Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now.

The sun is finishing its slow descent behind the skyline, spilling molten light  and painting faces gold.

The haze provides an almost cinematic glow, making the gothic look of the Gotham skyline appear ethereal in the distance. String lights dangle lazily between makeshift poles on Tim’s rooftop, swaying just enough in the warm spring breeze to give the illusion of magic. The neighbourhood hums below, but up here, it’s nothing but music and laughter and the occasional clink of a bottle against a glass.

There are twenty, maybe thirty people scattered across his rooftop now. Most Tim invited on purpose. Others were brought by others with a “You have to meet them, they’re cool, promise.” There are a few of Steph’s college friends, someone Cass met through a Krav Maga class, and a pair of random but inexplicably cool baristas Duke invited. Somehow, it works. Point is, no one’s caring about being conspicuous because for once in his life, Tim has a place that not also a safehouse. It’s just his home. He bought it half on impulse, half on the quiet need to finally put down roots somewhere that didn’t reek of legacy.

There’s laughter coming from the corner with the makeshift bar, and the faint scent of weed wafting from where Bart’s set himself up behind the decks. Whatever, Tim spent a lifetime fighting crime. He can afford to be a tad law-adjacent for once in his life.

The music is nice and chill – just what he asked for. Bart, miraculously not vibrating out of his skin for once, is hunched over his portable DJ setup like it’s a sacred altar. Brow furrowed in concentration, his floofy hair held back by a pink headband. This new hobby of his clearly suits him, and Tim’s not complaining. Much better than a Spotify playlist.

He makes his way over to the makeshift DJ booth, which is really just a folding table with the decks, Bart’s open MacBook, and a disturbing number of sticker-covered cables. Bart’s muttering something under his breath, probably about BPMs and transitions and “finding the soul of the moment” – he’s been insufferable about vibes lately.

“DJ Impulse,” Tim says, leaning in close so he doesn’t have to shout. “You good? You look like you’re trying to defuse a bomb.”

Bart startles, then grins up at him, cheeks a little pink from the sunset or maybe the edible he’d split with Cassie earlier. He fiddles with the gain knob and bops in time with the beat. “I am defusing a bomb,” he says. “A bomb made of feelings.”

Tim snorts. “Okay, choppy.”

Bart immediately looks wounded. “Wow. Wow, bro. I play one bad remix one time and I’m branded for life. I thought we were friends.”

“You’re wearing a headband and no shoes. I don’t think your credibility can get any lower.”

“I’m vibing,” Bart says dramatically. “You should try it sometime, Timothy. Re-lax.”

They both know it’s a defunct point – lately Tim’s been the most relaxed he’s ever been. Still, he laughs and slouches onto the milk crate Bart’s labelled ‘VIP Lounge’ and watches everyone move to the music. Some are dancing, some just swaying a little as they carry out their conversation. It fits the vibe – the music is a mix of chillwave, ambient soul, with the occasional disco track thrown in. Bart seems to love his disco.

He can hear Cassie’s laughter over the music, from where she’s lounging on a Papasan chair. Behind her, Steph is sitting up on the  brick ledge and doing a particularly shit job of braiding glowsticks into the other blonde’s hair. Tim watches as she leans down to whisper something in Cassie’s ear, before the two blondes lose their shit in giggles. Steph nearly falls off the edge of the roof from laughing too hard. Nearby, Kon is in conversation with Tam Fox not too far off, the former looking almost ridiculously massive as he towers over everyone else. It makes Tim smile though, seeing Tam here. Among all his other favourite people.

Yeah… Tim’s feeling quietly, stupidly happy right now.

The beat picks up a little, and Bart lets out a small whoop beside him. “Hooo boy, you hear that transition Timmy?”

Tim shrugs. He’s never really been able to tell the difference between good and less good mixing – can only pick out the really shit stuff. “Sure. It was, uh, smooth. Not choppy at all.”

Bart snorts. “You absolute square.”

“Hey, we’re on my roof, aren’t we? And you’re using the decks that I paid for.”

Bart shakes his head, already pulling a little tin from the front pocket of his hoodie. “Alright then, Mr. Rich. Keep an eye on things while I roll up will ya?”

Bart starts working quickly and easily, spreading out the papers and ground bud on the corner of the table. Deliberately not using his Speed, which Tim’s grateful for. While most people on the rooftop know who everyone else is, he’s not really looking forward to explaining to those two baristas why the DJ phases through the floor.

Tim turns to the decks, not really knowing what any of the buttons or knobs do beyond a baseline level of understanding. So he just sticks with the strategy of not fucking up. Adjusting the bass a tiny bit when he feels it fits. Hopefully.

“Yes Tim!” He looks up to see Kon hollering at him from the back, grin stretched wide. “Let me have your babies!”

It gets a laugh from even Tam, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows dancing in amusement. Tim just shakes his head at his idiot best friend, ignoring the stupid flip of his stomach before turning back to his low effort job.

“Dunzo, you have a lighter?” Bart asks a moment later, holding up his joint.

Tim sighs and fishes one out of his bumbag as Bart takes back over the music. The quality immediately picks back up. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Positively adorable,” Bart agrees, flicking the lighter and taking a long drag, eyes slipping half-lidded as he exhales smoke toward the sky.

Tim watches the plume drift upward, caught in a sunbeam like fog on film. The city stretches wide behind it, glittering in the last dregs of golden hour, and for a second, Tim feels suspended. Not floating exactly, but... lifted. Held. Like the rooftop is its own little world, humming softly on a different frequency. A moment in time, everything else forgotten outside his little bubble.

Bart bumps his hip into Tim’s on the way past, reclaiming the decks with the confidence of a man who once tried to remix a whale song into a club track (Tim was there, it was actually pretty sick). “Thanks for not ruining the set while I was gone,” he teases.

“I literally touched, like, one knob.”

“And you touched it beautifully,” Bart says, adjusting the EQ. “I’d say your talents are wasted, but honestly? You have too much trauma to be a DJ.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Anytime, broski.”

Tim takes his drink back from where he’d left it on the milk crate – something citrusy and vaguely fizzy handed to him by Duke’s friends earlier. He still doesn’t know their names, but one of them complimented his black nail polish earlier, so Tim’s declared them honorary citizens of the rooftop.

He meanders away from the booth, walking slow and easily through the clusters of people. Someone’s laid out an old rug in the middle of the roof, and a bunch of the younger crowd – Jon and Jay among them – are sprawled across it like sleepy cats, laughing at something on Jay’s phone. Jon waves when he spots him, and Tim gives a little wave back, in that friendly way when you see your kid brother’s best friend. Damian himself hadn’t thought Tim’s super awesome rooftop party was cool enough for him. Tim probably would’ve barred his entry anyway, just to be a little shit.

He spots Bernard a little ways off, standing beside Duke near the string lights, deep in conversation about something that has them both gesturing with their hands like amateur philosophers. For a moment, Tim watches him, just long enough to notice the way he laughs at something Duke says, easy and unguarded. There’s no pang in Tim’s chest, no twist of longing. Just a quiet, settled warmth. They’re good now. They made it out the other side intact, not as exes with baggage, but as people who once meant something to each other and now mean something different. It’s enough.

Tim’s friends are all here.

Now that the sun’s beginning to set properly, Steph’s started jumping groups to paint little doodles on people’s arms, using glow-in-the-dark ink. Tim watches as she puts the finishing touches on a mushroom and then a tiny UFO to Kon’s bicep.

Kon catches Tim’s eye and beams. Beams like a goddamn golden retriever.

“Tim, we’re doing shots!”

