Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason really needed to brush up on his Italian. He’d thought it was similar enough to Spanish, but currently, the woman behind the cafe counter was laughing her ass off at him.

“This is grappa,” she said, between peals of breathless laughter, “not water.”

“Oh. Sorry.” It took a lot to get this kind of blush creeping up his neck, but embarrassing himself in front of native speakers apparently ran up a lot of humiliation credit. He had asked her for a bottled water, and looked up to find her pouring something clear into a tiny cup. He totally knew what grappa was, and that the old Italian man at the counter was going to start his day (8 A.M.!) with it, but, damn. At least he’d managed to order a couple sfogliatelle without verbally tripping over his own feet. Worse yet, he knew exactly what kind of smug expression he was going to see when he got back to his table.

In the very back of the cafe, Tim Drake sat on one of those stupid metal chairs, three espressos deep. Like a freak, he was eating all the lemon rinds, which Jason hadn’t realized until he discovered that they served espresso with lemon rinds here, and that they were missing from the first two cups because Tim chewed them up after he drained each demitasse. As predicted, he was watching Jason return to the table with a wry smirk on his face, and a dot of custard on the corner of his lip.

Before he could say anything, Jason snapped, “You got food on your face.”

Tim smeared the napkin across his cheek. “Better?”

“Other side.” He had gotten it right the first time, but Jason wanted him to suffer while he cracked open the first “lobster tail” pastry. It was full of sweet cream, maybe ricotta, and the pastry crackled and flaked all over the table. The last time he had gotten one of these had to be at a bakery in Brooklyn, but he couldn’t remember for the life of him why he’d been out there.

Tim checked his reflection with his phone screen. “Was there even—” he stopped, eyebrow raised, as Jason crunched into the pastry with zest. “Half of that is on your face.”

“Don’t care,” he said back, through a mouthful of Florentine heaven. “Let’s hear the rundown.”

“Right.” Tim knocked back the fourth espresso and swallowed (!) the rind whole. “Giuseppe Briglio, accountant, definitely embezzling funds from a handful of local businesses. He does the books for the Uffizi—”

“Oh, we should go.”

“—Sure. The Uffizi, and a couple other big tourist attractions. At this point, the police have a paper trail, but for some mysterious reason, Briglio is still continuing business as usual.”

He shoved the crispy end of the sfogliatelle into his mouth and took a sip of his cappuccino. Frothy authenticity. He could die. (Ha.) “Bribes.”

“Duh. B wants us to root out where the bribes are going. I mean, we know it’s somebody attached to the Sanna family, because they’re wiring the money back to a Sanna connection in Gotham. In all likelihood, they’ve got a few rackets like this going, maybe for the express purpose of sending money overseas.”

“Wow. Italy’s not exactly known for its economy.”

Tim shrugged. “Sure, but the euro-to-dollar is good right now. The Sannas have a small operation going. I’ll bet they need this money to throw around. Whatever they’re getting from the drug trade in Gotham isn’t enough to fund all of it.”

“What they need is a couple city sanitation contracts.” He licked his fingertip, much to Tim’s chagrin, and picked up pastry flakes from his plate. “Do it old school.”

One of the cafe workers appeared to offer Tim another espresso, which he turned down. Even so, Jason imagined his future cardiologist admonishing him for this lifestyle. “They don’t need to. They’re growing opium right here.”

“In Italy?”

“In Florence. That is old school, Jay. We need the Sanna connection in the local police and we need to find where they’re growing the opium. Assuming it is here and they’re not shipping it in from God-knows-where. But it’s probably here, looking innocuous. Nice flower fields in the backcountry, stuff like that.”

Burning up fields of opium poppies sounded like something he’d do with Roy, not Tim Drake. But, hey. He wasn’t one to turn down well-planned destruction. “Yeah, alright. Where we staying? I left my bags in the car.”

Tim’s brow quirked. “What kind of car?”

“A fucking Fiat.”

Tim laughed. He laughed, and Jason was almost certain he’d never seen that before in his life.

Their “hotel” was actually a hostel nestled in the residential side of Florence, not far from the cafe. Heat wafted off the roads and sidewalks and buildings mercilessly, and the first thing he did when they stepped foot in their room was turn on the AC. He gave it a few smacks until it sputtered to life, blasting out warm, dusty air right in his face. Oh, Europe.

“Uh, Jason?”

He sneezed. “What?”

Tim was standing at the end of a bed, looking lost, duffel still slung over his shoulder. “There’s only one bed. I’ll—”

“No way.” He hopped down from the chair he’d perched on and turned down the hall. Their bathroom was underground, for some reason, and marginally cooler than the bedroom. But that was all that lay behind the wall: a shower, two sinks, and a toilet. He trotted back up the steps and nearly jammed his hip into the corner of a kitchen chair tucked into the table, which mysteriously sat on the small landing. There was nowhere else to put a table and chairs, he supposed, but it was a weird setup. When Tim met his eyes, he shook his head.

“I’ll go talk to the front desk.” He disappeared in a breeze of warm air. In the meantime, Jason checked for bedbugs. Not long after, Tim returned, mouth twisted. “Hostel’s full. They thought we were brothers and wouldn’t mind.”

“Why’d they think that?” Tim had doled out a few new IDs to him: two Italian, two American, and one Albanian. 

“Uh, our American IDs are. So. I confirmed that we were brothers and wouldn’t…mind.”

Jason flicked through his wallet. “Louis Brown or Mark Sperandeo?” Briefly, he found himself annoyed that Tim hadn’t even shared that information with him. This was part of their op. He needed a background.

“Louis. I booked the room as Bradley Brown.”

“Alliteration. Nice. What’s on the docket today? My sweat has sweat.” He stripped off his shirt and chucked it at the corner of the room. Finding out whether this place had a washer/dryer—or clothesline, more likely—was mission critical, after whatever Tim said. And also a shower.

Tim turned away to unzip his duffel on the kitchen table. “Climbing Mount Oliveto.”

“Balls,” Jason said.

As it turned out, Tim was uncharacteristically kind and had planned their hike for that evening. While Jason cleaned his weapons and hunted down the laundry room, Tim set up a secure perimeter in the bedroom (and presumably the entire hostel, as he disappeared periodically with his backpack) and checked in with Oracle. They had their first authentic Florentine pizzas—Jason’s was covered in salted meats of various kinds, Tim’s with pesto and cheese—and gelato.

“This is good,” Tim said, lapping at a mound of lavender gelato, “we look like tourists.”

“We are tourists.”

He hummed. “You’ve never been?”

“To Florence? Nah. No reason to. All the stupid shit I do happens in, like, Egypt. And Gotham. You?”

“I took a little tour around Europe after Bruce got lost in the time stream. That also ended in Egypt. Or Gotham, I guess, but what doesn’t?”

He didn’t know much about that period of Tim’s life. Jason had tried to kill him. Dick took on the cowl, with the brat as his Robin, and Tim eventually popped back up in red and black with a new name. They weren’t close. Not much to be said, back then. “Speaking of tourism, weren’t you in Southeast Asia for a while? Laos or something?” Unfortunately, he realized Tim was steering them towards an uphill road with a sign that read MONTE OLIVETO. At least it was cooler now.

“Cambodia.” Jason waited for him to say something else. He didn’t.

“That bad, huh?”

“Can’t say it was all that interesting.” He seriously doubted that. Wherever Tim went, exploding computers and raging cultists seemed to follow. Why the fuck would anyone need to go to Cambodia, anyway? Tim pointedly ignored his incredulous expression and licked a dribble of gelato off the side of the cup. “I heard you were in Virginia.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’d you hear that from? A traffic camera on the I-95?”

“I-64,” Tim said, corner of his mouth tipping up, “You went to that plot your family left you, right?”

Abruptly, Tim’s behavior ticked him off. He flicked his spoon at him. Annoyingly, but not surprisingly, he caught it. “Why even ask me?”

“Oh…I was supposed to pretend I didn’t know that, so you could tell me.” He said it as if he genuinely realized it was a social faux pas to reveal his stalking mid-conversation. “Um. Are you building a place out there?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He would have, but then Tim reminded him that he was Tim. Nothing was fucking sacred. They hiked on in silence, the road growing steadily steeper. Old wood fences and brambles lined the roads, occasionally interrupted by the cherry red of a vespa or a stucco’d house. A villa rose out of the mountainside, surrounded by wiry trees. 

“This place had good ratings on Yelp,” Tim said, nodding in its direction.

“Then why aren’t we staying there?”

“I thought it’d be more authentic for middle-class Americans to stay at a hostel together. Plus, it’s closer to the cafe.”

By the time they reached the top of the mini-mountain, it was nearly dark. A small, flat clearing ended in a sheer drop. Beyond it was the city, in all its glory.

A spray of red and gold exploded into the sky. “Fireworks! Wonder what they’re celebrating.” Jason shuffled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. Tim stared out, seemingly rapt. He would know if there was some kind of saint’s day or possibly even a noteworthy wedding. At the sound of a struck match, Tim twisted, fixed on the flame. “What?” His eyes followed the movement of Jason lighting his cigarette, and snuffing out the match in the dirt. The Florentine countryside was evidently quite dry, so he dug it in extra hard. 

For a while, they watched each other, until Tim sniffed the air and said, “You smoke Marlboros.”

“That’s not in my personnel file?”

“No, it…” he caught himself and shook his head, once, like he didn’t mean to and had to catch himself again. Jason had thrown him, somehow. “It is. Ha.”

“Ha,” Jason repeated back, now thrown, himself. “What else is in there?” Beyond the cliff, a firework exploded in brilliant blues and greens, peacock-colored. It lit Tim’s left cheek and eye in cerulean. He was alien, cut from Kryptonite or something like it, horribly powerful and difficult to look at.

Tim said, “your shit schedule,” and turned back to the sky.

Apparently, Tim had wanted to climb that mini-mountain for fun, which Jason still didn't believe. By the time they wandered back down the winding streets, he needed another shower. Tim, the little devil, raced him to the stall and flipped him off when he won. Resigned, Jason bought some wine off the hostel owners and, absent any cups, started drinking from the bottle. He could measure enough for a buzz. Probably.

The table offered a perfect line of sight into the narrow bathroom space downstairs. Tim padded out of the shower, a towel around his waist, bare feet slapping the tile wetly. His hair clung to his face. It reminded him of all those paintings of kelpies and other water monsters, assuming the form of handsome young men, their black hair sodden and dripping lakewater down their gaunt cheeks.

And then Tim was in front of him, tugging the bottle from his grip. “You could find a bottle anywhere, I swear.” He tipped his head back to drink, the fine line of his throat bobbing with each swallow. Jason wanted to feel it under his thumb. 

“You make me sound like an alcoholic,” he said, taking another swig when Tim offered the bottle, “and I didn't think you drank.”

“It's legal here,” Tim said. He was leaning his ass against the side of the table, one palm leaving a damp imprint when he reached for the wine again. His ribs slid beneath the near-translucent layer of his skin. Irish skin, his mother used to call that. He didn't know if Tim was Irish. This time, he held the bottle out of Jason's reach. “Go shower. You smell like an ashtray at Planet Fitness.”

“I don’t think gyms have ashtrays. Kinda defeats the purpose.” 

He showered, and tried not to think about the way Tim’s mouth looked around the wine bottle. The worst thing he could do here was develop A Thing for Tim. He'd had A Thing for him previously, a violent, jealous Thing, and it had proved a hell of a lot easier to get over than any affair he'd ever had. And he was not going to even think about Tim in that context. Violent was fine. Jealous was fine. Maybe he should make a concerted effort to hate him all over again. But it was hard.

