up for the title alone, the conundrum of it.

Jason forgets every doubt that he ever had about bringing Tim to an art gallery when his eyes light up at the sight of a portrait of a tuxedo cat, wearing a wizard’s tophat. Tim suddenly looks so young as he recites a part of the poem to himself, whispered like a child might rush a prayer. If he could, Jason would take a photo of that moment and treasure it forever. It wouldn’t capture his excited ramble about Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Nor the way that his eyes shimmer at the memories of his mother, seawater blue and misty. But it would be enough. Something that he could keep quietly to himself.

He curls an arm around his waist and pulls him against this side as they move to leave. “Happy?” he asks, checking in.

“So happy,” Tim replies, grinning, and Jason could kiss him then and there.

Then dinner afterwards, at a hole-in-the-wall sushi place in the backend of Old Gotham. That wasn’t part of his plan, but when they’d stepped out of the gallery and into the cool evening air, he wasn’t ready to let Tim go. It’s cozy inside, dimly lit, highlighting the prettiest parts of Tim’s cheekbones. They’re out of place amongst the city workers drowning the last hour of their day in beer, and the teenagers looking for a pretty place to take photos, but it doesn’t matter. They crack jokes, scold each other when the conversation inevitably drifts to their casework. They talk about each other, ‘us,’ where it started, what comes next.

He learns a lot about Tim over dinner, more so than he ever did on a rooftop. It’s like the mask drops completely, and he’s just Tim, for the first time. His job at Wayne Enterprises isn’t just great cover, he loves it. He has friends outside of the vigilante and hero scenes, his taste in music is broad. He lets Steph paint his nails whenever she has gossip to spread because neither of them can sit still for more than five minutes, and it makes his hands look nice. He’s teaching Duke to skateboard. He likes white wine. He and Dick are working their way through Bruce’s pile of unwanted gifted liquor, and they’ve yet to be caught. He promises to let Jason in on it.

All of the similarities that he feared earlier waste away to easier ones. Somehow, despite everything inside himself that just wants to sit and listen, Jason opens up too. He used to paint his nails black too, because it made the veins in his hands stand out. The garage is a front for the gang, sure, but he loves cars. He’s sort of quit smoking, but who can resist the thrall of a drunk cigarette? He likes cats, but he loves dogs. He brings up the weird bug and his tabby cat friend, and admits “I’m scared that if I give you too much good or normal stuff, it’ll run out and you won’t like what’s left.” Saying it aloud feels like carving his own heart out with a blunt knife.

Tim cocks his head to one side, soda bottle in hand. “It’s a little too soon to be judging ourselves for how this turns out, no?”

When Jason’s smile doesn’t grow any wider than a tight purse of his lips, he reaches across the table to take his hand. “Not to bring the past up, but I don’t think it can get any worse than it was. You’re not going to try and kill me again.”

He’s not asking. He’s got more faith in Jason than the rest of the world combined. Maybe including Jason himself. But he’s right. There’s no way he could ever go toe to toe with him again, knowing how beautiful he is underneath him.

“I wasn’t trying to kill you, I was-”

“Proving a point?”

“Exactly. And I don’t think I proved anything. I won that fight, but you were good, Tim. So much better than I expected.”

Tim grins, wide and dazzling. “I live to disappoint.”

It’s over too soon. He could spend a lifetime on dates with Tim, and it would still be over too soon. He drives Tim back to his apartment and spends the whole trip wishing that time would stop, and cursing himself for going so soft. Tim brings out the worst in him. Makes him this sappy, mushy, sentimental mess of a man. Makes him forget years of hardwon self-preservation instincts that would never have let things go this far.

He pulls up outside of Tim’s apartment to see him off. The street is quiet, the sunset golden where it peaks through grey clouds overhead. When he steps out of the car, the humidity sticks to the air like it’s trying to preserve its own warmth. The light in Tim’s face brings a whole new glitter to his eyes. There’s a warm pink flush in his cheeks, contentment in the soft smile that he offers as he steps into Jason’s space. He smells of salt and cotton, long hair a mess and screaming for Jason to tuck it behind his ears.

“Thank you for today, I had fun,” Tim breathes, settling his hands at Jason’s waist like he’s touching him for the very first time. A balanced weight, fingertips tracing the outline of his shape beneath the jacket.

Jason curls his arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Chest to chest, nose to nose. He’s been dying to get Tim this close all day. Close enough that he can breathe in every inch of him without eyes to question it. “Thank you for today, I’m glad you had fun, baby.”

It’s quiet for a few moments. The city hums around them like an organism, coming alive as the sky darkens. Jason holds Tim against his body, and wonders at what point it becomes okay to kiss him. Are you supposed to kiss on a first date? Or is that frowned upon?

“So, what now?” he asks, hoping Tim might know better.