“We’re absolutely not doing shots,” Tam corrects, pulling a bottle of gin away from Kon before he can pour it into a Solo cup.

“Spoilsport,” Steph coos, but is already making a beeline for Cass. She turns – points her paintbrush at Tim. “Don’t think I’m not coming for you later, Boy Blunder.”

Tim flips her off as she slinks away. Turning back to Kon and Tam, he chuckles. “You okay, big guy?”

“Never better,” Kon says, reaching out to pull him into a heavy-limbed, unbalanced hug. “I love your rooftop. I love you. I love Tam.”

Jesus. Tim knows for a fact that Kon hasn’t had anything other than alcohol tonight – guy’s just high on life, apparently.

He lets himself get dragged down onto one of the outdoor cushions next to them, drink still in hand, warm breeze brushing over his skin. The music changes again – Bart’s layered something new, a steady rhythm over soft horns and crackly vinyl sounds. It’s the kind of thing you could float in. The kind of thing that holds you.

Everything around him hums with quiet, lazy joy. People leaning into each other, shoes kicked off, cups half full and glowing in the fading light. Conversations drift in and out like birdsong. No one’s trying too hard. Everyone is just there.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but god, it’s good to be here. Good to be this version of himself. No cowl, no strategy. Just Tim, in baggie clothes and scuffed boots, surrounded by the people who know him best.

And for once, he’s learning not to wait for the moment to end.

Then.

He’s always had critical moments in his life. Ones that can be looked back on as a clear nexus for change. The day at Haley’s Circus. Knocking on Bruce Wayne’s door. Even the decision to not kill Captain Boomerang. All of them and more, key moments in forming who Tim is, making him the person he is today.

The most recent crucible for Tim? That’s come with a lot of alcohol.

Tim’s drunk. Kon right there with him. Bart and Cassie too. And yet the mood is kinda shit, mostly because as it turns out, Kon is a bit of a sad drunk.

It’s still kind of a good time, though? Tim’s not sure. What was originally meant to be a long-awaited catch-up between the four of them has instead become something else. The main perpetrator of that has been Tim, to be fair. There aren’t a huge amount of positives he can say in response to, “How’ve you been”. He’s also (mostly) the one to blame for why they haven’t all hung out together recently. Because, you know, Gotham.

Fucking Gotham.

“I think you’re burnt out, sweetie,” Cassie had said earlier in the evening. Tim hadn’t refuted it.

It’s not like he hasn’t realised it before now, even if Tim hadn’t necessarily put the thoughts into words yet. And it makes sense. Gotham definitely hasn’t gotten any quieter. If anything, things seem to be going downhill, even with more and more vigilantes showing up to join the fight. And after a month of trailing Two-Face, getting attacked by ninjas (again), and helping deal with yet another mass Arkham breakout, it’s safe to say that Tim’s not exactly feeling his best.

“Do you guys ever wonder when this is all gonna end?” They all look up when Bart asks the question. He’s upside down on the sofa. Legs up in the air and head hanging off the edge. Hair all fluffy and long. It’s a cute look. Bart’s such a cutie.

“Like, life?” Kon’s eyebrows twist adorably.

“No, bro. Us.”

“I don’t get it.”

“We’re, like, in-between. Don’t fit in to the grand scheme, you know?”

“In, like, the world?”

“In superheroes,” Bart elaborates, but then frowns. “But also in the world. Yes.”

Kon’s nodding along now, but Tim’s still having a hard time following along. He usually does with Bart, especially when the guy gets all philosophical. A quick glance at Cassie shows that she’s on her phone. Probably tuning out the idiot-boys. Which, fair enough.

“… golden generation, right?” Bart’s saying. “Nightwing and all the Titans. They’re basically the Justice League, these days. Then there’s the kinda evil peeps. Red Hood and his delinquents, y’know? And then we were meant to be the next generation. Except now the next next generation has, like, hopped over us.”

Oh. Ohhhh. Tim can kind of see where Bart’s going with this. Even if he is shitfaced and slurring his words. It’s not something he himself has voiced into actual verbiage before, not to his friends. But the shift with Damian back in Gotham is impossible to deny. Especially given that the kid’s tenure as Robin began with Dick kicking Tim out of the role. He’s been replaced from day one.

“Pretty sure Jon is actually older than me, now,” Kon mumbles.

That has Cassie drawn back into the conversation. She’s looking up from her phone at them. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah. There was this whole time dilation thing. He was in a volcano with Ultraman. It’s weird. We actually don’t really know who’s older out of us. Lois and Clark are pretty torn up about it, so I haven’t pressed about finding out.”

Tim’s heard all this before, of course. Not just from Kon, but from Damian too. Because contrary to what most people seem to think, he and Damian do have some kind of working relationship. At least a bit. In between throwing ninja stars at each other. But it’s clear that Cassie and Bart aren’t in the loop. That’s probably intentional, given how recent it is and how the Kents are still adjusting.

Cassie’s eyes are wide. “Fuck. I bet.”

“And I think he’s going to take on the role of Superman,” Kon continues. Tim watches as he frowns. “I get it, right? He’s Clark’s son. Of course it was gonna go to him. But…” he pauses, then sighs and flops back into the couch. “Forget it, it’s stupid.”

“No it’s not,” Tim finally speaks up. “You feel like he’s taken your place.”

“Tim!”

“It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault. Definitely not Jon’s. What happened to him was horrible,” he continues. It’s true. Regardless of what happened, the shift has been more evident of late. The elevation of Jon and Damian. Not to mention Wallace West, and even Yara or whatever that new Amazon’s name is. Tim’s pretty sure she’s using the name Wonder Girl these days too. He doesn’t know how Cassie feels about that. He hasn’t had the guts to ask.

“… Jon used to be so small,” Kon says eventually. “I helped him with homework.”

Bart grunts and rolls over on the sofa. So that he’s at least partially the right way up. “Dude, there’s two Wally West’s now. So now I gotta live up to one that’s older than me, and there’s another one that’s younger. Barry already calls him for all kind of shit.”

“Someone I saved the other day asked me who I was,” Cassie adds. She takes a swig of her beer. “And for a moment, I hesitated, because I actually wasn’t sure if I was meant to be Wonder Girl anymore.”

The silence settles over them. Tim wonders what they’re thinking. If it’s the same as what’s jumping into his brain.

Eventually, Bart coughs. “I dunno, guys. I love being a hero. Or at least, I did? And now I just think sometimes that I should, I dunno…”

“Retire?” Tim adds.

And just like that, every head in the room turns to him.

He’d been kidding. Kind of. In the way where Tim had been daring anyone to push back on him. Because he’d have been lying to say the thought hadn’t crossed his mind previously. Especially in the recent past, with everything from Dick taking the Robin mantle from him, to losing his spleen. A lot’s happened, and it’s been adding up. Hell, Tim’s not even twenty-one yet, and he already feels like he’s burning the rope from either end.

Some days, it doesn’t feel like there’s much rope left.

And it’s not like Tim ends up retiring, properly. But after a long heart-to-heart with his friends and a lot of booze, something changes. He’ll never be able to just stop being Red Robin. But it’s clear that the way things are right now? They’re not sustainable.

So Tim sends Bruce an email the next day, providing two weeks’ notice that he’ll be stepping down as CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

He moves out of the manor shortly after. Not dramatically. No slamming doors or shouting matches. Just a quiet exit, a few boxes shoved into the back of a rented van, and Alfred passing him a cookbook that Tim will probably never touch, with that quiet little nod that says I understand, but I’ll worry about you anyway.