It was really hard, because Tim was in their bed, laptop perched on his bony knees, one bare foot tapping a rhythm on the thin comforter. He had his earbuds in, but for all he knew, he was listening to the Bat chatter in Gotham and not actual music.

 Jason flopped down. He had on sweats, no shirt, because their AC was the mechanical equivalent of a sickly gazelle, just waiting to be taken down by the lion that was an Italian summer. Tim glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but otherwise didn't acknowledge him.

Jason said, “you planning to sleep on Italian time, or what?”

“My body's not even on Eastern time,” Tim said, typing as he spoke, “actually, this might be closer to my natural rhythm.”

“Ain't nothing natural about your rhythm.” He rolled over and turned off the lamp on his side. “If you keep me up with that, I'ma put it in the washing machine.” 

The incessant tack-tack-tacking paused. “I have another one. And you won't, if you want to get this job done by the end of the week.”

“Maybe I wanna stay on vacation,” he groused, and reached back to slap his hand on what he thought would be the top of the laptop. Instead, his hand landed on Tim's bare thigh. Tim's leg jerked. His skin was cold from the insistent breeze of the AC. Jason recalculated and found the back of the computer and slammed it shut. He didn't know what to say about any of that, so he punched his pillow until it fluffed somewhat evenly and pretended to sleep. Tim didn’t move for a long minute, eventually shuffling to place his laptop on the nightstand and turn out the light. He slid under the covers, almost gingerly. The inches between them did nothing to prevent the spread of body heat. 

When he woke up the next morning, Tim was sitting at the table, typing away.

“So the Italian word for “pharmacy” is just farmaceutica?” Jason held out the pamphlet. Around them, tourists chattered and smelled soaps and hand lotions and more soaps.

“My favorite part is saying “Santa Maria Novella,” really fast. Like one word.” Tim smelled a soap. There was so much soap, everywhere, but the architecture was stunning. Wide archways held massive windows. Sunlight turned the whole place heavenly-white. Santa Maria Novella was also the local train stop, but they hadn’t needed to explore that part of the city yet. It might be nice to see the country from a train car window, after.

Tim held up a terra cotta pomegranate. “Melograno,” he said, with what Jason thought was a pretty good accent. He was brushing up on his Italian after that first incident, but Tim seemed to have come equipped. 

Jason, in exchange, showed him a couple of star-shaped wax medallions. “Patchouli.” Tim wrinkled his nose. 

Their respective earpieces beeped a proximity alarm. Briglio was within a hundred yards. Tim leaned in to sniff the medallions, and made the same face again. In Jason’s periphery, Briglio’s round, pale form came into view. His jacket was the color of puppy shit, or mustard, if you were polite. “Eyes,” Jason said, and returned the medallion to its pedestal, “I’ll follow.” Tailing was a skill at which they were near equals, superior to most everyone, save Cassandra, and Bruce on a good day (but not every day). Tim had famously stalked Batman and both Robins, and Jason had…done his whole Red Hood thing, and done it well. His size and presence could be diminished to a shadow, if not a tall tourist. 

The next room was quieter. It opened up into a dining room, or it was styled as one, but tables stacked with yet more colognes and lotions lined the walls, a couple of employees poking at displays and attending to wandering guests. Their voices echoed around the hall. Briglio met a taller, leaner man. He was dark, his eyes seaglass. Jason didn’t like it.

<It’s too quiet here.> By his body language, the stranger wasn’t worried so much as cautious. Briglio glanced around the room. He didn’t linger on Jason, if he really noticed him at all.

Briglio said, <It’s too loud everywhere else.>

Tim’s voice piped up on the comm. “That’s the police connection. Guardia di Finanza. Luigi Gagliardi.” Jason looked until he found him; Tim had his back to their targets, nose-deep in something expensive-looking. Briglio and Gagliardi went back and forth, a slow, familiar exchange, although Briglio was nervy. A gaggle of tourists—blue-eyed blonde midwesterners, at least three generations, none of which were fond of birth control—flooded into the room, and the audio was mostly lost for several minutes. Tim disappeared, so Jason followed suit. When the audio’s clarity returned,  Gagliardi was saying something about Russians. 

All said and done, Jason escaped with only minor damage to his wallet, a bottle of pomegranate aftershave tucked beneath mounds of tissue paper. Tim had a much larger bag, but he wouldn’t admit to what was in it, so Jason refused to share on principle. It was only fair, even if Tim could hack the store’s POS.

Jason set up a spread of apricots, prosciutto, and fresh mozzarella on their wobbly dining table while Tim dismantled his purchases: wax tablets, the potpourri pomegranate, and sachets for their dresser. 

“Can't believe they sell this shit at the grocery store,” said Jason.

“You can get that at home.” 

He glared up at Tim, who was currently tucking a sachet between a couple pairs of Jason's boxers. “Okay, one: my boxers do not smell like cigs. Two: I know that, but obviously the quality here is like a thousand times better.”

Tim hummed skeptically, possibly at one or both sentiments. “I guess.”

“Get your ass over here,” he snapped. Tim eyed him as he assembled a stack of fruit-cheese-meat, but obeyed. Except, instead of taking it from Jason's hand, and then putting it into his mouth, he took a bite…from Jason’s hand. Apricot juice spilled down his chin and onto Jason's fingers. Tim didn't even look smug, or, like, it was intentional, he simply chewed thoughtfully, and then said, infuriatingly, “I guess.”

“You little bastard. You got no taste. Finish that.” Tim picked it up this time and popped the rest into his mouth. He wiped his fingers on his probably expensive shirt and went back to drowning the room in fragrance. Jason stayed at the table and finished his lunch, less so due to hunger, more so because he was half-hard in his shorts. 

Once he was satisfied with the condition of their room, Tim announced that they were having dinner at a Russian-Italian fusion restaurant. Apparently, it was owned by a man with Russian mob connections. Their Italian adventure was beginning to feel like an exercise in criminal stereotyping. 

The place was dimly lit. Their waitress led them to a dark, squareish corner that overlooked the street outside. It stayed light out for longer than it did in New Jersey, so the horizon still glowed a brilliant red. He ordered a Moscow Mule—when in Rome—and Tim did, too, because he'd never had one before.

“So you don't drink much,” Jason said.

“Never having had a Moscow Mule doesn't imply that I don't drink much.”

“It does to me. They're awesome.” Right on cue, their drinks arrived, and they were strong. He expected nothing less from a Russian bartender. Or an Italian one, honestly. Tim developed a nice flush to his features in record time. It made the sharp angles of his cheekbones more intense, the damp cherry shine to his lips even brighter. 

This was sick. And twisted. How had he never noticed Tim like this before? Why did his dumbass brain wait until they were miles away from the Bats’ watchful eyes, on a mission that had them sharing a bed?

“Right, so,” he began over a shared plate of rabbit dumplings, Tim's choice, “do we have a who, or—”

He jabbed at a dumpling with his fork. “Planted some bugs. Just eat, Jay. Think ‘vacation.’”

A mint leaf found its way under his tongue when he took a swig of the Mule. “Oh, really? We're in vacation mode?”

“That's what you said you wanted.” 

“Sure, but—”

A voice boomed into their little nook. “Pyotr!”

Jason froze. Tim's free hand disappeared under the table, probably in reach of a weapon. Jason was unarmed. Cutlery would do, in a pinch.

He turned, casual as he could, to meet the wretched face of Aleksey Voronin. Aleksey’s bulk matched his volume. He was at least a head taller than Jason, and wide.  

<Aleksey, you big bastard,> Jason said in Russian, laughing with his canines poking out from his curled lip. <What are the chances?>

<Good question,> Aleksey said, swallowing up the space with his form. <Whore of the week?> He nodded to Tim, whose mouth thinned tightly. One of the Teen Titans had been Russian. Tim probably understood all of this.

<Of the month, I’m fond. We're on a vacation.> He took a gulp of his drink.

Aleksey leaned in close, hands on the table. <Just a vacation?> 

<Honest. He likes the sculptures.>

He bellowed a laugh. <Lots of handsome young men! Long dead.> His mouth slid into something sharper, matching Jason's. <If I find out you're working my territory, Pyotr, I'll cut your whore’s cock off and stuff it down his throat.> 

Jason tipped his copper mug in a salute. <I wouldn't dream of it.>

Aleksey slapped the table, laughed again, and lumbered off into the back room. As soon as he was gone, Tim's expression soured. It would almost look neutral, to someone who didn't know him, but Jason knew enough to know he was pissed. “Whore of the month?”

He grimaced. “Had to keep up a reputation. I mostly paid them to hang out in my hotel room. Men, women, whatever. Pyotr had his vices.”

The waitress appeared to place their entrees down. Tim assured her, with a smile and perfect Italian, that the abandoned dumplings were delicious. And then he said to Jason, “This avenue is burned.” Because of you hung off the end of that, but it really wasn't fair. They both worked undercover jobs that could pop up any time. For all he knew, they could've walked in here and bumped into a Russian connection of Tim’s, who thought his name was Mikael or something. 

On the street, Jason kept pace with a very ticked off Tim, who had downed his Mule and could no longer walk in a straight line. “Look, it happens. I don't have to explain shit to you. Sorry he called you a—”

“Just fuck off,” Tim slurred, waving a hand dismissively. Did Tim curse? He didn't think Tim cursed. 

“I don’t even know why you're mad!”

“Because,” Tim wheeled on him and nearly lost his balance, “because now I have to—do the. Whatever. Fuck you.” He shrugged his elbow out of Jason's grip. “Whore of the week.”

“You're being a jackass.” Jason was not as drunk as he was. Probably because he had about a hundred pounds on Tim, or because he had learned to keep up with the likes of Aleksey. Tim made a displeased noise and tripped on the cobblestone. “You want gelato?”

“No!” 

Jason bought them gelato.

By the time they crossed the bridge into the quieter section of Florence, nausea had apparently set in, and Tim promptly vomited three courses into the river, gelato included. He puked until he dry heaved, over and over. 

“Hey, Timbo.” It was going on for too long, like he was…acting, or something else was wrong, like food poisoning (or just poison, the Voronin special). He placed a hand on Tim's shoulder. Tim jerked out from under it, stumbling back and careening into a young American couple. Jason didn't bother with them. Tim's eyes were wide and black, vacuous as a deer's. “Hey, hey. What’s going on?”

Tim's diaphragm spasmed in a hiccuped breath. “Stop.”

He stilled, palms up. “What’s up, Tim?” This didn't even feel like Tim; it was some other entity, a skittish, wild thing, scrambling between pedestrian sneakers, desperate for shelter. “Talk to me.”

For a few long breaths, Tim stared, and then he said, “I hate throwing up.”

Okay. He could work with that. “Yeah, it's gross, right? But you’re done now.” 

After a moment, he nodded, and then nodded again, as if to convince himself. “Right.”

“Right. Let's go home.” Tim trailed after him, and as soon as they returned to their room, he took a long, long shower. Probably used up all the hot water, too, but Jason didn't really give a shit, so long as the Tim that came back out was normal again.

Even that scraped at his head. It was all a mask, one of the many they each wore every day, but he'd let himself believe that Tim's mask was more flesh than illusion. He was another wounded kid turned adult, worn thin by the mission. Jason had missed it, and he wondered if anyone else, or everyone else, did, too.