Jason knows exactly what he wants to happen next. Tim should invite him up to his apartment. He’ll apologise for the mess, but Jason won’t even notice it before his back is pressed to the front door, eager hands pushing his jacket from his shoulders before tackling his belt. He’ll apologise that he’s not got the right kind of packer on because he didn’t want to assume anything, Tim will shush him with a kiss because that’s never mattered to him. They’ll fuck, missionary most likely, and it’ll probably be gentle enough to make Jason cry. He’ll do his best not to let slip that he’s in love. Knowing his luck, he’ll fail.

But he’s not expecting anything. This is their first real date, after all.

Tim hums, pursing his lips as he thinks. He holds Jason a little tighter, digging his fingertips into the meat of him. “I think I want you to kiss me like it’s the first time and text me when you get home safe,” he replies. “We skipped a lot of steps, I want to do this right. I want to feel all giddy when I see your name, I want to think about the next time that I get to see you and feel that little kick in my chest when I eventually do.”

“Emotional edging, you’re a freak, baby,” he teases, rocking Tim in his arms as he laughs.

“Is that okay?” Tim asks quietly once the laughter dies down. He looks up at Jason through long lashes, puppy dog eyes dripping insecurity.

“We’ll do this the right way,” Jason agrees, giving him a reassuring squeeze. He can feel every inch of muscle across his shoulders, all of his strength coiled and hidden. He watches as the relief melts through Tim, body softening in his grip. He’s close enough that Jason can feel his heartbeat quicken in his chest.

“I know this started as sex,” Tim begins, glancing down at the concrete to hide his smile.

“Right.”

“But it’s not anymore.”

“Was it ever?”

“No. Not for me, at least.”

Jason nods, mulling it over. His mind drifts back to the photos again, hidden in a plastic box, under his bed or in the back of his wardrobe. He’s known about them for a while, and always put it down to documentation. But maybe there’s more to them. Angles made up of childhood crushes, the early days of emotional development where affection is described solely as admiration. And the newer ones, he can’t imagine what they’re like. Still wide and taken from a distance, he imagined that they’d be less about Jason and more about Gotham.

“What about you?” Tim asks, and that painful eagerness is back. Biting his lip, preparing himself to hide a letdown that he’ll forever expect.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know. It was a favour to a not-friend. Tim was irritating, obnoxious, haunting his eyeline like a persistent ghost. Snappy, needy, sharp tongued and whip smart. But sometimes, a sweetness shone through. Tim could be funny. He’s calm under pressure and reassuring in a crisis. He’s detail oriented, obsessive, dedicated. And he’s undeniably pretty, with his high cheekbones and messy hair. Jason did his best to ignore all of that. Put it down to his own alienation talking, or maybe jealousy. If he’s being completely honest with himself, he was never going to be able to resist Tim in an oversized hoodie, nervous eyes and restless hands, standing at his door and looking for a hookup. Sex is never just sex, it’s painful and sacrificial and hollowing. It leaves him empty, lonely. His chest feels a little too much, and his head reminds him that he can’t have it. He was never supposed to want Tim like he does right now. Or like he did then. Gently, selfishly. Like he might forget how to breathe without him.

“I’m not sure,” he replies honestly. He takes a shaky breath and tightens his grip on Tim. “I don’t know if it was ever just sex, but-” he shrugs. “I’m good at focusing on the bad and ignoring the potential for good. It always felt safer.”

The smile that Tim fixes him with could level buildings. All shimmery eyes, pink flushed cheekbones. He leans in close, eyes fluttering closed as he allows himself a second to breathe. Foreheads pressed together. Finally close enough to kiss. He’s trying not to laugh, soft little giggles escaping. “Can I kiss you now?” Tim asks, angling his chin upwards.

Jason chuckles low in his throat, letting their noses bump together. “How are first kisses supposed to go?” he laughs, half whispering, the words almost shaped to Tim’s lips. Most of his first kisses have been accidental, or panicked, or the sentiment of the moment had been discarded to hurry the sex up.

“I don’t know, I was a little too distracted to remember ours,” Tim laughs back. His eyes blink open slowly, gaze flitting between Jason’s eyes and his lips.

“It’s okay, we can redo it as many times as you’d like.” Jason lifts one hand to tuck his hair behind his ear, cupping his jaw. Pulling his attention upwards draws an even deeper flush to his pink face. There’s electricity in his too-blue eyes, a static that hums like excitement. Under the yellow glow of the sunset, with parted lips and adoring eyes, Tim is the picture of real life magic. They’re so close that Jason can see every speck of green and grey in his irises. Freckles brought out by warmer weather, the nicked indent of a tiny scar near his brow.

And he leans in. Finally closing those last few inches with a kiss that he didn’t mean to feel hesitant.

Tim melts into it. His body goes slack, a soft little sigh trapped between them. Swooning, is the word that Jason’s brain idly supplies, before something sinks within him too. The sound of the city fizzles away as he’s lost in the way that Tim’s soft lips slide against his own. The constant worried thump of blood in his ears melts away to total silence.