Burnside isn’t far. Just across the river, if you squint. But it feels far. There are fewer gargoyles, for one. More oat milk. Everyone has tattoos and rents their bedrooms out as podcasting studios. And Tim gets to disappear a little. Not completely. Just enough. Babs had been right when she’d recommended the area – Burnside suits him. It’s weird and alive and aggressively full of gluten-free bakeries. People rollerblade here unironically. He loves it.

The building he buys is old and creaky, which only adds to its charm. Brick facade. Plants growing out of the gutters on the roof above. It’s perfect.

And Red Robin? It becomes a part-time gig. Two nights a week at baseline. Maybe a third if Damian’s out of town and there’s a gap in the patrol schedule. But most nights, Tim doesn’t touch the suit. He makes dinner. He reads actual books. He leaves his comms offline and goes for walks without looking over his shoulder.

Some people in the family – mostly Dick – are worried, Tim can tell. But the plus-side of moving to Burnside is that it’s on the opposite side of Gotham to Bludhaven. And Tim’s trying something new: it’s called not being constantly having to put out fires. Or more accurately, letting other people handle a few fires while he maybe learns to make toast.

(It’s not that he couldn’t before, it’s just that toast is really easy to burn when you’re sleep-deprived with minimal life skills while also trying to review corporate contracts at the same time).

Still, it’s nice, this version of life. Quiet. Unstructured. Full of strange little things that don’t involve blood or death or debriefs. There’s a bakery down the street that sells tiny, over-glazed croissants shaped like bats. His neighbour’s cat keeps sneaking into his windows and sitting on his keyboard like it pays rent. He listens to music now, sometimes just for the hell of it. Last week, Tim spent forty minutes reorganising his spice rack (he has spices, now!) and felt a profound, almost sensual feeling of control.

It may not be perfect, entirely. But it’s a start.

Now.

The wind’s sharp tonight, which is unfortunate, because it means Tim can actually feel the sides of his head. His freshly buzzed mullet fade doesn’t do much for warmth. The faded cut above his ears is not in the slightest bit insulating in the winter chill, not to mention it looks plain stupid, in Tim’s personal opinion.

It’s Cassie’s fault. Technically, he lost a bet – Tim still maintains that Kon used his TTK to bounce the bottle off the rim of the bin – and so now he has a mullet. With a fade. Certainly a choice.

He grapples to the next rooftop over, landing easily. Burnside is quieter than Gotham proper, which honestly works perfect with his cut-back patrol schedule. Less mob wars, more crimes of passion and hobbyist villainy. Honestly, kind of refreshing.

Which is why he’s not even surprised when someone screams, “Hand it over!”

Tim glances over the edge of the rooftop and is suddenly unable to hold back a grin. “Oh my god.”

Best. Night. Ever.

There he is: Killer Moth. Full rig and everything, glowing compound eyes, wings flapping all majestically and shit. He’s standing on top of a parked food truck, ranting at a confused couple holding bubble tea.

Tim gives it a beat to properly absorb the scene. Then, over the comm, he deadpans, “Oracle, I’ve made contact with Killer Moth. Requesting a flyswatter.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before dropping down behind the food truck. Then vaults up to the roof in a blink. Moth sees him and immediately strikes a pose. Behind him, the couple he was ‘mugging’ simply turn and walk away, bubble tea intact.

“Well, well, well,” Killer Moth says, voice all nasal. Bro should really invest in a decongestant pray. “If it isn’t the bat brat with a bird complex.”

Tim tilts his head. “You sound like you practiced that in the mirror, Drury. How many takes?”

“Sh-shut up!”

“Right,” Tim says. “Also,” he gestures vaguely at Moth’s helmet, “did you happen to get a haircut under there?”

Killer Moth blinks, thrown. “What? No.”

“Shame. Could’ve been twins.”

“You’re mocking me.”

Tim grins under his mask. “Sorry, force of habit. Occupational hazard. It’s good to see you in the wild again, Drury. Honestly, I was getting sick of Condiment King.”

Killer Moth lunges with a shriek that’s… not intimidating, actually.

Tim dodges easily, ducks under the swooping punch, and rolls behind him. He taps the button on his staff, extending it with a satisfying snap.

“Listen,” Tim calls, spinning the staff lazily in one hand. “It’s not personal. I’m just very tired, slightly hungover, and stuck looking like a Hot Topic reject until my hair grows out again. Let me have this.”

Killer Moth whirls with a flurry of wings, firing a sticky orange glob from his wrist launcher. Tim flips sideways, the goop splattering harmlessly on the roof behind him. He lands in a crouch and frowns at it.

“Is that liquid cheese?”

“It’s adhesive resin from my cocoon gun!”

“It smells like Cheez Whiz.”

Moth snarls. “Fuck you!”

Tim springs forward, sweeping his staff low and catching Moth across the ankles. The man flails, hits the rooftop hard, and starts writhing like an overturned beetle. Tim plants a boot on his chest and leans down.

“Any final buzzwords?”

“Eat shit, bat brat!”

Tim squints. “Damn, okay. That was a letdown.”

He hits the button on his gauntlet and calls in the GCPD pickup. They’ll take their sweet time, not that it really matters. Tim’s pretty sure the bubble tea couple had Moth covered in the first place. Still, he zip-ties the man’s wrists and ankles, before double-checking that his wingpack is deactivated.

As he does so, Killer Moth grumbles, “Can’t believe I got taken down by some jackass who looks like a queer-coded video game side character.”

… Damn. Killer Moth from the top rope. Tim doesn’t even have a comeback for that one. You know what? He’s gonna let Drury get the last word in. Guy deserves a break. Besides, the police lights start to paint the far buildings in red and blue. It wouldn’t be the best look to get caught insulting Killer Moth in front of the boys. Talk about stooping low.

“Well you got me there, man. Make sure to tell the folks in Arkham that mullets are back in, will ya?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before firing his grapple gun, shooting back up to the rooftop to watch the GCPD take the rogue in.

Tim’s halfway through filming Moth’s tantrum (like, actual kicking and screaming going on) on his phone when he feels it. That prickle down the back of his neck. That shift in pressure.

He sighs, doesn’t bother turning around.

“Hey, B.”

A pause. Then Bruce’s voice, low and emotionless from the shadows. “You left a security feed running from across the street.”

“Right.” Tim winces. That explains the text he just got from Alfred about ensuring the family’s public image remains marginally dignified. He wasn’t trying to be mean, honest.

Another pause.

“You’ve gotten a haircut.”

Fucking dammit. “Don’t you start too. I can only sink so much lower after Moth.”

Bruce steps into view, his cape catching on a gust of wind in the way that’s always just the right side of fucking awesome. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just looks down at the street below, no doubt taking in the ruined food truck and cocoon-goop still steaming on the asphalt, then finally back to Tim.

Tim sighs again. Points at his hair. “I lost a bet, okay?”

“I can see that,” Bruce says, calm. Observational. That subtle, judgment-free Bat-hum that means noted, but I’m not mad about it. Damn, Tim had been hoping for a better reaction. Still, they fall into a comfortable silence, perched side by side on the edge of the rooftop. Bruce stands like a statue. Tim leans on his staff, no doubt looking like someone a little more short on dignity.

“Burnside’s quiet lately,” Bruce says after a while.

“Quieter than the Narrows,” Tim agrees. “But, like, in a good way. More aggressive dating app crimes than organised crime.”

Bruce nods slowly. “I noticed you’ve been patrolling less.”

There it is. Tim braces for it –  the concern, the lecture, the “you’re letting your training go to waste” speech. Damian had definitely levelled him with that, which had actually been kind of cute. Showed he cared, in his weird little fucked-up ninja way.