Tim returned in an old Foo Fighters tee and cotton pajama pants. He wore the towel over his head like a knight's helmet, watching Jason from the landing, one toe tapping on the tile. When he spoke, his eyes gained a sheen, suddenly faraway as a seer. 

“When I was in Cambodia, they...did you know, they still..." He couldn't finish. His mouth hung open and he stared at Jason helplessly, as if he could do anything to pry the words out. 

He didn't know what to tell him. He wanted to put his mouth to the shell of his ear and whisper that it didn't have to hurt, that Jason was an expert at living in the past and Tim didn't have to live there, too. "It's okay," he said, instead, "I get it." This wasn't the Tim he knew. This was another, secret Tim, from a different place, a different time, where no one had been there to watch his back. He stood there, towel over his wet hair, the rest of him all bones and lean rabbit muscle. "Come to bed, Tim. Sleep on it."

His eyes, somehow, grew even wider. He discarded the towel on a chair and crawled under the quilt, buried in the fluff of hotel-white linens and overstuffed pillow. 

Jason turned out his lamp. He laid down facing Tim, and when he slid his arm under the pillow, he found another sachet. Lavender, for sweet dreams and restful sleep. If he could wrap Tim in that sentiment, he would. 

That night, he didn't sleep well at all.

The next morning, things were business as usual. They didn't talk about the night before, but it was a persistent itch; this could affect their safety. On one hand, he didn't doubt Tim's dedication to success, but on the other, he suspected he was Bruce-like in his insistence on working, even when some part of him was incapacitated. He had to determine whether that was the case on his own, because he certainly didn't think Tim would be honest.

…Jason wasn't exactly known for his honesty, either.

Following a breakfast of more than pastries and coffee, because, goddamn, both of them had too much muscle to survive on custard and dough, they headed to the Uffizi.

“Vacation,” Tim said, gesturing to the first room lined with Florentine paintings, “and they've got a cafe…somewhere.” Jason nodded along, skimming the description of a Renaissance landscape. In reality, they were here to infiltrate Briglio's office, but it was nice to pretend for a bit.

“You're not much of an art guy, right?” 

Tim shrugged. “Not the kind they usually put in museums.” 

“Oh, yeah? What kind of art is that?” He stepped around a sculpture, following the intricately carved snout of a rearing horse, the woman on its back draped, curved, incomprehensibly lifelike. Tim muttered something he didn't quite hear. “What's that?”

“Star Trek.”

“There is so a Star Trek museum.”

Tim pursed his lips. “There are a few.”

“And you've been to all of them.”

“Maybe.”

“Ha,” Jason slapped his shoulder, “take me to one sometime. I gotta see this art.” 

Tim followed him through the claustrophobic rooms, walls strange, dark shades of red. “Don't be a dick. Up the stairs and to the left.” They entered a room which, at the center back, displayed Judith Slaying Holofernes. 

“Arterial spray. Nice.”

Tim stood a few feet away, his arms crossed. “You wouldn't really go to a Star Trek museum.”

“For you, baby bird, I'd sit through the set tour.” He meant for it to sound mostly like a joke, but it landed too squarely on honest, and the both of them went quiet. 

After a minute, Tim said, “it's only in New York. I'll hold you to that.”

They made their way to a long, tiled hall, lined with windows that turned it into a freaking oven. Museumgoers' voices echoed. Sculptures dotted the walls and down the center. Tim sat at a bench while Jason took his time studying the work. After a few minutes, his earpiece pinged with Tim's voice. “Cameras are looping in the staff area. Office key’s in your pocket.”  

He checked. Sure as shit, an old key was nestled in his back pocket. “When’d you do that, you little creep?” he whispered as he slipped down the hall. 

“When you were checking out the hot lady on the horse.”

“I was appreciating the sculpture.”

“Uh huh. Her sculpted buttocks.”

He stifled a snort. This was another facet of Tim, the snarky, hypercompetent Robin. Even like this, he was more fully realized than anything Jason had run into, in or out of the field. He had a bite that arrived on the heels of comfort, he thought, or fondness, some affinity he and Tim had never really had. Hell, he hadn't even been sure why Tim had asked him to go on this mission. He must have had a list of people he'd rather work with than Jason, and Tim himself had to be at the top of the list.

It still didn't click with last night. He couldn't stop seeing him in that light, the drowned ghost at the end of his bed, choking on his own trauma.

Did you know, they still—

They still what, he wanted to ask, desperately; more than anything, he wanted to shake Tim until he gave up the truth. He didn't know why. It wasn't his business. They all had suffered unspeakable traumas. Maybe it was that Tim had wanted to tell him. He chose Jason, when he could have told Dick or Bruce or Stephanie. If Tim didn't want to justify his behavior, he wouldn't. But he had wanted to get it out, off his chest, and how surreal was it for that sort of vulnerability to be offered up to him?

It didn't make sense. What made sense was this: the key turning and clicking in the financial records office door. Now, all he had to do was sort through the filing cabinets and look for evidence that could be used against the Sannas. Tim was fairly certain that Briglio wouldn't have any information on the drug production side, but any evidence they could find of other players or businesses would be beneficial.

Tim's voice crackled in his ear. “Ah, signori.” Another man's voice spoke back in Italian, farther away, almost tuned out by the audio program. 

Jason slid open a desk drawer and rifled through. “You good?”

The conversation continued unaffected. Both of them were speaking Italian rapidly, and Jason could only catch bits and pieces as he skimmed the paperwork, which was also Italian, and a whiny part of him wished he was in any of the other countries whose languages he actually spoke well. 

Tim giggled. What the fuck? Was that a call for help? He didn't know his vocal chords possessed the capability. 

Jason started on the filing cabinets. Tim kept up a steady stream of chatter. Finally, in the back of the third drawer, he found receipts for art auctions. From a museum? Hm.

He snapped a few photos on his phone and cringed, hard. In his ear, something smacked wetly. Tim murmured something almost indiscernible, but which sounded flirtatious. Jason ducked out of the office and returned to the gallery, sheepishly asking an employee for the restroom when they eyed the hall he came out of. It sounded like Tim was making out with someone, and he was not in the hallway Jason had left him in. 

“Barf,” he said quietly, tucking himself into a windowless nook behind a sculpture of Remus and Romulus. It was a little after two o'clock, about when Italians took their riposo, better known by the Spanish siesta. 

<Want me to…> Listening, he tilted his head into the stream of sunlight coming across the hall. Some verbs had slipped his slapdash linguistic education. What followed was decidedly not kissing. He ground his teeth. Tim was…sucking dick. With his mic in. What the actual fuck?

Stillness wouldn't work. <Beautiful, beautiful.> That was the other man, close by. He followed the hall down to the cafe and ordered a cappuccino and a tomato and mozzarella sandwich. Tim, then: <I don't…are you sure? We could—okay.> 

Jason smiled tightly at the barista before he tucked his face towards his shoulder and muttered, “Call him amore mio if you need me.” He could have Oracle on it in a minute. Tim couldn’t be far. 

He settled at a corner table with his food, but restless near-nausea curled in his stomach as he listened to the undeniable sounds of sex. Tim's breathless but tightly controlled voice, his small moans, and the more muffled slaps of skin on skin and the grunts and praises of his partner. Jason's hand tightened on the edge of the table. He wanted to crack it in half. This had to be for the mission. Tim wouldn't—

He wouldn't.

Ten minutes of torturous fucking in Jason's ears, and then another five of settling, murmurs and the rustling of fabric. Quiet, and then Tim breathing a long sigh. “He's down. I'm bugging everything in this damn place.”

“Where are you?” He pretended to take a call and fixed his glare on the window. His reflection looked downright homicidal. 

“Gagliardi’s apartment. Had to get in here. I'm pretty certain he knows where the production is happening, or he knows who does.”

“You had to fuck him?”

“It worked, didn't it?” Tim sniped back, defensive. “He doesn't even own a computer. Man. Sewing a freaking bug into his wallet. Florentine leather. What a waste.”

“Didn't know you cared about that sort of thing.” His stomach was settling. He picked at the sandwich. It was good, even if it had long passed room temperature. Whatever. 

They met back up at the hostel about forty-five minutes later. By the end of his walk out of the Uffizi, through the tourist-riddled commercial center, across the bridge, and into the placid residential area, Jason had worked himself up into a seething fury. He kept hearing the sick, wet sounds, the pitch of Tim's voice while he was getting fucked. It wasn't necessary. There was no strict reason why Tim had to give up his body for this mission. He could have snuck into the apartment some other time of day—probably all day—and never had a hand laid on him. But he decided, without discussion, that it had to be done this way.

Those were the first words out of Jason's mouth when he stepped into their room: “You could have said something.” 

Tim remained fixed on his laptop screen. His hair was wet, and he was picking at a pack of expensive ham Jason had bought earlier. “Briglio took a long weekend and you could've handled anyone who actually needed to get in the office.”

“That's not what I'm talking about.”

“I don't need to tell you every detail of what I'm doing. You don't even know what I’m doing now.”

“I’m not fucking tech illiterate, Tim. You seriously couldn't break into his place some other time?”

Tim's leg bounced. He looked down at the ham. “I decided it was the most efficient way to get what I needed.” 

“And you're okay with that? Letting yourself be used, degraded for the fucking—”

Tim was out of his seat in an instant, slamming his laptop shut. “Why do you even care?”

“Why don't you?!” It was always Bruce's shitty influence, seeping into every pore of every child he brought up in this godforsaken way of living. Tim lived and breathed his vision of Gotham, of what the Bat should be, of what Robin needed to be. Consumed by the work, a honed weapon in an endless war.

Tim shoved his laptop into his backpack and made for the door. He shoulder checked Jason on his way. With his hand on the doorknob, he said, “How do you think I feel? I just got fucked by a sick creep for the damn mission, and you're treating me like a two-bit whore because it offends your fucked up morals. You wanna know why I did it, Jason? Why I had to fuck Gagliardi? Because the Russians knew you. If we hadn’t—if they—” 

“Tim—”

He threw his hand up in a huff and slammed the door.

Chapter Text

“Oracle, I need you to look up Tim’s location.”

“Copy. Is he in trouble?”

Jason’s fists tightened on the suitcase handles, both packed to the brim: one his, one Tim’s. The entire room smelled like the damn lavender sachets, muddling in his nose with the pomegranate and musk and whatever the hell else Tim had bought. Everywhere was Tim, Tim, Tim, and now he’d packed it all away. “I don’t think so. But I really pissed him off.”

Babs made a knowing sound. “Alright, he’s on a train heading inland. You can catch the next one, but I’ll attach his tracker to your GPS. There’s a road up that way. I’ll let you know when he arrives.”

Train versus Fiat, Jason thought morosely, trudging down to the front desk. “Thanks, O.”

“Of course. And Jason?”

He grunted.

“Try to make sure Tim gets some sun. He looks like a ghost.”

The Fiat never caught up with the train, and its survival was in question right up until Jason finally parked at the end of the dirt road at the B&B. As soon as he was out of the car, Tim’s lithe form came sprinting towards him. He braced himself for a stabbing.

“Mark!” Tim practically slammed into Jason, arms around his neck. He caught him instinctually, but stiffly. Tim whispered, “I’m your fiance, Jackson.”

“Aww, baby,” motherfucker, “this place is beautiful.” For emphasis, he squeezed Tim’s hip. Tim stepped on his toes.

When they separated, Tim looked down at his feet where the suitcases lay. “Oh, you brought my bag.”