All resolve breaks, his fingers curl a little tighter in his hair, at his shoulders. He pulls him impossibly closer, up onto his tiptoes, hips slotted together like belonging. Jason can’t help but whimper as Tim’s arms curl around his waist, hands slipping beneath his jacket to cling to his t-shirt. His body slumps against the car door, knees weakening,

Tim kisses him like there was never any doubt about Jason’s interest. Gone are the bruising, desperate pleas for signs of life. He takes his time, savours it, counts the notches on Jason’s spine with the tips of his fingers. He shivers in the cool air and draws himself closer to Jason’s chest, and kisses him like the watermelon soda coating his tongue is a promise. He kisses him like he could spend a lifetime doing this. Like he knows that he will. Slack and lazy, smiling as each impulsive slide of his tongue draws a needy sound from Jason’s chest. His smiles only make it better. Toothier, nipped affection. There’s something teasing about them, as if he knows that every glide of lips and fingertips is enough to get Jason drunk.

When it’s over, it takes Jason a long moment to open his eyes. Tim’s nose nudges against his own as more smaller kisses follow, between gasps for air and low giggles. When he does, he’s almost blinded by Tim’s smile and the swelling in his chest. His heart rattles against his ribs like a caged animal.

“Thank you,” Jason whispers. He doesn’t know why. Maybe to fill his mouth with something that isn’t ‘I love you.’ He’s surprised to be grateful that Tim doesn’t dignify it with a response.

Tim untangles himself slowly, letting him go one torturous inch at a time. As they separate, Jason can feel the chill in the spring air, and the loss of Tim’s body pressed against his hits even harder. He misses him already, and he’s still right there. Still smiling, biting on his bottom lip like he’s trying to hide it. There’s a giddiness to him that’s infectious, makes him rock on his heels as he tries to figure out what he’s supposed to be feeling right now. Or doing. He’s really not good at this.

“Text me when you get home safe?” Tim asks, chasing the taste of Jason on his lips with his tongue.

“Yeah, promise.”

He leaves with one final kiss, quick and tempting, diving back in for more every time that he pulls away. He’s dizzying, intoxicating. When he finally pulls away for the last time, Jason’s head is spinning.

It’s just as well that this is where they separate. There’s no way that he could follow Tim into his apartment now and not collapse under the weight of his adoration. He could dive into worshipping him until the only words that he can say are ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’

He throws a wave over his shoulder as he disappears into the building. Jason could scream in victory.

***

Jason thinks that’s it. Until the next time, at least. There’s always a next time with the two of them, he doesn’t need to question it. They can’t stay away from each other, pulled together like magnets. But that’s supposed to be it for the day. He can write it off as a success and look forward to the next time. (Next date: definitely in his apartment. Fuck keeping his hands to himself. Especially if Tim is going to wear those jeans again. He’ll make him dinner and then take him to bed. And maybe talk about that one time that he very tragically died while they’re still reeling in the afterglow).

He followed Tim’s instructions to the letter. The second that he was through his front door, he sent him a text to confirm that he was home. Then, exhausted, with emotions through the roof, he settles on an early night. A long shower, some simple casework, and he’s ready to call it a night. It’s strange to be in bed before midnight, but he needs the rest. There’s a lot to process, and there’s no way that he could be on the streets tonight. There’s a skip in his step that is very unbecoming of the Red Hood.

He’s awoken in the early hours of the morning by the angry vibrations of his phone on the nightstand. It takes him a few slow moments to even realise what it is. He fumbles for it, irritated and still half asleep. The screen is blindingly bright, just a white block of pain burning his retinas.

If he squints, he can just about make out the button to answer. “Someone better be dead,” he grumbles into the handset, rubbing his aching eyes.

“Hello to you too, asshole.”

Shit. He sits bolt upright, head throbbing with the sudden movement.

“Tim? Shit, I’m sorry, Is everything okay? It’s-” he pulls his phone away from his ear and squints at the screen, despite the pain, “-three in the morning.”

There's rustling from the other end of the line, bedsheets, maybe? And then an echo as the phone switches to speaker, a thud as it’s dropped against a pillow. More rustling, he can guess that Tim is getting comfy, settling on his front maybe. The relief that he’s safe at home could flatten Jason to unconsciousness again.

“I know. Just wanted to hear your voice,” Tim breathes down the line. He sounds so beautiful, his tone slightly shameful and whiny, that Jason can picture him clear as day. Sprawled naked and sweaty in white linen, one hand fisted around his hard cock, hair matted to his forehead and pupils blown wide.

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. That’s just his tired brain talking, right? That’s where he wanted their date to end up. He spent a little too long in the shower thinking about those jeans, after all. He’s probably just not worked it out of his system yet.

Still, Jason is rarely wrong. And if he’s right about this? His dick throbs at the thought alone.

Fuck it.