“Yeah, I have,” Tim says eventually. He doesn’t elaborate. Just lets the weight of that yeah hang in the air. It’s not defensive, not apologetic. Just real.

Bruce surprises him by saying nothing at all.

They listen to the sirens. One fades off. A dog barks in the distance.

Tim, unable to take the silence any longer, side-eyes him. “What, no follow-up interrogation? No twelve-step plan to get me back on nightly patrols?”

Bruce’s mouth twitches. The faintest trace of something that could be a smile or gas.

“You seem... content,” Bruce says finally. As if he’s testing the word on his tongue.

Tim blinks. “I, er, yeah? I guess I kind of am.”

“Hn.”

Another silence. This one easier.

“I bought the building, you know,” Tim adds, not sure why he wants Bruce to know this. “Not just my loft. I own the whole thing. Converted the bottom two floors into co-working space, opened it up to local kids. No cameras. Just free internet, coffee, power strips. And chairs with backs. I, er, wanna build something here.”

Bruce turns to look at him now, properly. “That’s good,” he says. Quiet but full of approval. “That’s… really good, Tim.”

Tim shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his ears are turning red behind the edge of his domino mask. He spins his staff once, mostly to fidget.

“I’m not quitting,” he says, more out of reflex than anything. “Just… changing things up, you know. Focusing on other stuff and making sure I don’t go crazy in the process.”

Bruce’s response is immediate. “You don’t have to explain yourself. The way things were previously… that’s not what I wanted for you. For any of you.”

Tim swallows. Suddenly his dumb haircut feels like a non-issue. “You saying you’re proud of me, old man?”

Bruce grunts, which Tim will absolutely interpret as yes and please never make me say that word out loud.

They sit in silence again. Gotham spreads out below them, cracked and glittering. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, then cuts off mid-tone like even crime itself called it a night.

“I was patrolling with Cass tonight,” Bruce says eventually.

“Oh my god, don’t believe whatever she-”

“She says you and Impulse are quite friendly these days.”

Tim slaps a hand to his face. It’d been one quick kiss. One. And Bart kisses everyone. “I hate this family. Full of gossips.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that. But Tim sees the smile. Just barely, but it’s there. The kind you have to know him to notice.

Eventually, Bruce claps a hand lightly on Tim’s shoulder –  brief, grounding, warm – then steps back into the shadows. “You’re doing well, Tim,” he says before disappearing fully into the night.

Tim stays on the rooftop a few minutes longer, watching the sky, cheeks warm under the mask.

He presses a finger to his comm. “Oracle, cancel that flyswatter request.”

A beat. Then Babs replies, amused, “Copy that. Also, Alfred says he saw the footage. He’s sending you pomade recs for your hair.”

“Fucking great,” Tim mutters, and fires his grapple.

Even so, he’s smiling all the way home.

Chapter Text

Now.

He doesn’t think his chicken is supposed to look like this.

Tim frowns and looks back at the recipe on his tablet. Then back down at the frypan. The chicken is looking more than a little sad. Sitting in a big puddle of juice that wasn’t there when he put it all in the pan at the start. It looks nothing like the picture on the recipe – a colourful looking Thai stir fry with pieces of deliciously crispy chicken. How yum.

Putting the tongs down, Tim goes back to the recipe. Reads through it yet another time. He’s already committed the whole thing to memory, but this is the problem. It just says, “Add the chicken and cook until browned.” Which it is decidedly not at the moment. It looks more sweaty than browned. Gross.

Maybe he just needs to cook it a bit longer?

Tim resists the urge to call Alfred (again). He’s been operating on the idea that he’d rather things go horribly wrong and just deal with it. Maybe a bad call, but oh well.

There’s even more chicken juice now. Maybe adding the vegetables will soak it up?

“Die, you fucking cocksucker!”

It doesn’t help that he also has to bear witness to the somewhat sad sight of Kon sitting on the floor in front of his TV, yelling into a headset as he button mashes Mortal Kombat. And subsequently being destroyed by someone, who Tim can only assume is a twelve year-old on the other end of the call.

Tim adds the broccoli anyway, because at this point it can’t really get worse.

From the living room, there’s another war cry.

“I blocked that! You saw it, right? Tim! Tell me you saw it!”

Tim blinks through the steam. “Kon, you’re yelling at some kid and you’ve been losing for the past hour.”

“He’s cheating,” Kon growls. “He knows the combos. Who has time to learn the combos in this economy?”

The stir fry is a sad, pale affair now. Mushy veggies floating in hot chicken Gatorade. Tim stirs it with a kind of detached, doomed acceptance.

Kon throws his head back with a wail of frustration, causing his tank top to ride even further up his chest. Which… Tim does not look at. Nope. He doesn’t. Definitely not. He’s mature and composed and focusing on his disgusting stir fry.

Except, now that he’s turned around again, Kon is sprawled dramatically across the rug, all broad shoulders and long limbs, the tank top clinging to every inch of his stupidly big torso. Kon’s started wearing singlets a lot, these days. And his sweatpants – grey, baggy and low-slung – aren’t doing much to help. Nothing should be that baggy and yet that… revealing. Why Kon feels the needs to go commando, Tim doesn’t know. Probably to keep torturing him with that.

Tim turns back to the stove and pokes the chicken again. It jiggles. Christ.

“Tim,” Kon moans dramatically, sprawled on his back now. “I’m dying. This asswipe is going to find my IP address and dox me. Tell all my followers I’m bad at Mortal Kombat.”

He rolls his eyes. Doesn’t need to tell Kon that they’re on his IP address, and that it’s more than secure given Tim’s line of work. Even for Mortal Kombat purposes. “You have fifteen followers, and all of us know you’re shit already.”

“That’s so mean.”

“You’ll survive.”

A pause. Then, “Fuck dude, I’m so sick of getting murdered by preteen incels.” Kon rolls back over onto his stomach, kicking his feet in the air like he’s on a sleepover phone call with his crush. Tim hates how charming it is. Hates even more how his tank top rides up just a little more, exposing the small of his back and oh no.

Tim goes back to stirring his swamp stir fry aggressively. It’s now grey. Somehow. There’s a loud splat as a piece of zucchini launches itself out of the pan and lands on the floor with a wet thunk. A desperate bid for freedom out of the swamp. Tim respects it’s hustle.

“How’s dinner going?” Kon calls cheerfully without looking up.

“Absolutely tragically,” Tim mutters. He sighs, then turns off the heat entirely, staring down into the pan like it personally betrayed him. “This looks like something a divorced middle-aged dad makes in a microwave.”

Kon groans and throws the controller to the side. Tim can only assume that it’s his character that’s dismembered on the screen, given how Kon pulls off the headset and pouts. His hair shouldn’t look that cute, all flattened in some areas and ruffled in others. Tim watches as Kon rolls to his feet and proceeds to hover over to the kitchen, a foot off the ground as he eyes the pan.

“It looks fine. A little… damp. But edible.”

“You are not eating this,” Tim says, pulling the pan off the stove and setting it on a wooden board. “I’m pretty sure it counts as biological warfare.”

Kon parks himself on one of the stools and leans on the counter, forearms braced, tank top now straining over his pecs. Christ. He grabs a fork and pokes at the contents of the wok.

Tim eyes him. “Don’t.”

“Eh, I’m a Super, I’ll survive.”

“Kon, I’m serious-”

Kon takes a bite.

There is a pause.

A long, meaningful pause.

Then Kon swallows and says, “Hmm.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “Hmm? That’s not a word.”