“Yeah, you kind of left it and all your shit everywhere,” he growled. Tim blinked at him innocently, a demure, but somehow smug, smile on his stupid face. “The fuck are we doing here, Jackson dear?”

Tim fell into step beside him as they walked up the dirt driveway to the old villa, duffels slung over their shoulders. “I hear there’s a lovely meadow somewhere around here, just absolutely blanketed with poppies.”

“And?”

“And the owner is,” he leaned over to whisper in Jason’s ear, warm breath tickling his neck, “Marcella Gagliardi, Luigi’s cousin.”

They took their dinner shortly after bringing their belongings to the room. Most notably, the appetizer was sizable mounds of ricotta topped with sheafs of black truffle. Tim almost seemed impressed.

Back at the room, Jason showered and smoked and wanted, desperately, to crash, but he couldn’t let go of their argument or the accusations leveled. He listened for Tim's breathing to go slow and shallow, but he sounded as awake as Jason was, probably running a million permutations of their next ten moves through his head. “Tim?”

“Hm?”

“I'm…sorry. About today.”

The room yawned on silently until his eardrums buzzed. He couldn't hear Tim's breathing anymore. 

“It's just…” Jason stared up into the blackness. “You don't have to give everything up. And we're a team, man. We can make those decisions together and find a better way.” When Tim didn't say anything else, he blurted out, “I wasn't trying to slut shame you or something. I—I don't think a job like this is worth your body or—” 

“Thanks.” His voice was cool, one clipped exhale. Jason’s shoulders were tightening like a wind-up toy. “Noted.”

He forced himself to relax into the mattress. It was impossible to tell whether Tim was still angry with him. All he wanted to do was curl around him and tell him that no one should touch him, ever, unless he wanted it for real, and maybe Jason could be that person.

That night, he slept, and dreamt.

He dreamt of Tim bent over the table in the hostel, the ridges of his spine flexing against his Irish skin. His hair was softer than air. Jason wrenched his head back, bared his throat, and each moan he punched out of Tim sounded like the ones he'd faked for Gagliardi. Tim was so deliciously tight around him, dripping slick-wet on the tile with pornographically loud splatters. He could feel himself in Tim's abdomen, sinking deep, breeding him full.

“Jay.”

Bent over, coming hard, Tim had turned to him and spoken like none of it was real.

“Jay.”

He blinked. His eyes were crusty with sleep and dehydration. Tim stared down at him, brows furrowed. “Huh?”

“You're making noises. Also, it's six A.M.” Time to get moving and grooving, in the world of undercover civilians. Tragically, Jason still wanted to drag him into the bed and pin him down, and more tragically so, he could feel the wetness in his boxers.

He'd had a wet dream. Like a fucking teenager. And Tim was still staring at him like Jason might throw up or explode or something. “Babydoll, you need to brush your teeth.”

Tim jerked backwards, scowling. “I just d—okay, babydoll?”

He dragged himself upright. “What kind of noises was I making?”

“Sounded like a nightmare or something.” Oh. Ha ha. This was a nightmare, for sure. 

He pushed Tim out of the way and did his best to strategically, but casually, cover his crotch as he dug through his duffel. “Like you never have those.” 

“All the time.”

He didn't need to continue this line of inquiry. They all experienced horrible things, common to the human experience or otherwise, and he was too embarrassed and sticky to deal with the depths of either of their psyches right now. Especially because his psyche had decided that Tim had progressed from a crush to something worse.

Following a light breakfast of fruit and poached eggs, the first item on their itinerary was a horseback ride around the grounds. Their mounts trudged on down the dirt path circling around the villa, wide hooves padding against the dry earth. Jason's horse was old and fat and brown, and very patient.

“Relax,” their guide said, smiling widely, “he'll take care of you.”

Tim looked over his shoulder at him, grinning. “You've really never ridden before?”

“When would I have? When would you?”

“The Kents have horses.” 

“Oh, yeah? You were riding the horses?”

Tim bristled and turned away. “Yes. The horses. Only the horses.”

“Uh-huh. Save a horse, ride a…whatever he is.”

Their guide laughed agreeably. Tim flipped him off behind his back. A twinge of jealousy accompanied the image of Tim and Conner he had so masochistically summoned. Man.

They pushed on through the tall grasses. Jason had to keep tugging his horse away from snacking on them, which he was pretty sure he could only do thanks to brute strength. The horse was not easily convinced of anything else. As they climbed a steep hill overlooking the valley, the greens and yellows of Tuscan summer were overtaken by color. Fields of red and orange stretched out before them, transforming the landscape into a painting. It struck him as the opposite of any tulip farm; neatly organized rows of species traded entirely for carving out a burst of blood and flame between the woodland and fields.

“Wow,” Tim said under his breath. For a long moment, neither he nor Jason could tear their eyes from the spectacle, but eventually Tim did, and the vision of him on horseback, poised above the meadows like a conqueror, did something very terrible to Jason's heart.

He said, “Beautiful.” Briefly, Tim's eyes widened, before he looked away.

“Would you like to take a picture?” Their guide hopped off his horse, a tall white and gray beast with a curved nose, and motioned at the field. He guided their horses next to one another, posing Jason and Tim against the fiery backdrop. Tim passed him his own phone. They really didn't need additional evidence of their presence anywhere else.

The camera shutter clicked about a dozen times before the guide made a pleased sound. “This must go on your wedding invitations.”

He passed the phone to Tim, who glanced down before shoving it in his pocket.

“What, I can't look?”

“Later,” Tim said, plastering a grin on his face, “it’s a surprise.”

Jason spent the return to the villa in no doubt the same way as Tim: contemplating a controlled burn in an exceedingly dry landscape with dozens of humans and animals that would need to be evacuated. In addition to that would be pinpointing the harvest and shipping of the opium, and who, actually, ran the operation. His money was on Marcella playing a significant role, if not simply allowing the Sannas to use her property, but he was less sure of how something so far inland could possibly be worth the trouble. 

They lunched on a spread of prosciutto and melon before retreating to their room. They’d only have to burn the poppy fields if they couldn’t rustle up enough hard evidence to warrant arrests. As it turned out, Tim had gathered that Marcella Gagliardi also owned a livestock transportation company. Its vehicles and trailers were stored in a warehouse at the edge of the property, viewable from the train into the area, but not by car. 

“So taking the train was part of your big plan,” Jason said, flipping through Marcella's business holdings on the laptop while Tim replaced his obscene potpourri throughout the room. 

“Two birds,” he said.

“What was the other bird?” A very stupid part of him hoped it was having him here, in his bed, in a beautiful place.

He could feel Tim watching him. “I thought it was obvious. Thanks for bringing all the potpourri, by the way.”

Jason grunted. He still had an unopened bottle of pomegranate aftershave in his suitcase. “It was a courtesy, since you think I smell like an ashtray.”

“It's not that bad…I just…”

“It’s fine, I stink,” he said dramatically.

Tim's voice rose a little and cracked. “No, it's—it’s not that. Anyway, I took the train because I like to think. On trains. It's peaceful.”

“Like a commoner! Gasp.”

“Shut up.” Tim sounded almost amused, but strained. “Jason.” He was pretending to read the bill of sale for the property they were currently staying on. Tim's hand pressed on his shoulder, so gently, and when Jason turned his head, he was face-to-face with Tim’s phone. The photo of them on horseback above the poppy field was on the screen. “That’s the photo.”

He took the phone and zoomed in. Nerves balled in his sternum. Tim was looking at the camera, a faint, close-lipped smile on his face, and Jason was looking at him. He looked completely enamored, a love-stupid expression he’d been chided about exactly once, by Roy, a very long time ago. “We look nice,” he said, trying to sound normal.

Tim’s hand stayed where it was, all electric. “We do.” And then he plucked the phone away and stepped back. “I really wish you wouldn’t smoke.”

Jason turned to him, a question lodged in his throat, when someone knocked at the door. He drew a gun from under the desk while Tim answered. 

<What's this?>

<A gift, from Ms. Gagliardi. She would have delivered it herself if not for the dressage competition in the city.>

<I see, thank you. It's for…?>

<You, Mr. Peale. She said you’re a friend of her cousin.> Tim did a good job feigning relaxation. Downright volcanic fury bloomed in Jason's chest. <Oh, of course. Thank you.> After their goodbyes, Tim returned to the small study desk where Jason was sitting with the laptop. The box itself was fairly plain, but certainly a cigar box. When he opened it, it was packed with Marlboros, and smelled thickly of tobacco.

“Fuck,” Jason said. Tim's hands begun to tremble, poised over the open box. “Hey. Hey,” he repeated, as Tim's breath hitched. When he reached for him, Tim lurched backwards, almost as wild-eyed as that night on the bridge. “Tim. Breathe.”

He flinched at the sound of Jason's voice, and when he rose out of the chair, Tim darted around the bed, to Jason's side. His breath was short and sharp, but it felt to him like the dragon puffs of the big, gray horse, his nostrils flared, eyes bulging. “D—don't.” Blindly, he groped for the pillow, eyes fixed on Jason, until his hand slid under it. He jerked back and shoved something against his face.

A lavender sachet.

Each breath he took was muffled against the fabric. Tim took long sucks at it until his diaphragm steadied, his muscle slowly uncoiling. After a long while, he lowered the sachet, and said, “God, Jason, I really hate Marlboros.”

“I'm getting that,” he said, slowly lowering himself back into the chair. “Luigi knew you by what name?”

Tim inhaled the bag again. “J—Jackson Peale. It's—I figured, one gay American on a trip was enough.”

That wasn't too bad, but then that also meant that Luigi knew that he was with Jason, and had seen Jason smoke or had someone go through his belongings at some point. He pawed at the boxes until he found a note tucked under one. 

<Mr. Sperandeo,

My meeting with your beloved was fleeting, but beautiful. Do enjoy what time you have with him.

L. G.>

He crumpled it in his fist. An immense desire to separate Gagliardi's jaw from his skull overcame him. “What a fucking pig.”

Tim drifted closer, ultimately to perch on the edge of the bed. “What's it say?”

He shoved the paper back in the box and slammed the lid shut. “I think it's a threat.”

Tim nodded and sat for a while, eventually crawling further up the bed to mess with his other laptop. This was becoming an issue. If Tim was going to keep being triggered, and their enemies knew how to do that, then the mission would be a bust. He knew how Tim felt about sharing his work with the other bats, and definitely how he'd feel if Jason wanted him off the case, but this was dangerous. He couldn't be freaking out like this. “Look, Tim. Is this gonna be a problem?”

He was doing that thing where he acted like he was still working on his laptop instead of looking at Jason, jaw clenched. “No.” He tapped a key with his fingernail nervously. “I don’t know. No.”

“You wanna try that again?”

Tim’s eyes flicked up to him and away. “No.”

“Can you work?”

“Yes. Of course.” 

Jason wasn’t feeling that “of course,” but Tim wasn’t one for letting emotions get the better of him. He had to hope that this mission wouldn’t be an exception to the rule. “Okay. But you gotta tell me if you can’t. I won’t go home and snitch on you.” Tim snorted. “I’m serious.”

“Okay. Yeah. But I’m good.”

The only thing that could clear his head was a tap-cold shower. Washed and mostly-dressed, he grabbed the pack of smokes from the desk— his smokes, not their “gift”—when Tim said, “Jay. Wait.”

He turned to find Tim hesitating at his shoulder, chewing his lip. “Don’t smoke.”