He flops back down against the pillows. “Oh yeah? You’re cute,” he laughs, letting his tone rasp a little bit to test his theory. The muffled groan that Tim lets out all but proves it. He is getting off right now. Interesting. “No ulterior motives there?”

“Maybe a couple,” Tim grits out.

“You’re a menace, what happened to doing this the right way?”

“I missed you! I was thinking about you, and-” this time, Tim moans shamelessly, beautifully. He pants for breath for a couple of seconds, the sheets rustling as if they’re breathing too. “-well, here we are.”

Jason takes a slow, shaky breath. Tim is jerking off to the sound of his voice. Tim thought about him, missed him, and then decided to get off to that. And then decided that his hand alone wasn’t enough. He needed Jason’s voice to fill the gaps.

Heat curls in his gut, the strange flushed mixture of arousal and giddy excitement. Tim was lying awake, thinking about him. The thought brings a stupid smile to his face that he tries to bite back. Fuck. He makes him feel like a teenager with a crush, all hot and twitchy, stomach fluttering as he squirms. His fingertips buzz with too much blood, aware of the emptiness that could be filled with Tim.

Tim on his back, or maybe lying on his front to rut against the mattress. Pretty ass displayed, thighs and knees reddened and trembling. Wet mouth drooling, muscled back flushed and sweating, heaving with every shaky movement that he makes. He glows under the moonlight, pale skin trapping it in its pink-blue hues. The small of his back is the perfect place to lay kisses, tracing a path up his spine until Jason can nuzzle against the nape of his neck. Then he’d place his hands at his hips, pin him deeper to the mattress to control every little grinding shift that he makes.

Fuck. Jason’s free hand twitches to reach between his legs. His dick throbs in kind, aching for some attention as he listens to the whiny little gasps of pleasure coming from the phone. Definitely not out of his system, then.

There’s a strangled noise from the other end of the line, snapping Jason from his thoughts. “Sorry, this is probably weird, I just needed to hear your voice,” Tim gasps. He’s probably got his face smothered into the pillow to shield himself from the embarrassment.

Jason is still a little groggy, head and eyes heavy. He’s hearing Tim’s words a second too late while he fights for full consciousness. “You sound so pretty right now,” he breathes, closing his eyes to listen. Every little pleading pant and half choked moan is like music.

“You don’t think that this is weird?”

“No, I’m glad you called, I can make this even better for you,” he chuckles, relaxing further into the sheets to enjoy the show. His thighs spread of their volition, and it takes all of his willpower to stop his hand from descending any lower than his waistband.

He plays with the fabric while he listens to Tim’s giggles. “Oh yeah?” He sounds eager, excited. Squirming in the sheets, curling up into himself as his skin blushes a pretty shade of pink.

“Hands off, Tim.”

“That’s the opposite of making it better!” Tim whines in protest.

“Hands off.”

“Come onnn, you’re so mean to me!” He’s pouting now. Cute. Like that could sway Jason.

“Tim.” Jason’s voice is a smooth warning, a scolding. He doesn’t need to push it any further than that.

The silence that follows is proof. Tim wriggles around in the sheets, every breath deep and loud on the line. “How would you even know if I didn’t listen?”

“That’s the thing, baby, you want to listen to me. You want to be a good boy for me, don’t you? It feels better.”

He grumbles, but soon, his breathing is evening out to slow, controlled puffs. Jason gives him a long moment to catch his breath, to growl in frustration. “Good. Start again. Slower this time.”

He can hear the moment that Tim wraps his fingers around his cock. The moaning hitch in his breath, relief and pleasure mixed in a sigh. He can imagine him tipping his head back against the pillows, or deeper into it, depending on what position Jason wants to fantasise him into. “Good, take your time, honey, and tell me what you think about when you touch yourself.”

There’s another muffled sound. Shifting hips and spreading thighs. He can hear the moment that Tim’s simple hold on himself changes into a stroke. As expected, he follows the command to the letter. His moans are muffled, desperate, like he’s trying to control himself. Trying to be good for Jason. “You,” he breathes, reverent and airy. “I would do anything if it gets you off.”

Jason laughs, keeping his tone deep and rasping, just how Tim likes it. Bordering on insulting and always commanding. He can practically hear the full body shiver that rolls through him at the sound. “Me, baby? Come on, you’ll need to be a bit more specific than that.”

“ I don’t know, I just think of you, if I’m watching porn, I need the man in it to remind me of you, I’m obsessed with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Big, like he could snap my neck with one hand kind of big, I like that you can make me feel physically small.”

Jason would like to point out that Tim is pretty small, by vigilante standards at least. He’s average height, more muscled, but there’s something so slight and timid in his build. He’s narrow, slim, like his body is hardwon through a focus on control and not strength. Or maybe Tim and his pretty little body is the normal one, and Jason’s hulking frame is strange. Either way, he likes that he can wrap his arms around Tim’s shoulders, and the width of him can almost dwarf him in his hold. He adores the way that Tim looks up at him through long lashes, and how easy it is to press kisses to his forehead. His waist is tapered, the perfect grips for Jason’s hands, he’s the perfect height to nuzzle against his shoulder, the perfect weight to pick up and hold like there’s nothing there.