“It’s… not terrible,” Kon says, clearly lying through his teeth.

“Liar.”

“I’ve had worse.”

They lapse into silence for a moment. The pan gurgles ominously, somehow. It’s off the stove. The chicken must still be alive then, given how inadequately Tim seems to have cooked it. Outside, the glow of streetlights paints Burnside in soft amber. Someone in the apartment block across the street is definitely blasting Careless Whisper. Classic.

Kon slumps forward and rests his head on the counter, turning it sideways so he can look at Tim.

“You tried to cook for me.”

Tim doesn’t look up from scrubbing the cooktop. “I tried to cook, period. Clearly a mistake”

“But for me,” Kon insists, grinning now, voice low and fond. “That’s so cute.”

“You showed up unannounced to play on my PlayStation.”

“Really cute.”

“I will feed you this entire pan of sludge.”

Kon hums, still grinning. “Promise, Daddy?”

“Jesus, shut the fuck up.”

Kon crows and waggles his eyes mischievously. “Like that, huh? I knew you had a dirty little secret. Bart was convinced it was a punishment kink.”

“My dirty little secret is that I just tried to cook meat in its own sweat. That’s the tragedy here.”

Kon beams at him. Like a puppy. “Tried to cook for me, though.”

Tim glares.

And then, despite himself, smiles too.

Then.

“You know… some might call this an acute grief reaction.”

Tim ignores her. Focuses on the buzzing needle, the gentle sear over his forearm. It actually feels nice, in that fucked-up kind of way that pain sometime does. He’s never been too afraid of pain, even back before the Robin days. Probably a sign of something a little wrong with him. Tim’s sure that if he voiced that aloud, he’d probably get compared to someone he doesn’t want to. Bruce. Jason. Fucking Midnighter or someone else totally batshit.

Ah well.

“I mean, it’s not like I think you’re in acute crisis or anything,” Steph continues. She’s sitting backwards on her chair, slumped over the back and arching an eyebrow at him. “But the timing of this is definitely suspicious for a maladaptive coping mechanism.”

Fucking hell. Why anyone thought it would be a good idea for Stephanie Brown to study psychology, Tim has no clue. He just got done hearing all about his supposed cluster B personality disorder. Still, he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead just focuses on the needle boring into his skin.

Steph scoffs. “You can sit there and ignore me all you want, but we both know I’m right. This is some hard meltdown shit.”

The tattoo artist, for her part, doesn’t react to Steph’s antics

“I’ve been wanting this for a long time,” Tim says, mostly to shut her up.

It, sadly, does not work.

Because Steph just grins like a cat who got the cream. Or the reaction, assumably. “Sure… but you’re also the definition of someone who never does anything for themselves. And in the space of one week, you’ve moved house, quit your job and are now getting a break-up tattoo.”

“It’s not a-” Tim takes a breath through his nose. The tattoo artist glares at him as he holds back an annoyed twitch. Fair enough. “Sorry.” He turns back to Steph. “I’m doing this for me.”

“And I’ll be here for all of that ‘Yas Queen’ shit, sure. But Tim… have you thought about what B’s gonna say?”

Ugh, this. Yes he has thought about it. He knows that it’s not going to go over well, what with the whole “no identifying marks” rule. The only other person in the family that has tattoos (that Tim knows of) is Jason. And he’s… well, Jason. Tim’s pretty sure that at least a few of the guy’s tattoos are in direct response to Bruce trying to enforce that rule. But Tim isn’t Jason, and contrary to what most people think, he doesn’t like arguing with Bruce.

Besides, Steph’s wrong in more ways than one. Because it hadn’t been a dramatic breakup. Not even a bad one, either. Just Bernard, sitting across from him in that cozy café they always went to, looking tired and done. Asking if Tim could ever just be with him, instead of always being adjacent. That had been the exact word Bernard had used – adjacent. Tim hadn’t really known what it meant at the time.

Tim had said, “I don’t know,” and that had been that.

So yeah. Steph’s wrong – the tattoo isn’t some maladaptive coping mechanism. What it is instead, is a reminder that he’s still figuring things out. And that maybe he jumped headfirst into a relationship just a little too quick after the big bi revelation. But it’d been so exciting, to be fair. And it still is, even if Tim’s now down one cute blonde boy that he thinks he kind of loved. Fuck.

“All done,” the artist says suddenly, stepping back. Loose strings of brown hair fall from her ponytail. “You can move now.”

No-nonsense and to the point. Tim appreciates that. It doesn’t hurt that she’s cute, either. Looking down at the simple outline of the bird now adorning his forearm, he grins. It’s a little on the nose (okay, more than a little), but it’s not like there’s anything else he wouldn’t have instead. Robin is a part of him.

“It’ll be fine,” Tim shoots over at Steph, in answer to her previous question about Bruce. Turning back to the tattoo artist, he flashes her his most charming ‘Timothy Drake’ smile. “Thank you, it’s exactly how I pictured it.”

She nods sharply, before reaching to grab a box of something that looks like cling wrap, but is different. Huh, interesting. “Make sure to keep the area clean over the next couple of days. No getting it wet or exposing it to the elements, okay?”

Before he can answer, Steph snorts. “Hear that, Timmy? Avoid the elements.”

“Ignore her, please. I do,” Tim says sweetly to the artist. She doesn’t look impressed.

Now.

“You are not wearing that,” Steph says, flatly, as she takes a long sip from a bright pink can of vodka-something and flops dramatically onto Tim’s one couch like she owns the place (she kind of does). Even after all this time, Tim’s still severely lacking in the furniture department. He’s been trying to work up the courage to go to Ikea.

He pauses mid-shirt change, caught with his head half-stuck inside a black tee. “Why not?” His voice is muffled through the fabric.

“Because you look like you’re about to perform sad industrial synth-pop in a church basement,” she says, pointing at him with her drink. “What happened to your that mesh top with the holes?”

“That was Bart’s, actually. And he took it back. Said he needed it for a gig.”

“Sad,” Steph says. “For you, I mean. Looks like that boy might get his wish for gangbang central after all. You still aren’t wearing that piece of crap though.”

Frowning, Tim yanks the shirt off again, hair sticking up from static as he does so. “You told me to wear something tight. I don’t exactly have many options here.”

“Yeah, tight and with some personality. I don’t want to be seen in the company of fuckboy #5.”

“Yeah, s’pose you gotta change things up once in a while, huh?” Tim shoots back, the snickers when he has to dodge a pillow thrown at his face.

“I will not be slut shamed by you, of all people. Now go find something that both has personality and shows off your muscles, and some pants at least two sizes tighter.”

Tim knows better than to argue with Steph. He doesn’t shy away from peeling his pants off in front of her either, flipping her the bird as he walks back towards his room in just his underwear. She’s seen all he has to offer and more. Many, many times.

Thankfully, Bart hasn’t pillaged his entire wardrobe – most of which Bart himself had bought for Tim in the last month or so. Turns out the little imp has style, who knew? And to be fair, Steph is right about the tight shirt he picks – this one with some colour. The fabric hugs him in all the right ways, even if it’s not Tim’s first choice of outfit by any means. He’s much more comfortable wearing baggy shirts and skate shoes any day of the week.

Steph whistles low when he comes back in. “Hell yeah. That’s the look. Half the dance floor will be betting you cry when you’re fucked.”

Tim deadpans, “Don’t you?”

“Absolutely. But only for dramatic effect. You should so wear this next time you see your latest obsession.”

He stiffens, just slightly. “Nope. We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we’re definitely doing this,” Steph hums. “Big. Alien. Kinda dumb. You know the one. Titties bigger than mine, oh and not to mention – your best friend. What is wrong with you, Tim?”