“Tim…” you said you could work, he wanted to say, was about to say, but Tim knew that already. So, he said, “Why?”

“Because.” And then, Tim leaned up on his toes and kissed him. It was a peck, but it was. “I want to do that.”

“Oh,” Jason said eloquently, and then stared at him. Tim was searching, fidgeting, and all he could think was yes, anything you ask, anything.

“Jay. Say something. Or kiss me again.”

Jason kissed him again. And again, longer, wetter. Tim’s fingers slid up his neck and twisted in his hair, and his own found Tim’s waist, all lean, solid muscle flexing under his touch. They parted for a breath. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

He smirked. “I have an idea of it. I, um…” he ducked his head, hands sliding down to Jason’s elbows. “I’ve wanted to. There’s—you know how I am about the smoke, and…it’s a whole…thing. I want to touch you and I smell that and it makes me all screwed up.” Still, he revealed nothing about the why and how of it. That had to be important, but he was thinking about the shape of Tim’s lips, the heat and plushness of them, and what it would feel like to have more.

“Babydoll,” Jason murmured, and this time, Tim flushed a little with the pet name, “I’m screwed up, too.”

Crawling into bed with a Tim-he’d-kissed was…different. Not that different, because he still didn’t know their boundaries or what they were or could be, but kissing Tim made him brave enough to curl up against his back and play with his hair. And Tim seemed to like it, too, because he leaned into the touch until he could smile into Jason’s shoulder. Eventually, Jason extricated himself and went out to smoke by the outdoor dining table, placed as it was on high ground that overlooked the valley. It was a nice view, what he could see of it—it was dark out here, far darker than Gotham, and stars covered the sky. 

Behind him, a door swung shut.

“I smelled your American cigarettes.”

“Signora,” Jason said, glancing over his shoulder, “thanks for the gift.” Marcella Gagliardi was a lithe woman at first glance, but she walked like a horseback rider, a little bow-legged—someone wasn’t teaching her the right stretches. She sauntered up to lean against the fence, her back to the valley. A warm breeze picked up her hair.

“Is it common for you American men to…” she paused thoughtfully, as if trying to find the word, but Jason suspected it was an act, “to…practice infidelity?”

Jason snorted. “Some gay men like to get around.”

“But not you?”

“Hey, no offense, Signora, but me and Jackson don’t have the same type.”

She tittered. “He certainly doesn’t look like your fiance.”

“Ha, no.”

“But you know what he looks like.”

Jason offered an unimpressed look. “You’ve heard of a camera phone, right?”

“O-hoo,” she waved at him with an expression of faux indignance, “my apologies. I thought you might have met him before he swept your beloved off his feet.” Jason barely suppressed the urge to comment on that. “It’s just, I do wonder at the coincidence of all this.”

And I wonder how Luigi knew we were here, he thought, but a far better reply was in his mouth when the back door swung open again. Another guest, a Brit named Edward, stumbled out, looking startled. “Hey, you’re—you’re in the room across the hall, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Your boyfriend’s making all this noise and we can’t wake him up. Can you—”

Jason pushed past him, taking the front steps in one hop, and then the winding staircase in twos and threes. A couple other guests were lingering in their doorways, bleary-eyed, and Jason muttered apologies to them as he speedwalked to his door.

Ed’s wife, Mary, looked at him with wide eyes. “He won’t answer me. Is he hurt?”

“Nightmare, don’t worry, thanks, go back to sleep, sorry,” he rambled, jiggling his key in the sticky lock. “It happens, sorry to wake you guys.” He slammed the door shut in her face and locked it. “Hey, hey.”

The covers were all bunched up on the floor, like they’d been punted off the end of the mattress. Tim was gasping air, loud and hoarse, legs kicking wildly. “Tim, hey,” he kept his voice to a harsh whisper as he neared the bed, “babydoll, look at me. Robin.” Tim’s head jerked toward him, eyes shut, and he babbled something unintelligible. It wasn’t English. If he touched him, there was a fair chance he’d get punched. “Wake up, baby, it’s a dream, come on. We’re in Italy.” Tim’s teeth chattered, briefly, before he shouted again. Jason snatched the lavender sachet from under his pillow and held it over Tim’s face, high enough that he wasn’t touching it. Tim’s voice dropped to a distressed mumble, in whatever that other language was, not Chinese, not Vietnamese, fuck—

— When I was in Cambodia, they...did you know, they still—

Fuck.

Tim’s hands snapped to his own throat and started clawing.

“No, no, no,” Jason dropped the sachet and pinned his wrists. “C’mon, Timmy, Robin, fuckin’ wake up. I’ll take you back to the fuckin’ Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, ‘kay? What would B think? Look at you. Wake the fuck up,” he hissed. Tim kicked him in the shin. With a violent gasp, his eyes snapped open. He stared like a wild animal. “Timbo?”

Tim made a croaking sound.

He eased off his wrists and knelt beside him. “You were having a nightmare.”

“I know,” he said hoarsely. He squeezed his eyes shut and took in a shuddering breath, and then another. “Jay, I—” his voice cracked wetly. He curled toward Jason, so Jason eased onto his side to take him in his arms. “I hate this.” He broke down, sobbing. Jason held him there, on their sweat-damp bare mattress, until morning.

Jason brought Tim’s breakfast back to their room. The chef gave him a knowing look. No doubt gossip had spread from the guests to the staff and back again. Tim was already hunched over his laptop at the desk, typing away.

“Maybe we should take it easy,” Jason said, which was probably the worst thing he could say to a Tim Drake, but he felt strongly about it, “just, you know, enjoy the countryside.”

Tim took the plate without looking and picked up a nectarine half with his hand. “No. They’re watching us. We have to move before they do.” Jason shoved a fork into his hand before he could jam his index finger into an egg yolk. “I say we go down to the shipping warehouse and see if it’s really horses they’re taking to the airport.”

“Mhm,” he snatched a toast corner off the plate, “tonight, right? So, we have all day.”

“All day to research and plan and research some more.” 

Jason grunted. “Could get another riding tour. Or go on a hike. See what’s around. That’s research.”

“Did that.”

“Huh?”

“Two nights ago, before you woke up from your nightmare.” He still wouldn’t look up from his screen, even as he cut into the rest of the egg. Would it be an appropriate time to tell Tim what kind of dream it had actually been, now that they were…vaguely romantic? “I went out and did some surveying.” He proceeded to drone on about the sorts of things he saw, the perimeter of the property, the trees, the livestock and houses in the immediate radius of a fire, if they were to burn the meadow. And Jason was listening. He totally was. But he was also thinking about Tim’s profile, about how the sunlight caught the ends of his eyelashes and his irises, and that he had a dot of egg yolk on his lower lip. At some point during a detailed explanation of how the wind would carry the embers into the surrounding landscape, Jason kissed him on the temple, and Tim froze, mid-sentence. Slowly, he tore his gaze away from the computer screen.

“I’m allowed to do that now, right? That was pretty chaste.”

Tim stared at him, blinking slowly. “Um. Yeah. Yes. I kind of…thought I dreamt it?”

“Last night was a lot,” Jason agreed, in the most roundabout way he could. The shape of Tim’s mouth may well have been imprinted on his skin. It was realer than the ground under his feet.

“It…was. I…can you kiss me again?” He twitched back when Jason swiped the egg off his lip. His lips were plush against Jason’s, and a little damp, and Tim gasped a little at the touch. It was short lived; Jason decided not to press his luck when he certainly smelled like cigarettes, and was greeted with the sunlit vision of a very flustered Tim.

“Yeah, remember now?”

Tim nodded dumbly. 

They departed for the hills with sorbetto-filled oranges in hand, Tim slathered in sunscreen and both of them donning hats and sunglasses. Head to toe, everything they wore was obnoxiously expensive, but Tim wore it like a second skin while Jason could only comfort himself knowing whatever he had on was practical. His tac pants served a purpose, whereas Tim looked like he belonged in a Farfetch ad. When asked if he had ever considered modeling, Tim made a disgruntled noise, then mumbled about being scouted when he was six, and then made a series of other noises which Jason could only interpret as general distress over unpleasant memories or, perhaps, a future in which he was a model and not a Robin, or anything else.

“Isn’t your Superboy a model?”

“Was,” Tim corrected, “back when we met. Then he died. And—y’know. That kind of changes things.” He said it haltingly, but Jason had no objection. It was true. Tim added, “and he’s not mine. We’re friends. Not anything else.”

Jason hummed. Maybe he could just send him a candygram that said BE MINE? and call it a day.

A field of orange stretched out ahead of them. They’d made their way back to the poppy meadow along a different path, and this time people dotted the field. Some small mechanical equipment and trucks sat farther out, past the meadow. The Sannas were harvesting the poppies. It was good timing—perfect, even, because now they could definitely follow the poppies from field to factory to airline. Jason leaned against a tree, out of sight of the workers. Tim took a few quick photos with his phone.

Footsteps crunched above them. He dragged Tim into a kiss.

“Signori.” Their former riding guide stepped around the trunk. His expression was guarded in a way Jason had never seen. Tim pulled away in a rush and tucked back into Jason’s side.

“Ciao,” Tim said sheepishly. (He’d tasted like blood orange sorbetto.) “We, um. We really liked this place. Guess it’s occupied.”

He glanced between them, scrutinizing as an eagle. “Si. The flowers make such short-lived, but lovely, arrangements. We may prepare some for your room.”

“Oh, that’d be wonderful.” Tim fidgeted as Jason’s hand conspicuously slid past his waist. He was the bad boy, here, the cowboy-killer-smoking thug who let his fiance go around fucking other men. Maybe that made Tim the fickle tramp. “Sorry, we’re a little,” he broke off, either intentionally or genuinely, as Jason mouthed behind his ear, “we’re, um, exploring. There’s a creek, somewhere?” He squeaked the last syllable with a bruise being sucked into his skin.

The guide nodded at the hill above them. “Behind the horse pastures. It is quiet there. Good for— lovers.” He grinned, then, demeanor shifting back into the happy-go-lucky performance they knew. “Enjoy.” Jason watched him go from the corner of his eye.

“Okay, Jay, test passed, you can stop.” He’d cooled it on the hickeys, but was still exploring the crook of Tim’s neck and finding what scars had texture against his tongue. “Please.”

A quick glance confirmed that Tim wasn’t panicked, but completely red-faced. “Alright, alright. But I say we check out that creek.”

Bizarrely, Tim followed without argument, and even allowed a loose handhold as they trekked into the shadier stanchion of pleasantly green trees and undergrowth. A pheasant darted across the path and disappeared into the rustling gorse. Below them, water babbled and slid through the worn stones. Tim squeezed his hand and let go, settling with his knees to his chest on the edge of the creek. “So, uh, I think I should come clean.”

Jason folded himself pretzel-legged beside him. The grass really was so much cooler here. “Mm?”

“A few months ago, I went undercover in Cambodia. Deep cover. It was…planned, that part, and everyone who was around for my first stint as Red Robin knew I could handle it. I’d—I’d faced off Ra’s al Ghul himself and survived.” At that, Jason cocked an eyebrow, watching him. He sounded like he was trying to justify the situation, or the following explanation, but whether it was to himself or Jason, he couldn’t be sure. “No one was expecting communication from me for…a while. Which was fine. Until, like, a month into it, when my mark had me fingered for a cop and kidnapped me.”

A warm breeze slipped through the trees overhead. It made the leaves sound as though they were whispering. “That part wasn’t planned, I take it.”