“I’m exaggerating, obviously, but you get the point. You wouldn’t even need to try to win against me.”

“Come on, Timmy, give yourself a little more credit than that, you’d put up a good fight, at least for a little bit,” Jason teases.

Tim groans, deep, rumbling. The sound is raw and painful, a prey animal giving up.

“Interesting noise you made there, is that what you want? To put up a fight that you know you’ll lose?”

“Yeah,” Tim whispers in between moans. “Fuck, you could overpower me so easily. I’m sorry, that’s weird, I know, I promise I don’t think of every guy I’ve fought like this.”

You can’t do this job without being a little unhinged. And if that means that Tim wants to lose another round, Jason is more than happy to oblige. He’s already imagining it before he can even comprehend why it might be weird. Tim, sweat painting his clothes tight to his body, heaving for air as Jason pins him to the floor. Forced into submission, baring his throat through gritted, bloodied teeth. He’d spit and squirm and curse, but Jason would still be stronger. Tim’s pathetic little wriggles would tire him out, until they’re nothing more than needy grinds against Jason’s thigh, half hard cock an easy target for humiliation. Jason’s pussy throbs as he imagines every praise-filled insult he could hurl at Tim, too exhausted to do anything but struggle and take it. His flushed face, lips curled in a snarl. The idea is warm in his limbs, his belly loose and empty, except for a growing need. He’s probably dripping into his underwear already, cock begging him to do something about the aching.

“I don’t think so, why are you so worried about things being weird?” Jason asks, trying to force his mind away from the image. His wet cunt refuses to let it go.

“‘Cause I want you to like me,” Tim whines in response.

Oh. A little piece of Jason’s resolve chips at that. It only heightens the unbearable temptation to slip a hand between his legs. Tim is so needy, and it’s downright precious. How desperate he is for attention, like it might cure him of a lifetime of neglect. Loneliness thrums in the hollow gaps in the static, and fuck, Jason wishes that he could bundle him up in his arms, and press a too-long kiss in between his eyes.

“Of course I like you,” he laughs again, insistent.

Tim keens, as if his orgasm just hit him there and then, and Jason’s self control shatters. His palm settles over his pussy, cock aching as he grinds against it. The relief is so sudden that his breathing almost stops completely, a slow burst of pleasure through his thighs. The fabric of his underwear is a little damp, tacky and sticky. He circles his cock through his boxers, biting back a needy sound of his own. Two fingers slot on either side of its length, the coarseness of the fabric biting at his sensitive skin as he forces himself to move slowly. Electricity shoots through his veins and pools in his stomach with every glide, molten and wet.

“Say that again, I’m close,” Tim pleads.

“Stop touching yourself again and I might,” Jason goads breathlessly, struggling to keep his own little moan out of his voice. His chest is too tight around it.

Tim groans, then makes a sharp pitched sound down the line. “Okay - okay okay, please, Jay, I need to hear you say it again, please.”

Jason slows his strokes and tries to focus on the feeling. The hopeless way that Tim begs for it curls like warm smoke in his lungs. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes against the onslaught in his chest. The sensation between his legs makes it a little easier to tell the truth, it unravels some part of him that’s still scared. “I like you a lot, Tim.” ‘I love you, actually.’ “I like you because you never gave up on me when you probably should’ve. I know that’s a selfish reason, but it’s true. You’re pretty, you’ve got this way with people that I’ve never understood, you’ve got talent and skill, you’re just a lot. And I like all of it.” ‘Love all of it.’

“Fuck, Jay, please - I need to-”

“Go ahead, baby.”

Tim whimpers as his fingers wrap around his cock again. He sounds like a wounded animal, desperate for relief. Jason can hear it, as clear as day. The wet squelching of his cock as he fucks into his hand, hips rutting.

“There you go, baby, such a good boy for me. You’re whiny tonight, aren’t you? My pretty thing.”

Jason’s own hand speeds up as Tim’s whines grow in pitch and volume. Loud and shameless, whimpering into the sheets like he’s making the most of this permission. Every shift of his cock between his fingers sends pleasure shooting up his spine, not enough and overwhelming with every twist. He gives up any pretense of control and moves the phone from his ear, putting it on speaker and tossing it onto the pillow. Sounds of Tim echo through his dark bedroom, dim and shadowed by the light from the screen. Every choked gasp and pathetic whimper, the wet pump of his leaking cock. Jason lifts his hips, shimmying out of his boxers and arranging them underneath him to catch any mess.