He covers his face with one hand. “It’s like he insists on torturing me too. Sweatpants with no underwear! I practically had to duck when he turned earlier today.”

Steph howls. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Kon is unbelievable,” Tim mutters. “It’s like if an Abercrombie model got left in the sun too long and then suddenly developed a moral compass. Cute and kind, ugh. And he smells like citrus.”

Steph snorts into her drink. “That’s because he uses children’s shampoo. I saw it in his bathroom.”

“Since when were you in Kon’s bathroom?”

“Since we were originally planning a Bernard-shaped intervention for you, until you suddenly went rogue and did our work yourself.”

“… Fair.”

“Speaking of friends, we’re meeting some people I know there,” Steph says. “One of the girls has neck tattoos. You are obligated to fall in love.”

“I’m not falling in love with anyone tonight,” Tim mutters.

“Then at least make out with me,” Steph sighs, holding out her arms like a very dramatic invitation. “For morale.”

Tim stares at her over the rim of his glass, then grins. “You just want an excuse to touch my butt.”

“Uh, yeah. Obviously.”

He walks over and straddles her lap, because they’ve never cared about boundaries, not really. Steph loops her arms around his waist like it’s instinct. Her lips find his. It’s slow and messy, more about fun than finesse. Her fingers trail through his hair, and then trail down to settle, predictably, on his ass. Tim for his part, doesn’t hesitate to let his hands creep up. Steph smiles into the kiss when he palms her tits through her top.

“You’re such a perv,” she breathes, amused.

“Shut up, you like it.”

She does.

A moment later, they pull back, slightly breathless.

Steph’s lipstick is smudged and Tim feels faintly dazed in the way he always does after kissing her – like it activated a very specific brain cell that went dormant post-breakup but is still available for emergency use, in limited quantities only.

“You’re the worst ex ever,” Tim says, flopping off her.

“You say that,” Steph replies, plucking her drink off the table again to have another sip, “but you were the one slipping me the tongue.”

Tim smirks. “Because I was trying to be polite.”

“Mm-hmm.” She taps his cheek with two fingers. “Go brush your hair, slut. Cass is gonna be here any minute.”

Tim blinks. “Did you just kiss me and then call me a slut?”

“I’ve earned the right.”

He grins and stands, adjusting his top. “You’re lucky I have a praise kink.”

“Bodes well for you that you see ‘slut’ as a compliment, then,” she shouts as he disappears into the bathroom. Both to fix his hair and rearrange down below.

A knock sounds on the front door. Three short taps, a pause, then two more.

“That’s Cass,” Steph calls. “Ready to go ruin someone’s life?”

Tim snorts, dashing back from the bathroom. “Always.”

The club is a riot of colour and noise.

Purple light streaks across the ceiling, gold lasers slice the haze, and someone’s spilling glitter from a little bottle like it’s fairy dust. The music is aggressively electronic – something bassy and wordless – and Steph immediately declares it her new religion.

Tim doesn’t argue. He’s too busy trying not to spill his drink while Steph and Duke (who Tim didn’t even realise was coming as well) yank him onto the dancefloor with absolutely no mercy.

Cass is already there ahead of them, moving like the music was written specifically for her body. It’s far from the ballet she normally dances, but every bit as magnetic to watch. One of Steph’s college friends is trying to keep up with her and failing valiantly. Duke launches into a muzz that he probably copied from TikTok and then proceeds to freestyle it into oblivion, the absolute madlad.

Tim leans toward Steph, “Did you know Duke had moves?”

Steph’s eyes are wide. “I thought he was like… a literal baby.”

“He’s a menace. We created a monster.”

“God, we really did.”

More of Steph’s friends join the fray, drinks in hand, laughing, glitter on their cheeks. One of them drapes a glowstick necklace around Tim’s neck. Another plants a big, sweaty kiss on Steph’s cheek, and she just grins, feral and delighted. She looks really happy. Tim loves to see that.

For a while, it’s just bodies and rhythm and joy. No missions. No masks. No expectations. Just idiots being ridiculous under coloured lights, with the bass shaking their bones and the freedom of now soaking through their skin. Tim loses track of time. At some point, someone spills a drink on his shoe. Steph fake cries about it.

They regroup by a fan near the bar eventually, faces flushed and hair damp with sweat.

“I’m sweating everywhere,” Tim declares, sagging against a wall.

“That’s good,” Duke says, passing him a water. “Temperature control is for suckers.”

The bass is thudding through Tim’s chest like a second heartbeat, all neon with the vague scent of vodka Red Bulls in the air. He can feel himself grinning like a madman, and vaguely aware that his stupid tight shirt is showing off far more of him than he’s normally comfortable with.

He’s just lifting his vodka soda for a sip when someone steps into his peripheral vision. Tall, flaming red hair and holy shit – yeah, Tim recognises who that is.

Tim knows Roy Harper, kind of. Dick’s old team member. And Jason’s… friend? Occasional partner in war crimes? Unconfirmed situationship? It’s all very vague and morally ambiguous, which is exactly what Tim does not need in his life. He doesn’t know much else, other than the guy’s a dead-eye with a bow, occasionally goes by Arsenal, and has a penchant for explosives.

And apparently –  just to make things worse – Roy is hot.

Like really fucking hot.

He’s wearing ripped black jeans and a sleeveless shirt that shows off tattooed arms in all their glory. Full sleeves. Reds and blacks and thick lines, old scars disappearing into ink. He’s got helix piercings on both ears, a chain hanging from his belt loop, and a smile like he knows Tim’s whole browser history. His flaming hair is messy and uneven, like someone got bored halfway through cutting it. Tim hates how much that does for him.

Roy takes one long, slow look at Tim – at his smudged eyeliner, at the clingy shirt, at the way he’s probably failing not to be visibly hot and bothered – and then grins, feral and sharp.

“Well, hey,” Roy drawls as he steps into Tim’s space, loud enough to be heard over the music. “Didn’t think baby bats were allowed out past curfew.”

Tim lifts a brow, half amused and half already annoyed. “Didn’t think washed-up sidekicks were allowed in Gotham without a ticket.”

He looks around to see that Steph, Cass and Duke have retreated onto the dancefloor but are still watching. Cowards. He can still see Duke wiggling eyebrows at him, the idiot.

Roy whistles, impressed. “You know, Jay didn’t mention you were fun.”

“Jason wants to dropkick me into a wall,” Tim says, sipping his drink. “So I’m guessing he left out a lot of details.”

Roy’s gaze flicks down, lingering on Tim’s collarbones, then back up with a lazy, appreciative smirk. “He definitely didn’t mention the seedy mullet situation you’ve got going on. It’s tragic. I love it.”

Tim ignores that. “What’re you even doing here, Harper?”

The bass picks up a bit, meaning that Roy has to lean in closer to reply. Or at least, that’s the excuse they’re mutually running with. “What? A guy can’t come for a drink and let loose?”

Tim shivers at the feeling of Roy’s breath against his cheek. Oh no.

“All the way in Gotham? Either you got ditched by Jason, or you’re doing a shitty recon job for him. And judging by the way the bouncer keeps eyeing you, I’m guessing it’s the latter.”

For a moment, Roy eyes him. Then cracks a smirk. “Fine, ya got me. You know, Jay did mention that you were smart, Babybird.”

Nope. Nuh uh. Tim’s going to ignore that. In so many ways. “Is he here?”

Roy steps in close. Almost too close, crowding into Tim’s space. His hands aren’t touching, but the proximity is electric. He smells like smoke and cheap cologne.