Tim shook his head. “Our kind can get out of stuff like that. And I did. Just…just after they…”

“Tim,” he said, some substitute for it’s okay, you don’t have to tell me, or, it’s okay, keep going.

“He waterboarded me. So. Yeah. That’s what the nightmare was about.” He curled more tightly against his legs, nose tucked between his knees. The pheasant crowed. Most likely, they had all been tortured, at some point or another, and Jason…Jason had said some things he hadn’t been too proud of, himself. Waterboarding produced information, real or otherwise, in record time. Tim might have talked, but he suspected whoever had heard anything he said wouldn’t, or couldn’t, reveal it.

“Damn, Timmy. I’m sorry.”

He snorted. “I don’t need it.”

“Maybe I do.” 

Tim looked at him then, holding his gaze for a long time, before his attention drifted back to the water. “He had me for almost three weeks. And no one knew.”

A dread chill slithered down Jason’s gut. “Am I the first person you told?” Tim shrugged. “Tim. You got kidnapped and tortured and didn’t tell anybody?”

“I escaped and accomplished the mission. It didn’t seem relevant. I—“

“Tim.”

“I didn’t tell him anything!” he snapped, expression turned fervent on Jason. “Nothing—nothing useful, anyway.” This him was still alive somewhere, knowing Tim. But he could tell Tim’s fuse was running short, too short to get more out of him.

“That’s not the problem. You were hurt—tortured—and didn’t let anybody know. And you’re out here having panic attacks while you pretend everything’s fine.” Well, shit. That was a few steps to the left of what he had meant to say, which was supposed to indicate how much everyone cared about him and his health. 

Tim glared at him. “You're the one giving me the panic attacks.”

“Why? I didn't fucking waterboard you.”

“No,” he said, tilting his chin up indignantly, “you didn't.” They stared at each other for a minute, neither willing to concede or apparently give up any more information. Jason had half bungled his part and half caught Tim out in a stupid series of decisions that put them both at risk. He wanted to fight, or kiss, or anything else that didn't involve using his words. 

“Well,” Jason said.

“Well,” Tim said. “Did you pack your uniform?”

“‘Course I did.”

“Good. Better get your riposo nap in. We’re going to have a long night.”

“Assuming you’re correct,” Jason added, as if Tim was ever wrong about anything but his own wellbeing.

Back at the room, Jason was possessed by a disturbing urge to please Tim. He rifled through his suitcase until he dug out the crunched gift bag from Santa Maria Novella and shoved it into Tim's chest. 

“What's this?” He looked like Jason had given him a strange bug.

“A gift.”

“For me?”

“Ain't no one else here.”

Tim hummed before beginning to dismantle the tightly wrapped, ruffled ribbons and mounds of tissue paper. When he finally revealed the bottle of pomegranate aftershave, he went wide-eyed, before forcing his mouth into a shape Jason had come to recognize as an attempt to suppress laughter. It got his hackles up.

“What?”

“Would you believe,” he hiccuped a little, “that I got you the same thing?”

“No,” he said, in equal parts genuine and mock disbelief. Tim cracked open the bottle and took a whiff. 

“This is great, Jay. This was my favorite scent that they had. And you noticed.”

Heat crept up his face. He shrugged. “Noticing is kinda our thing.” Unless, of course, a Robin in deep cover was being held captive and tortured.

Tim made a pensive sound and got up to dig around in his bags before he came up with the tissue-wrapped bottle. “Colonia Russa. It's…my second favorite. Haha.”

“High praise,” Jason said, but he had to hide his mouth behind the bottle to keep from exposing his stupid smile. By the looks of it, Tim had seen. The lotion had a light but complex scent; citrus and neroli melded with lavender and clove. He liked it. He really, really, liked it. 

“You ever heard of what they do with rabbits when they reject a baby?” Jason asked, tipping the bottle onto his thumb. 

“No?”

He dabbed the lotion under Tim's nose. He didn't even flinch, he just let Jason do it. “That. Makes all the babies smell the same.”

“Are we going to be smelling babies?”

“Hope not,” he said, and kissed him. Tim melted into it.

“You brushed your teeth.” He frowned, like it didn't make sense. Like no one would do that, perhaps especially not for him. 

“I wanted to kiss you again. Maybe even,” he brushed one of the hickeys with his thumb, “Do more of that.”

Tim flushed. It was a good look on him. He stretched his pretty neck out, all brazen, and Jason couldn't help but laugh before he ducked down to spell his name in bruises.

His hands wandered, one tucking around Tim's knee and the other drifting under his shirt. Tim's skin grew hot, already sticky with summer sweat, and he made the smallest noises for each violet blossom sown.

“Jay,” he said, voice wobbling like he was about to cry, “I think you can take me to bed now.”

They had kissed…yesterday, and arrived in Italy…another two days before that? He'd learned more about Tim in that time than he had in the better part of a decade. Maybe it made sense for it to collide right now, like this, years of rage and pain and brotherhood collapsing like a support beam in a burning house.

The bed was only a few feet away, but he scooped Tim up anyway and laid him against the pillows. He was easy to carry and that made Jason feel a little too powerful, and a little crazy. Tim's erection was starkly obvious and leaking through his linen pants. 

Before Jason could kiss him again, Tim pressed a palm to his mouth, stopping him only a few tenuous inches away. “If we do this, Jay, I'm not…that's gonna be it for me. I don't want to…I only want,” he sucked in a breath, “I only want to be yours.”

“Well, shit, baby,” he said, and that was the only thing he said for a long moment. Wasn't that what he wanted, too? Why was it in reach now? They fought and kissed and maybe almost had a friendship and real, live commitment was dangling in front of them. All or nothing. “I won't want anyone else to ever put a hand on you. Unless it's life or death.”

Tim swallowed. “I hoped you'd say that. What, um, what happened with Gagliardi—I hate doing that. I hate…” His frost-cold eyes cut into Jason like a knife. “I only ever wanted to belong to one person.”

Whatever was in Tim's head was threatening to come out and disembowel him. In those steely irises, he saw his own reflection. “Then that's what you'll have.”

They stared at each other, sharing breath. He had to break the silence. “Hey, babydoll,” he said as he peeled off his own shirt, “that nightmare I had wasn't a nightmare.” Tim offered an inquisitive sound, but his eyes were already glazed over and currently focused on Jason's abs, his lip curling in an amused smirk. “It was a wet dream.”

“About me?” He squeaked, a bit hoarsely, and lifted his hips up so Jason could roll down his pants.

“Yeah, baby, I—” embarrassment threatened to overtake him, but it was too late now, “I bent you over that stupid little table in our hostel and fucked you hard.”

“Mm, that sounds good.”

“You like it rough?” Jason tongued one of Tim's nipples, twisting with his fingertips until he arched off the bed. “Want me to make you scream?”

He nodded frantically, overgrown bangs flopping over his eyes. One hand found its way into Jason's hair and shoved. Jason resisted, mostly as a question, and Tim answered by spreading his legs under him. “Want your mouth,” and God, he was a vision, shirt rucked up to his neck, throat dotted with purple, his chest flushed and damp. Jason would pray to all the saints painted on every ceiling in Florence if it meant he could have him. He hooked Tim’s leg over his shoulder and trailed kisses down the soft skin of his inner thigh, punctuating with a bite to the curve of his hip. Tim’s cock was salty against his tongue, sweat and musk and colonia russa the only things Jason could smell. Intent on impressing him, he took him down to the base in one motion. Tim gasped brokenly. Otherwise, he was much too quiet for Jason’s taste.

He slid one hand over the curve of Tim’s ass, flattening it against his lower back to lift him. Beneath his fingertips, the skin was scarred and lumpy. Scars were more than common for them, and he’d seen the slashes and pocks littering Tim’s body, but these were round, and numerous, and overlapping. The pace at which he was bobbing his head stuttered despite his efforts; his detective mind wanted to know where and when and how did he not notice.

Tim said, “Jay,” voice breathless but sharp. Jason pulled off slowly, pressing a kiss to his shaft. “Don’t…” he sighed, “you can look.” He waited for Jason to maneuver him off his shoulder and turn him over. Most people would be put off by this; the sudden pause, the unpleasant collision of truth and sex. They weren’t “most people.”

Tim’s lower back was littered with cigarette burns. He ran his hand over them gingerly, in case Tim wanted him to stop, but he didn’t move or speak. “God. So there’s your Marlboro Man.” The scars stretched from the divots above his hips to the base of his ribcage. In some places they were sparse, in others, densely packed, brutally layered until they keloided. “Can I kiss them?” He almost did without asking; Tim preferred not to make a big deal of things, even if they deserved it, but this was the trauma they had been dancing around for so long. Under his hands, Tim shuddered. His face was tucked into his elbow, brow furrowed.

“Yeah. You—touch me however you want.”

That was too broad. It was an answer, though, so he kissed one scar that was separate from the others, like a star that had wandered off its constellation. Tim’s muscles tightened beneath him with each kiss, some quick pecks, others slow and long, longer the worse the scarring was. He kissed them until Tim’s voice reached a fever pitch, a wet gasp that made Jason stop and lie against his back, pulling him onto his side. He could cover the scars with his body, fill him with the sensation of Jason instead of the air between touches. Tim hiccuped silently, diaphragm hitching erratically as Jason tucked his chin into the curve of his shoulder and took him in hand. Tears pooled in the curve of Tim’s clavicle. Jason kissed away the ones he could catch; with each dewdrop, a twist of the wrist, a swipe of his thumb over a vein, over his slit, precome slicking the way. 

“You’re sweet,” Jason murmured, dissolving the reverent quiet. Tim’s eyes were squeezed shut, water beading on his long eyelashes, his temple. He slid his free hand under Tim’s cock, pressing his palm between his thighs, insistent. “I wanna fuck you here.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nodded, sucking in a breath.

“Okay,” Jason repeated. He was already leaking all over Tim’s back, so he lubed himself up with as much cum as he could gather and pushed the head into the tight heat of his thighs. Tim made room for him, back arching prettily as his cock slid beneath his balls. He kept a slower pace than his hand, content to rile Tim up while he took in the soft feel of his skin. It made sense, that he’d shave everything, given how tight his costume was, but it was different to know it felt like heaven, smooth and milky white. Tim let loose little moans for him, high punches that went straight to his gut. “So pretty. You sound so pretty, babydoll.”

Tim pushed back against him, throat arching, swanlike. His Adam's apple bobbed with every sound. Jason could tell he was trying to stay quiet and failing, so he helped him, loosely cupping his hand over his mouth. His eyes snapped open. With a violent gasp, he came, knocking into Jason’s body as he spilled into his hand. Then he sucked Jason’s fingertips into his mouth, all of him now loose, so pliant that he moved with every thrust of Jason’s hips. 

“Come on, Jason,” he said, muffled, so sudden and quiet that Jason flinched, “come for me.” Everything after that unspooled rapidly; the wet slap of his balls against Tim’s strong thighs, his teeth threatening to break skin, the pads of his thumbs finding the worst burns and digging bruises into them. He came hard, groaning a prayer into the meat of Tim’s shoulder. 

Riding the high of sleeping with Tim was enough to kick the midday-nap drowse. He finally— they finally—God, it was everything. They could be something, they would be, because Tim didn’t want anything else. Tim wanted him and only him, forever.

It made his stomach drop faster than the first time he grappled off a rooftop, thirteen and lighter than a down feather. He wasn’t going to lie and say Tim was a perfect human, but Jason was—well. Jason was an asshole. Present tense. It meant the world that Tim wanted to entertain his bullshit, permanently, in sickness and in health and in bed and the shower and maybe on the kitchen table.