The relief of touching his naked cunt is so intense that it drags a broken moan from his chest. Fuck, he’s soaked. One finger slides in easily, a second following behind. He stretches them slowly, pumping in and out to collect his slick. He smears it over his cock, hard and twitching against his fingertips. His hands have nothing on Tim’s, long fingers that can reach to the deepest part of him, pinching his cock until he’s broken and shaking. Since learning just how good Tim can make him feel, getting off by himself has been harder. Takes more work, a little more imagining Tim and his shoulders and wrists and throat. Not that a little work would stop him from trying. He strokes his cock with thumb and index, his other hand curling his fingers at the knuckle to try and reach that sensitive spot in his cunt. Every movement makes a filthy squelch, slick dripping past his opening and smearing down his hand. Tim might hear it, and that sends a thrill to the base of his spine. He could hear how wet and messy Jason gets at the sound of his voice, at being the centre of his attention.

“Come on, keep talking to me, sweetheart, what do you want, next time I see you?” he gasps, trying not to sound affected.

Tim pants for air as he tries to get a response out on his heavy tongue. “I want you to take control again, really take control, like the first time.”

“You were in control then, baby, you could’ve stopped it at any point.”

“Being in control and feeling in control are different things.”

“Like talking and joking?”

“Is now the time you want to talk about dying? ‘Cause I’ve got my dick in my hand and I don’t really want to put it away, but I also don’t want to masturbate to you dying.”

“I’m glad there’s a line for your kinks somewhere,” Jason laughs. He really isn’t trying to derail the conversation, but Tim’s obsession with the semantics is too sweet to ignore. And that hardened, frustrated edge to every word is as addictive as any drug. Tim’s long fingers wrapped around his length, hips bucking up into his fist desperately as he chases pleasure from Jason’s voice.

“Slap me, choke me, make me humiliate myself for you, make me sit still and take whatever you think I deserve, make it hurt, shit like that, that’s what I want, Jay-”

“Hands off.”

Tim lets out a guttural, frustrated groan. “Asshole, you fucking asshole!” he hisses, panting for breath. “Fuck, I was close!”

Jason laughs at his aggravated growling, losing the sound to a moan halfway through. The pleasure heightens, knowing that he can deny Tim his own all night. “Jeez, baby, I knew you liked it when I rough you up a bit, didn’t realise you were this fucked up.”

When Tim speaks, he sounds clearer than he has done all night. Back to a logical coolness, like he’s not getting off right now. “You cry when we fuck ‘cause all the hormones and chemicals in your brain make it impossible for you to not feel the shit you pretend you don’t. It’s a net positive for you though, right? It’s cathartic.”

“Right,” Jason agrees, chewing on his lip. He didn’t ask for a science lesson. He’s a little too busy for that. His brain is too cloudy.

“Everything I feel, and I mean everything, I put it into a box and I pretend it’s not there. Whether you mean to or not, you force me to stop doing that. I - I need that. I need to stop pretending that I’m not fucking terrified every minute of every day. And to feel safe while it’s happening. I need someone who won’t run away. I need you to-”

“-to put my hand around your throat and make you feel disposable, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, and the airiness of it gives away the fact that he’s touching himself again. “And then tell me that I’m yours and yours alone. You’ll never let me go. Squeeze my throat and tell me you’ll never let me go.”

It sounds like a tall order, but Tim has mastered the art of forcing Jason back into his body, and making him love it all the same. He centres Jason’s brain between his legs and tells him how beautiful he is. He traces scars with a reverent fingertip like he’s trying to take away the hurt. The dysphoria, the ugliness, the loneliness. Tim makes him feel it and then takes it all away. Tim crowds his space with a companionship and comfort that Jason knows in his soul that he doesn’t deserve, but it doesn’t matter. Tim and his hands and the way that he kisses him, all of it makes him worthy.

He could do the same for Tim easily enough. Make him feel weak and small and vulnerable, desperate, scared. Like Tim is just a set of holes that he can use and discard at will. Then bundle him up in his arms, tell him that he’s perfect, so well behaved, Jason couldn’t live without him. Remind him that he isn’t going anywhere, that he isn’t alone in that feeling. He could make Tim whisper back every filthy word of praise that Jason offers, until he doesn’t doubt it anymore. And do it all over again when the spell wears off. Keep doing it when Tim learns to believe it too.

“You’re stuck with me now, I don’t think you could get rid of me if you tried,” Jason confirms, relishing in the barked laughter from Tim. “Even if you didn’t wait for my permission before touching yourself again.”

“You could come over and you’d have full control over me,” Tim goads with a guilty little giggle.

“I have full control over you now.”

“I can’t convince you? To come over, I mean.”

“You wanted this, remember? You made this bed, honey, now you have to jerk off in it.”

Tim laughs around his moans, a short little growl of frustration tucked away in the sound. It’s not that Jason doesn’t want to. Tim’s bed is probably comfier than his own, with the added benefit of an accompanying body to keep it warm. One that he is painfully, blindly in love with, too. It’s a win-win, if Jason could trust himself to behave. He’d pin him to the mattress and make Tim feel as worthless as he needs, and then tell him that he loves him. Tell him why, tell him that it’s because he’s beautiful and soft and frightening and eager. Jason would kiss him while he ruins him, letting Tim feel his anger and his kindness. And that’s not really a bridge that Jason is ready to burn. He likes the formal distance that they managed to maintain up until about fifteen minutes ago. It felt like courtship. Awkward and romantic and flowery. He’d like to cling to that a little longer, while he can still carry the weight of all this love by himself.