“Why, were you hoping for a dance, doll?” Roy asks, then snickers before Tim can reply. “Just messing with ya. Jay ain’t here, but I am. And I haven’t been able to shake that one bouncer’s eye on me all night.”

“What’s the job,” Tim asks cooly.

“Oh, nothing too spicy. Underground drug circuit. The supplier normally works on Jay’s turf, so I’m doing him a solid by scoping this place out for him.”

Makes sense. This club is closer to the Birds’ patrol circuit. Not necessarily somewhere the Red Hood is welcome unless he’s looking to attract unwanted attention. Which, to be fair, Roy seems to be doing a pretty good job at doing anyway, given the present company watching on like idiots.

Oh, and the bouncers watching on. Emphasis on plural now. God, Roy’s not subtle.

Speaking of not subtle, a hand lands on Tim’s waist. He shivers.

“You wanna dance, pretty boy?”

Tim shouldn’t. Absolutely shouldn’t. Even if it’s just to fool the security. Roy is chaos wrapped in tattoos and bad decisions, with a known history of blowing things up and sleeping with people he probably shouldn’t.

And yet.

Tim sets his drink on the edge of a nearby table.

“Fine,” he says, voice low, “but if you try to dip me I will knee you in the chest.”

Roy’s grin sharpens. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They melt into the music together. All heat and friction, bodies pressed too close, hands casually indecent. Roy dances like someone who knows exactly how he looks, confident and messy and cocky as hell. And Tim, well he doesn’t exactly back down. He rolls his hips in time with the beat, eyes half-lidded, fingers brushing Roy’s waist with a teasing familiarity he absolutely has no right to.

This is so stupid.

Roy pulls him close again with a hand at the small of his back. Their bodies slot together perfectly, like a promise or a threat, and Tim’s breath catches.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Tim mutters, voice rough against Roy’s jaw.

Roy hums, leans in so their noses brush. “Takes one to know one.”

Then Roy kisses him.

It’s not polite. It’s hot and messy and way too filthy for a public dancefloor, all tongue and teeth and one hand gripping Tim’s hip like he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t ghost the second the beat drops. Tim kisses him back just as hard, fisting his hand in the front of Roy’s shirt and pulling him impossibly closer.

Somewhere to the side, someone who’s definitely Duke is screaming, “Get it, boy!”

The music pounds around them, but all Tim can focus on is the way Roy’s fingers dig into his hip, the scratch of stubble against his chin, and how fucking good it feels to be pressed against someone so openly dangerous. So stupid.

“Didn’t take you for a public performer,” Roy murmurs against his mouth, voice rough with amusement. “Thought you Bats liked to stick to the shadows.”

Tim nips at Roy’s bottom lip, hard enough to make the archer hiss. “Shows what you know.”

They’re grinding now, not even pretending to dance anymore. Tim can feel how hard Roy is through his jeans, the thick outline of his erection pressing against Tim’s hip with every roll of their bodies. It’s obscene, borderline public indecency, and Tim’s loving every second of it.

“Fuck,” Roy growls when Tim deliberately grinds against him, creating delicious friction that has both of them panting. “You tryin’ to get us kicked out?”

Tim’s hands slide down to Roy’s ass, squeezing hard as he pulls their hips flush together. “Like you haven’t been kicked out of a club before.”

Roy’s pupils are blown wide, his messy red hair falling into eyes that look at Tim like he’s a puzzle worth solving. “Heh, got me there. Well, I got no fucking clue whether security’s still onto me. Not sure I really care either. You’re fucking wild, kid.”

Fucking wild. Tim doesn’t know if anyone’s ever said that about him before. Probably not.

… He kind of loves it.

It spurs something crazy in him. Tim doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he grabs Roy’s wrist and starts dragging him through the crowd, ignoring the wolf whistles from Steph and Duke, and the thumbs up from Cass. The bathroom is around the corner, down a dingy hallway illuminated by a single flickering light that bathes everything in sickly yellow.

The door squeaks as Tim shoves it open, revealing exactly what he expected: cracked tiles, graffiti-covered walls, and the lingering smell of cheap cologne.

“Really? A bathroom?” Roy arches an eyebrow, but he’s already following Tim inside, letting the door swing shut behind them.

“Shut up,” Tim says, checking the stalls quickly before dragging Roy into the largest one at the end. “Like you haven’t done worse.”

Roy laughs, low and dirty. “Oh, I absolutely have. But I didn’t take you for the type.”

Tim locks the door behind them, then crowds Roy against the wall, hands already working at his belt. “Then you don’t know shit about me.”

The bathroom is actually not in horrible condition, relatively clean albeit covered in graffiti. Someone’s phone number is scrawled on the wall alongside crude drawings, and there’s more than one sharpie drawing of a dick. Tim couldn’t care less. All he can think about is getting his mouth on Roy, as soon as possible.

“Jesus, you’re fucking eager,” Roy says, but his voice has gone tight as Tim yanks his jeans open.

“And you talk too much,” Tim retorts, dropping to his knees without hesitation.

The way Roy’s breath catches when Tim mouths at his cock through his underwear makes it worth it. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Roy’s boxer briefs and tugs them down, letting his cock spring free.

“Fuck,” Roy breathes, one hand coming to rest in Tim’s hair. “You look good down there.”

Tim doesn’t waste any more time with words. He parts his lips and takes Roy into his mouth, moaning at the heavy weight on his tongue. He goes to fucking town, taking Roy deeper this time, relaxing his throat to accommodate the impressive girth. Drool spills from the corners of his mouth, making the slide easier as he bobs his head, hollowing his cheeks on the upstroke. The bathroom echoes with wet, filthy sounds and Roy’s increasingly ragged breathing.

“Christ,” Roy hisses, head thudding back against the bathroom wall. “You’re just a complete freak, aren’t you? Where’d you learn to suck cock like that?”

Tim pulls off with an obscene pop, spit connecting his lips to Roy’s cock in a glistening strand. “Natural talent,” he says, voice already rough. “Now shut up before we get caught.”

Roy’s cock is fully hard now, throbbing against Tim’s tongue as he works it with enthusiasm bordering on desperation. Tim’s never been one to do things halfway – when he gives head, he fucking commits.

“Fucking hell,” Roy pants, his free hand braced against the wall for support. “Jay’s gonna kill me.”

It’s probably not a good sign how that of all things spurs Tim on further. He’s happy to pencil the self-reflection (and potential therapy) for another day. For now, Tim just moans around Roy’s cock in response, the vibrations making the archer curse. He takes Roy to the root, nose pressed against coarse red hair, throat working around the intrusion.

“Shit, baby bat,” Roy groans, both hands in Tim’s hair now, not guiding but just holding on. “Your mouth is fucking sinful.”

Tim hums in agreement, pulling back to focus on the head, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge before diving back down. His own cock is painfully hard in his jeans, but he ignores it, focusing entirely on making Roy fall apart.

“Fuck, I’m getting close,” Roy warns, his hips starting to thrust shallowly. “You might wanna move if-”

Tim pulls off just long enough to look up, eyes challenging. “Down my throat or not at all,” he says, voice completely wrecked.

Roy’s eyes darken. “Fucking Christ, Drake.”

Tim goes back to work with renewed vigour, taking Roy as deep as he can, working the shaft with his hand where his mouth can’t reach. He can feel Roy getting closer – the way his thighs tense, how his cock twitches and swells on Tim’s tongue, the increasingly desperate sounds he’s making.