Focus, Hood.

They were in costume, Tim perched above him on the branch of an umbrella pine, Jason clinging to the shadows beneath. The treeline ended a quarter mile from the warehouse, so they each had night-vision binoculars in hand. Tim, all business, wasn’t looking at him, probably. Jason, typically pretty excellent at staying all business, wasn’t looking at him, either, but he was thinking about Tim’s mouth and thighs and pretty little ankles while, also, watching the building. Oracle was listening in on their comms tonight, just in case a Super or somebody on a Tuscan vacation needed to save their asses.

Tim made him wonder, too. Did he love Jason? Did he expect to fall in love, eventually, if they kept at it long enough? How do you tell someone that this is it when you hadn’t even had a chance to see what this was like? Tim was something beyond his understanding, sometimes, and he couldn’t look away.

It had been several precious hours since they first saw the workers collecting poppies from the field. Marcella and Luigi were already suspicious of Jason and Tim, so of course, they’d started to move things along more quickly than advisable. Tim had set up some bugs and cameras as near enough to the facility as he could risk, but it had its own security system. No animals were inside the building or its various trailers; any legitimate transportation had gone on during the day, and Gagliardi Transports didn’t offer livestock quarantine for any length of time. It was lucky. The reality of it was that most of the people working there were just locals, practically gardeners, and not hardened mafioso. If things went sideways, Jason didn’t want to get them killed anymore than Tim did.

Once Tim remotely disabled the facility’s security perimeter, they snuck through the shadows and began to tag the trucks loaded with processed opium. Once those were on the move, Oracle would alert the local Italian police and Interpol. Tim’s cameras had taken photos of the trailers arriving with poppies from the fields, and even a few of Marcella. 

A small part of Jason didn’t care if they put her in cuffs. What he’d gotten out of this investigation was Tim.

What they were really after was anything on paper that could be found in the Gagliardi Transports. Tim had lined up the Uffizi art auction paperwork to a variety of money transfers to and from offshore accounts, so anything corroborating who owned those accounts would really put them in business. It was alarmingly easy to get into the office, but then, most of the lingering workers were packing up their paraphernalia and Tim only had to knock out one armed guard. By the looks of it, he was the only one, besides whoever was with Marcella.

Jason kept point at the door while Tim tore through the office. Men chattered in Italian on the other side of the yard. “Looks like they’re packing up to leave-leave, Robin.”

Tim grunted. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got everything.” He shoved a wad of papers and the office laptop into his knapsack. “Let’s boogie.” They cut through the shadows of the remaining vehicles, all horse trailers and tractors and vans. “By the way, this incriminates Luigi. If the Italian police don’t take care of him, Int— mmf!” He was cut off as Jason threw a hand over his face and pulled him back against a building. Marcella stalked by, scowling.

<I know it’s them. They have to be here.> 

A man in a suit followed behind. He had a holstered handgun under his arm. <There’s no sign of them on the cameras or anywhere, Signora. We’re looking.>

She snorted. Her hair bounced with the sound. <Fine. Then we pray they go down with the rest of this place.>

Tim tapped at his arm, suddenly frantic. He pulled away; his hand had been covering Tim’s mouth and nose. That probably didn’t feel good to a guy who’d been fucking waterboarded for three weeks. Tim was wide-eyed and flushed, but he didn’t snark at him, even after Marcella and her guard had passed.

“You good?” he asked quietly, checking around the next corner.

“Fine.”

I’m in trouble, he thought. But they were able to cut back into the treeline just as the last of the trucks departed. “So, what’s your plan for Lui—” A deafening boom shook the ground. They dove into the underbrush as the sky lit up, fiery orange lighting the hill the facility was on. A hellish wind blasted through the trees. He reached blindly for Tim until he felt the solid warmth of his forearm. Tim’s mouth moved, but all he heard was ringing.

“Marcella blew the factory,” he finally understood. It didn’t matter. They were alive. Tim stared at him. Jason stared back. Cement and steel split apart in the distance. 

He swallowed down the taste of heat and ash and summoned up his courage. Blood pounded in his ears. “Think we fucked this donkey.” Tim’s face was lit all in orange. He cracked a grin.

“No way that’s a thing people say.”

“It’s a thing I say.” He laughed, couldn’t help the adrenaline-fueled giddiness suddenly bubbling out of his chest, and Tim pulled him into a kiss.

When Tim took a breath, he said, “We should fuck here.”

“Babydoll, that’s dangerous.”

Oracle huffed in their earpieces. Jason laughed sharply. He’d actually forgotten she was there. “Logging off. I have so many questions. And zero of them are about what you two do in the bedroom. I’ve sent the locations of Marcella’s vehicles to all relevant agencies. Night, boys.”

“Night, O,” Tim said, and kissed him again. “When you covered my mouth…I was about ready to come in my pants, man.” And oh, fuck, that was sexy. He bit a trail along Jason’s jaw, bumping his knee into Jason’s thigh until he opened his legs. “Ride it,” he ordered, and hell, who was Jason to say no? Tim had very quickly become the only person on earth he’d take an order from. His thigh was narrower than Jason’s, but still solid as a log and warm through the thin material of his costume. He rocked as he bit and kissed and sucked his way up Tim’s neck—still sore, apparently, because he was swatted a few times for going over other hickies—one hand holding Tim’s hip steady. The orgasm snuck up on him, fast and brutal, adrenaline thudding in his ears, smoke in his lungs.

Fire smoke, maybe chemical smoke. Not the kind Tim couldn’t take.

When he came, he said, “Robin,” and his voice cracked like a branch. Tim made a pretty noise in return. They made out, a little less frantically, until he asked,  “What do you want, babydoll?”

His voice was breathy and wrecked. “I don’t–I don’t know, I don’t have lube, uh—”

“There’s a lot we can do without lube.”

Tim nipped at his earlobe. “Show me, then.”

Jason obliged. He started with the utility belt, and then Tim’s boots and his tight little pants. Then, he dragged him down to a crouch, so he could hook Tim’s legs over his shoulders and hoist him up against the cypress behind them. Tim’s leaking cock was right in his face, but if he folded him back, (and God, was Tim flexible), he could put his mouth on his hole, just like that.

A broken sound fell off of Tim’s lips. His hand clawed at Jason’s hair blindly and held on as he lapped and sucked. “So tight, babydoll,” he mumbled, “bet you’d feel amazing on my cock.” He slid his tongue in, nose pressed into his skin, so close he could smell sweat and musk over the firesmoke. Tim jerked himself off fast and hard, so Jason responded in kind, shoving him back against the tree to rim him sloppily. His hole clenched around him as he came, cum spilling off his hand and into Jason’s hair. He sounded like a fucking angel, crying Jason’s name like it was the last goddamn word in the universe. He stayed in him until he was shuddering, thighs twitching against his head, and let him down gently in the grass.

Tim kept his arms looped around Jason’s neck. They kissed, slow and lazy, but eventually their throats and eyes burned too badly. Fire relief would get here eventually, he supposed, so he helped Tim back into his uniform and they slipped back through the woods to the inn.

Tim scaled the side of the villa and threw down their bags. Marcella’s car had headed off towards Florence, where it would be stopped by the Carabinieri. Once this end of the Sanna operation was snuffed out, the Gotham end would be thoroughly isolated and much, much easier to destroy. For now, they drove Jason’s stupid little Fiat to Pisa International Airport. 

Chapter Text

It was a long, civilian flight back to Gotham. Tim had offered to call in the Batplane or the T-Jet, but honestly, Jason was happy to sit next to him on a set of six-to-eight-hour flights in first class. It was tempting to extend their layover in Zurich to an actual vacation, but neither of them could sit still for long, and all he really wanted was to fall into bed with Tim at somebody’s apartment and not tell a soul they were home for at least 72 hours. Maybe more, if Tim was feeling generous, and nothing critical blew up (both were unlikely). 

Tim was, thankfully, on board with a minimum of 24 hours’ secrecy, which had Jason hopeful that he could extend their staycation. It was Tim who insisted that they crash at Jason’s apartment, the good one he didn’t have anyone stay over at except for the occasional civilian fling or friend. He’d had it professionally decorated from top to bottom, and Tim’s little whistle of appreciation when he stumbled in made it worthwhile. They scrubbed off the sweat and airport fuzziness one at a time; Tim went first so Jason could scrounge around the pantry for spaghetti makings. By the time Tim was done with his shower, so was dinner. 

They were quiet, through dinner and after it. What came next? Tim was wearing his last clean pair of underwear and a Dave Matthews Band tee and nothing else. Jason didn't have a guest room, and why would they use it? They had been sharing a bed for days, but now it was real, and here, in his home , which meant it could (would!) happen again and again and again for the foreseeable future. 

Nothing was foreseeable in Gotham. Especially not for them.

“Um, I'm gonna crash,” Jason said, as he slid the last dish onto the drying rack. He'd busied himself with washing up while Tim stared drowsily at the island's wood grain. Tim stood and popped his back. Rubbing at his eyes, he followed behind like a duckling and crawled under the comforter beside him. The itch to smoke niggled at him, but Tim had tucked into his neck without a word and, hell. This was it. Staving off his self-inflicted addiction so he could have this, have him . 

Tim was beautiful like this, anyway, face smooth as a China doll, breathing softly, a small animal in sleep. 

He woke up to his apartment door click ing shut. Tim’s half of the bed was empty, so panic took him first: he was up and half-dressed in the kitchen reading to charge down the hall and scream why in seconds. Only—Tim was in the kitchen, with a bag of delivered groceries, an uncertain smile on his face.

“Um, hi,” he said, seemingly frozen in place, “I ordered in.”

Jason’s brain didn’t know how to make sense of this. Tim stayed. Tim stayed and ordered breakfast for two. “Oh. Cool.” Touching him felt strange (it was stupid, they had fucked), so he shuffled into the kitchen and left the expanse of the island between them. “What’d ya get?”

Tim began to deposit the contents of the bag onto the counter: a bag of apricots, two containers of prosciutto, honey, burrata, and a good, crusty bread. 

Because he was an asshole, Jason said, “Didn’t know you liked it so much.” He still wasn’t sure if Tim had been trying to give him a boner with what he had lovingly titled the Apricot Incident.

Maybe he had, because he blushed a little and crunched the bag up in his hands. “I wanted to test your theory about the quality of ingredients.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” he said, circling the island to grab some mugs. The coffeemaker was already hissing and burbling. Of course that was Tim’s priority. When he turned to get some milk, Tim was in front of him, holding a fresh carton from the morning’s delivery.

“Hi.”

“Hi, babydoll.” Neither of them moved. Jason was close enough that the top edge of the carton poked into his chest.

“You seemed upset. When you got up.”

He tucked his fingers into the top of the container and tugged. Tim wouldn’t give. He already knew he was an overdramatic, insecure dickhead. Surely Tim didn’t need him to say it out loud. “I thought you left,” he said finally, and tugged again, but Tim still held the carton firmly. “C’mon. Coffee’s getting cold.” Whatever expression Tim had was just shy of a poker face, a little pinched in that way he had trouble making sense of. Tim let him take the milk and splash it into their coffees.