He thinks about telling him that, while his fingers work incessant little circles against his cock. The pleasure and sweat clouds his mind until he’s misty-eyed and rose-tinted by it. He could tell him the truth, they’d probably cry together. It would be easy. Just three words, and Tim would sob. After making Jason cry so violently just by being sweet, it’s only fair that he gets his revenge, right? And Tim probably looks so pretty when he cries. Red cheeks and a wet nose, sniffling.

It’s worth it to wait. He wants to tuck Tim’s hair behind his ears and whisper it directly into his smile. Like he deserves.

Tim is gasping, and Jason can picture him writhing in the sheets. Lithe body glistening with sweat, chest heaving, thighs trembling. Hips bucking upwards to present himself, legs spread wide and inviting. His own hands speed up, the building pressure in his gut coiling and tightening with every pulse of his fingertips.

“Please, please Jay, I need-”

“What do you need, sweetheart?” Jason interrupts softly, playfully oblivious and cruel.

“Need to come, please! Need you to tell me!”

“You need my permission to come?” he laughs, teasing and mocking, but fuck, the thought is hot. Having total control over Tim like that, to the point that Tim needs his instruction to let go. Something inside Jason preens, his ego or the pleasure, he’s not sure. It’s all too fucking much.

Tim groans. “Please, Jason, please you’ve teased me enough, fuck, I’m close again, please,” he cries, begging.

Jason is torn between the urge to keep torturing Tim, and the orgasm hurtling towards him. His cunt drips and spasms around his fingers, puffy and swollen with every stroke, cock aching and soaked. Every sound from Tim is fuel for the fire, and he isn’t sure that he could hold back even if he wanted to try. But he could listen to Tim whimper and beg all night, moaning Jason’s name like it’s divine. Tim at his mercy, frantic, shaking, begging and begging and begging in that pretty tenor of his.

“Do you think you deserve it?” he asks instead, trying to slow his hand down.

“Don’t make me think, please, just let me come, I’ll be good, I promise!”

“You’re always good, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Jason sighs, tipping his head back against the pillow. His thighs and stomach tighten, chest heaving with the pleasure. The wetness between his legs grows louder, he’s so close that it’s hard to breathe.

“Please,” Tim whispers again in a broken sob. “Need it, need you, please, please, please-”

“Come for me.”

Tim breaks the second that the words are out of his mouth. With a sharp little cry, Jason’s name thick on his tongue like a prayer. Jason closes his eyes to imagine him, muscles loose and spasming, cock flushed violent pink and drooling. Tim with his mouth open, still begging, every inch of him red and sweat stained, whispering a mumbled “thank you,” over and over again.

“Good, you did so well, always a good boy for me, you sound so hot right now, so pretty, my baby,” Jason rambles, before his voice is stolen by the force of his own orgasm. He comes with a choked moan, head tipped back and throat bared to the ceiling. His thighs tremble with the force of it, all that molten pleasure now in his veins, blurring his vision. He fights to keep his muscles tight, clenching hard around his fingers to hold the sudden flood in his cunt in place. Still, it’s obscene, dripping and squelching as he works himself through it, hand cramping under the pressure.

He floats back to earth slowly, fingers still buried inside himself. His head is foggy and smudged by the aftershocks, a fluttering in his abs. Sensation trickles back to him in drips. The sweat on his back, his brow, pussy aching and stretched, cock still twitching and sensitive in his grip. Distantly, through ringing ears and blurry thoughts, he can hear Tim mumbling to himself.

“Shit,” Tim laughs breathlessly. “Fuck, shit, there’s fucking… Jesus, how did I get come there?!”

As he listens to Tim mutter and complain to himself, Jason can’t help but laugh, grateful that his own mess is considerably easier to clean up. He’s adorable, tutting like an old man as he wipes himself down.

“You make a mess, baby?” Jason teases, checking the sheets for a wet patch. He’s soaked through the fabric of his boxers a little, but not enough to care about. He’s too tired to change the sheets.

“Shut up, this is your fault,” Tim grumbles. Bedsprings squeal as he moves, a groan as he draws himself to his feet. Jason listens as he pads around his apartment, to the click of a pull cord light switch. He should probably get up too.

His cunt aches in protest as he withdraws his fingers, sticky with his come. “You okay, honey?” he checks, wiping them on his wet underwear.

“Uhuh, I’m good,” Tim agrees. He’s busy washing his hands, and Jason can picture his shaking legs, wide eyes shellshocked in the comedown. Abdomen still flecked with drying come, cock red and spent. He’s so beautiful. Jason is only slightly regretting not taking him up on his offer to hang up and finish it himself.

He drags himself to his feet, taking a moment to test his weight. Dull thuds of lingering pleasure hiss and spit through his nerves as he makes his way to the bathroom to wash his hands, taking his phone with him. It’s a struggle to close his mouth, jaw shaped to the sounds that he makes for Tim.

“Can you stay on the call? For a little while, I mean, just until I fall asleep.”

“Of course,” Jason agrees easily. “As long as you need me.”

“I think I’m always going to need you,” Tim whispers. His voice is quiet and filled with something unmistakably pained.

Jason listens closely for every tiny sound down the line. He’s waiting for more, an explanation as to why Tim sounds so… sad? Maybe it’s not sadness that he’s hearing, but an emptiness, the kind of hollowed out feeling that sex can leave him with. He dries his hands on a towel, listening carefully to every slight shift that Tim makes. “That’s okay, I’ll be here.”

Silence follows. The static thumps in the space like blood in his ear. “I mean it, Tim, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know, just… I can’t ask you to promise that.”

“You’re not asking me to, you won’t have to.”

Tim doesn’t answer him. He’s a little bit grateful for that. A desperation is beginning to thaw in what’s left of the pleasure in his blood, a chronic need to fix everything. Something is almost wrong, and it agitates in his fingertips, the dry back of his throat. He needs to get to it before everything collapses. He listens as Tim pads his way back to bed, the creak of the mattress as he lands too heavily on it. Then the bedsheets again, crinkling, the sounds of his baby getting comfy for the night. He’s probably so adorable right now, with his messy hair and flushed cheeks.

“Can I tell you something?” Tim asks softly, but before Jason can grant permission, Tim is speaking again. His voice is mumbled into a pillowcase, slurred and drowsy. “When you died, I lost interest in photography for a bit. Nothing seemed as interesting as Robin. Batman was great, sure, but Robin was special. He meant something more to me. And then he was gone and I couldn’t get my framing right, the focus was always off, the lighting wouldn’t cooperate. I didn’t realise that I had to grieve for you. I never met you, I only had this idea of you but I had to grieve before I could take another good photograph.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason replies. His voice echoes through the bathroom, it doesn’t sound like his own.

“Not your place to be sorry. It wasn’t your fault. I went through a similar thing in the time between you and Dick. But I missed Dick, and I mourned you. Like I knew Robin was really gone. Batman just changed all of a sudden.”

“He’d always be gone if it weren’t for you.”

“Grief is weird.”

When Jason makes it back to bed with clean hands and clean boxers, Tim is quiet, pacified. He doesn’t ask if Tim is still grieving, he doesn’t need to. Robin is a thing of grief. Underneath the bright colours and the jokes and the childish silliness, Robin is a construct of loss and mourning, of powering through pain. He’s just a trick of the light. Everyone who wore the name had something to miss, until the thing that they missed was Robin itself.

He thinks that Tim has fallen asleep, until his voice startles him from his drowsiness. “I’m sorry, that got a little intense,” he whispers.

Jason chuckles, shifting onto his side. The phone screen is bright, burning his tired eyes again. “I’m not complaining, no need to be sorry.”

Tim doesn’t answer. Jason gives him time, he lets a minute drag by before he’s restless and worried again. But nothing comes. Tim’s breathing is even and slow, like he’s falling asleep.

“That’s all stuff you’re into?”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, breathing deep, like he’s ashamed to admit it. “I like being hurt a little, not being in control. It’s - that’s new for me, I’ll be honest, but… I like being something and not someone. For the right person.”

“Tim, baby, if any of that ever changes, if it’s just a fantasy-”

“I know, Jay. I trust you. I’m in control.”

Fuck. No. He’s not going to cry. He’s spent his whole life wanting someone to say that. And it’s coming from a sleepy voice down the phoneline, small and forgiving. He knows what his name looks like in Tim’s blood. Tim trusts him. He swallows the wobbly feeling down and forces himself to smile, clearing it from his throat.

“And I trust you to tell me what you want.” His voice sounds weaker than he’d care to admit. Not because it’s a lie, he’s just tired. His tongue is coated in ‘I love you’s’ that he can’t afford to waste.

A gentle silence follows. Early morning ticks on around them, separated by distance in the same city. It’s nice knowing where Tim is, that he’s safe in his own bed where Jason can reach him. He listens closely while Tim’s breathing evens and slows, sleep catching up to him. Jason is tired too, deep in his bones there’s an ache he’ll never shift. The mattress presses against him, digs in between his ribs and hips like it’s trying to tear him apart. Still, his body is soft and satisfied. Full up on love lodged in the back of his throat.

He could say it now. Tim is probably asleep, he’s been quiet for a good ten minutes. He’d never know, and then it wouldn’t be wasted.

“Goodnight, baby bird.”

Tim only snores in response.

Jason lets his trust falter for a moment, and he keeps it to himself.