Warm arms encircled his back. Tim’s forehead pressed between his shoulder blades. When he spoke, his breath tickled Jason’s bare skin. “I meant what I said. I only want to be yours.” Jason shuddered. It still didn’t feel real, this fantasy, even though their every intimate touch hinged on that promise: that this was it, that unless they royally fucked things–and they might, Jason might–they were in this indefinitely. Tim’s stomach sliding against his back–was he on his tiptoes?—jerked him out of the reverie, his soft lips brushing Jason’s ear. “That means you’re mine, too.”

Jason grunted. His brain had, officially, stopped working. He spun in Tim’s arms to kiss him hard. In a fluid motion, Tim hopped up to hook his ankles behind Jason’s back and hold onto his neck, never once losing the connection of their mouths. Jason backed him into the island and sat him on the counter. He was all wiry muscle and thrumming heat, panting into Jason’s mouth like a hounded animal. Jason took him there, bright and impassioned, and their coffees went cold.

Afterwards, they had their brunch on the couch, Tim curled into his side so he could be fed because, in his words, he was “too exhausted from taking dick.” Jason grumbled that he did all the work, actually, and then Tim licked honey off of his palm and that was that.

“So, um…that promise I made. Before we had sex for the first time?” (The thing you brought up before we had sex this time, he almost said.) Jason tore the last piece of bread in half, smearing each side with a good amount of ricotta. Tim hummed, a piece of prosciutto hanging from his pinched fingers. “Guess I should get you a ring.”

Tim blinked. “For what?”

“...The ultimate form of monogamy? Marriage?”

“Damn,” Tim said.

“Yeah, you know. Seems like the logical next step if we’re never going to be with anyone else or—”

Bread crust crunched between Tim’s teeth. “But the finances. And you’re dead.”

“Doesn’t have to be on paper. Anyway, when we’re married I can kill the guy who did that to you.” He nodded in Tim’s direction, which wasn’t any more specific, but it had to be understood, because Tim froze mid-chew. “Or I could do it now. If only I knew who it was…”

He swallowed with a grimace. “That’s an interesting way of asking for more information. Starting with the marriage proposal and working your way up the list.”

“Down the list, baby bird, I’d rather put a ring on it.”

Tim tapped his foot. “I don’t condone murder. But I’ll tell you about it. About him. I just…I need to take a ride, first.” Was he angry? He seemed angry. Or maybe it was one of those other, secret emotions that Tim seemed to hoard like rare diseases or weird rocks. Jason had started the morning with the terrifying thought that Tim had walked out, and now he’d produced a line of questioning that lead to that exact outcome. Tim’s back, shoulders taut, and him, sitting on the couch with a tub of room-temperature ricotta, feeling like an asshole.

Those suspicions (that he was an asshole, and that Tim had run away) only worsened when Tim didn’t come back. The first hour was concerning, but the second, and the third…well, Jason didn’t promise his heart and soul to just anybody and then let them disappear, whether or not he was the one who had chased them off.

“O, can you get me a location on Tim's civilian Ducati?”

She hummed, a huff of white noise in his ear. “Last GPS ping was near a Wawa on 7th, about an hour ago. Seems like you keep losing track of your boy, Hood.”

That made him wince. “We're both very difficult people. Who spends an hour at a Wawa, anyway?” He pulled on his motorcycle gloves and shoved the key in the bike. It snarled to life, the arrogant roar of a lion that didn't need to stalk its prey to catch it.

“It just means he hasn't used the GPS. He might not still be there.”

“Yeah,” he revved the engine, “that's what I'm worried about.” As he peeled out, she assured him that Tim didn't stop being able to take care of himself because they started dating, which Jason knew . That wasn't the issue. The issue was that he suspected this was the Tim on the bridge, or in the b&b's bedroom, panicked out of his gourd with no one to keep him from sprinting off a ledge.

When he pulled up to the Wawa, his chest went taught. He breathed. Tim's cherry red Ducati sat parked a few spots past a street lamp. He hopped off his bike and his boot squished into an abandoned hoagie. Maybe he should just learn to text like a normal person.

Inspired, he did just that, sending an r u ok as he made his way into the store. He roamed up and down the aisles until his phone buzzed.

The reply was a location. It was not the Wawa that held Tim's bike, or what he suspected was formerly Tim's sandwich. He jogged back to his motorcycle. “O, I need someone to pick up Red's bike from the parking lot. He's not here.” 

“Backup?” 

“...Not yet.” He didn't know what he was dealing with, here, or if Tim had been picked up as Tim or Robin or for some unrelated (unlikely) reason. That also meant he was going in as Jason . Luckily, Jason Todd also carried.

The address was to a tea room that had been in The Hill for as long as he could remember. It had survived gang wars, Joker wars, tanking property values and now it persisted through gentrification as a quaint local spot . The dumplings were to die for.

It was open, still, and a few patrons dined on their various permutations of meat and potatoes and fermented vegetables and butter. So much butter. But no Tim.

A bald man built like a fridge stood from a barstool to greet him. “Pyotr.”

Ah, fuck. Good thing he didn't come as the Hood. One burned identity was enough. Fridge Guy nodded for him to go ahead, which, typical, a gun to his back immediately followed. He frisked Jason's shoulder holster as they walked. Not good. Backup would have been good. Maybe. Depending on the state Tim was in.

Fridge Guy directed him up stairs, to what he'd previously thought was an apartment. At the center of the room was Tim, wrists cuffed behind the back of a dining chair from downstairs. For the most part, he looked perturbed, an indignantly disinterested trust fund kid too busy and important to be here. 

“Petey,” Tim said, bitter enough to make Jason's back clench up. Tim was either still pissed about before, or freshly pissed about right now, or both. If he was really lucky (and that didn't happen very often, but it was getting better) then Tim was pissed at his captors and not Jason at all. 

“Hey, beautiful,” Jason said in his well-practiced Russian accent. Tim was clueing him into what identity they were working off of, which at least meant he probably didn't entirely want to fuck Jason over.

And since they were working with Pyotr , well, Jason had figured it was Aleksey from the moment he got that text. The bastard himself emerged from the back of the room gracelessly, accompanied by two other gangsters. “Pyotr, my friend. Long time no see.”

<You don’t have to speak English on his account> , he said, nodding to Tim.

Aleksey’s grin curled meanly. “I don’t want to speak my language with the likes of you.”

He shrugged. Fridge Guy dug the barrel into his back. “What are we doing here, Aleksey?”

Aleksey sauntered forward to clasp a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Jason wanted to throw something. “Tim Drake, young millionaire. What do you need to suck Pyotr’s cock for, eh?”

“It’s a nice cock,” Tim said flatly.

“Mm, and you’re his favorite bitch.” Tim rolled his eyes. Aleksey squeezed his shoulder until his mouth tightened up in a grimace. “Say, Pyotr, why don't you tell us why you were in Firenze?”

“Vacation, I told you.”

“Bull shit. You visit Firenze when we do, you come to Gotham when we do. You bring your whore everywhere.” Tim’s lip twitched. They were about to get obliterated as soon as Tim figured out how to get it done. “Is he a whore? Maybe he should show us.”

Fridge shoved him forward with the gun until he was only a few feet from Tim and Aleksey. Tim rolled his shoulders as much as he could with the cuffs and said, “Maybe I'm the one paying Pyotr for his company.”

Aleksey laughed. Fridge laughed. Jason thought that didn't sound like a bad idea. 

Aleksey wrenched Tim up by his hair. “I don't want to fuck Pyotr .” 

He and Tim exchanged a look. He nodded. Whatever went down after this was necessary. It wouldn't come to that , he was almost sure, but Tim apparently considered sex a more viable option than Jason ever did. Life or death, right?

“I don't want to fuck you ,” Tim said, grunting when Aleksey slammed him back into the chair. Fridge shoved Jason along to a piece of misshapen furniture by the wall.

No, not furniture. It was a board, suspended over a tub, and–

Not in front of Tim , was all he wanted to say. Blood rushed in his ears. Whatever happened to him, he didn't want Tim to see.

“Pyotr, you're going to tell us what you're doing here, and then I'm going to fuck your little whore in front of you.”

See, this is why I stopped working with you guys, he might have quipped, you don't even know my real name. “Babydoll, get outta here,” he said, accent slipping, as the other gangsters held him down against the board.

“Not even Russian,” Aleksey tsk'd . The gun was holstered, but he had three men standing over him, holding him down, and Aleksey had Tim. They threw a bag over his head. It stunk of old sweat and vomit.

Fridge dumped the water over his head. His lungs balloon, spasmed—a self-inflicted vice grip setting in, before violently rejecting what it could. They could have Tim. They could have Tim, and he couldn’t hear shit, and what if—what if—

The next thing he knew, he was up and gasping in the near-dark, coughing up foul water. He couldn’t hear anything over his own wheezing and ripped the bag off his head, blinking out the wet. The room was too dim, the lights too bright, for the seconds that had passed. Aleksey writhed on the floor at Tim’s feet, a broken-off chair leg through his arm. Jason’s foot brushed something hard, and he found the pile of handguns at his feet. Tim appeared in front of him, cupping his cheek, still hazy in his half-drowned vision. 

“It’s okay,” Jason slurred, and he didn’t care what had happened to the other men, didn’t care if Tim had shot them all. “You’re okay, baby bird.”

Tim snorted, a sound that seemed to follow too long after he moved. “That so?” He tugged the wet comm link out of Jason's ear. “O, Team Red requires immediate extraction from last location.” That’s cute, he thought, but Tim gave him a funny look and he was no longer sure if he had said it out loud. Clarity returned to him slowly, his heart still thudding away in his skull.

Ten seconds or ten minutes later, the window behind them shattered. Steph and Cass slipped through. They bantered with Tim, but Jason was too far out of his head to listen, instead set on squeezing his shoulders through the broken window and holding, if barely, onto the grapple they handed him. Someone asked if he was good. He wasn't sure if he answered. 

He found himself standing in his good shower, with Tim, a little bruised up but naked and scrubbing shampoo into Jason's scalp.

“I didn't want you to see,” he said, turning his lips to the inside of Tim's wrist.

Tim offered something of a shaky smile. “You've been quiet.” He ducked Jason's head to let the water rinse his hair. “Back with the living?”

“Never,” he said, and got a mouthful of water for it. He spat, one hand flying up to brace on the wall. “Fuck.”

 Tim reached behind him to shut off the water and led him out. They made their way to the bedroom, mounds on mounds of towels piled on the comforter and their bodies alike. He burrowed his face into Tim's bony chest, arms tight around his ribcage. 

“Did they touch you?”

“They wish.”

“...Did I tell them anything?”

Tim toyed with Jason’s hair. “Lots of cursing, not much else.”

“Honest?”

“Honest,” he said, and kissed the top of his ear. “You thought I couldn’t handle that?” It was that incessant, prying thing Tim did, as if Jason was in any state to answer. He needed answers , no matter what anyone else was feeling. (And maybe, maybe they had that in common.)

“Couldn’t forgive myself if they laid a hand on you. After all that bullshit. I knew you could get out wi–without me.”

“Turns out I could get out with you.” He paused his tracing of Jason’s earlobe, tapping twice, pensive. “And the waterboarding?”

Tim would probably hate anything he said. I know you’re still fragile and don’t want to admit it, I know a cigarette will send you into a panic attack, I know you can’t be left drunk on a bridge. “Why would I want you to see that, man?”

Tim huffed, relenting. He curled his arms around either side of Jason's head, cushioning him on one and boxing him with the other, like an oyster closing around its pearl.

That was a nice fantasy. Him, the pearl, and Tim, the oyster, and not the other way around.