Fingers tighten in Tim’s hair to the point of pain. “Fuck, Tim, I’m—”

Tim doesn’t back off. Instead, he takes Roy deeper, swallowing around him, and that’s what does it. Roy comes with a strangled curse, hips jerking as he shoots hot and thick down Tim’s throat. He swallows, working Roy through it, milking every last drop until the redhead is shuddering from oversensitivity.

When he finally pulls back, Tim’s lips feel swollen and tender, his chin slick with spit, eyes watering.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Roy says, chest heaving as he tucks himself back into his jeans. “That was-”

“A proper introduction,” Tim finishes for him, voice absolutely ruined. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then rises to his feet with a wince as his knees protest. “Since Jason never bothered.”

Roy laughs, still breathless. “If that’s how you introduce yourself to all his friends, I can see why he wouldn’t.”

Tim smirks, reaching past Roy to unlock the stall door. “Only the ones I like.”

“Lucky me,” Roy says, catching Tim’s wrist before he can step away. “But we’re not done. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t return the favour?”

“Didn’t take you for a gentleman.”

“I’m not,” Roy admits, leaning in to bite at Tim’s earlobe. “But I do have manners. Sometimes. How far is your place from here?”

Tim’s head falls back against the wall as Roy’s hand slips inside his jeans. “What happened to your recon?”

“Eh, Jay will get over it.”

Outside, the music continues to thump through the walls. Tim knows this is a terrible idea for about a dozen reasons.

He also knows he doesn’t give a single fuck.

Chapter Text

(hard)Core Four(some)

Fastest.boy.alive:

YOU ABSOLUTE SLUT

RealBoy.jpg:

Good morning to you too, Bart

Fastest.boy.alive:

Don’t “good morning” me

You FILTHY SECRET KEEPING HOE

The fact you knew i was talking bout you also 👀

Amazon Prime:

It’s 8am Bart

Fastest.boy.alive:

I do not care for the constraints of time

Not when TIMOTHY here has ridden a morally dubious vigilante all the way home

 Amazon Prime:

Oh

OHHHH

Carry on then

RealBoy.jpg:

how

How do you even know that

Fastest.boy.alive:

Through my all-seeing eyes

And uncanny clairvoyance

RealBoy.jpg:

Steph?

Amazon Prime:

Steph?

Fastest.boy.alive:

… Yes

I have it on good authority through my network of spies

that our little SLUT left the club with a certain red headed archer

RealBoy.jpg:

You have literally slept with half the population of Central City

And three different people named Jamie

Fastest.boy.alive:

Ahem – one of them was a Jaime thank you very much

(and not OUR Jaime but also him too)

but I have NEVER lied about it

Hot/Confused:

Wait what club?

Amazon Prime:

Really Tim? The walking-talking red flag?

Not that I’m surprised

(I’m assuming we’re talking about Roy Harper here btw)

Hot/Confused:

Why wasn’t I invited to the club?

RealBoy.jpg:

Okay first of all

Bart: die

Secondly, it was with Steph’s friends and very last min

so apologies Kon

Fastest.boy.alive:

I WILL NOT BE MUZZLED YOU FERAL BRAT

RealBoy.jpg:

THIRDLY

…

He has really nice forearms

Hot/Confused:

You told me you were busy meditating :(

RealBoy.jpg:

I did meditate

On Roy’s abs

Fastest.boy.alive:

OMFG Tim

Cassie update the spreadsheet

Amazon Prime:

It’s colour-coded now btw

Red means “horny and smug about it”

Fastest.boy.alive:

Add a column for “tripped and accidently fell on outlaw dick”

Hot/Confused:

Come on guys, don’t make that a category

RealBoy.jpg:

Yeah don’t

Because it was not on accident

Fastest.boy.alive:

👁👄👁

Hot/Confused:

Bruh

I am trying to defend your honour here

Amazon Prime:

Love this “get dicked-down and remain unbothered” era for you

Fastest.boy.alive:

OKAY ATTENTION ALL RE: STATUS UPDATE

💔 Kon – emotionally concussed
💅 Tim – thriving
😩 Me – personally victimised cherub
📊 Cassie – spreadsheet god

Hot/Confused:

i'm not concussed?

Just processing feelings

Timmy used to be so innocent

RealBoy.jpg:

Processing feelings?

Fastest.boy.alive:

Oh lord it’s happening

Amazon Prime:

Bart, hold me

Hot/Confused:

Yes feelings

Friend-shaped feelings

On how best to be a good friend

Even though you DITCH ME for the club

RealBoy.jpg:

Oh

Fastest.boy.alive:

FrEiNd-ShApEd FeELiNgS

someone write that on my tombstone

Amazon Prime:

Well that was underwhelming

RealBoy.jpg:

I hate you all

Fastest.boy.alive:

Weeeeeell now that THAT can has been kicked down the road for another day

can we pls get back to the fact that

Timothy is officially in his ho phase

WELCOME CHILD

RealBoy.jpg:

I have legit slept with one (1) archer

Fastest.boy.alive:

And me!

And ur exes

Amazon Prime:

Everyone’s slept with you bby

Doesn’t count

Hot/Confused:

I haven’t?

Fastest.boy.alive:

Give it time

RealBoy.jpg:

This is chat rotting my frontal lobe

Amazon Prime:

Me2

I used to have goals

Dreams

Fastest.boy.alive:

Losers, all of you

Except Kon

Kon is baby

Hot/Confused:

Thank 🥺

The air reeks of wet concrete, motor oil, and desperation. Tim crouches on the rooftop ledge, tracking the alley below, where ten Falcone thugs are unloading crates filled with god knows what. Word is there’s some new kind of knockoff Bane venom. Gotham seems to be in its bootleg villain era at the moment. He’s not a fan, personally.

You know what he’s also not a fan of? Awkward morning-afters. Thankfully, Roy hadn’t dawdled.

Tim’s already in position, perched silently on the rooftop, when he hears the softest scuff of boots behind him. A breath, then a presence too familiar to mistake. Tim doesn’t turn.

“I knew you’d get here early,” Dick says, voice full of warmth like they’re catching up over coffee and not staking out a drug shipment at 2am, on what’s meant to be one of Tim’s nights off. “You always were the responsible one.”

Tim grits his teeth. “You requested backup.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think I’d get you,” Dick replies, like it’s a pleasant surprise. Like he hadn’t pushed for it. Like Tim didn’t already say no (twice), and was really only showing up because everyone else was tied up with other work, injured, or fighting a death tournament on a ninja island.

(He makes a point of letting Damian do his thing, but honestly, Tim’s kinda jealous about that one – it sounds rad.)

But this is Dick’s op. His call. And now Tim’s the only one left on the family tree who knows how to blend into shadows and win a fight without blowing up the whole building and the shipment with it.

Lucky him.

“Grateful as ever,” Tim mutters, mostly to himself.

Dick laughs. “Come on, you missed me.” He crouches beside Tim, practically shoulder-to-shoulder. Way too close.

“Warehouse has ten heat signatures,” Tim says, shifting just enough to make space between them. “They’re unloading crates. Could be guns, but I’m betting on the venom you’ve been tracking.”

“Ugh, if it’s more knockoff Bane juice, I’m gonna be annoyed. Thought I got that crap out of here already.”

Tim ignores him. Focuses on the targets below.

But Dick leans in again, almost like he’s doing it on purpose. “So… that haircut.”

“Yes, it’s a mullet. No, it wasn’t by choice – I lost a bet. And no, I was not emulating you.”

Fuck, Tim really isn’t meaning to sound this bitchy. It just doesn’t help when he feels like he wants to itch himself out of his skin.

“I was gonna say it looked good,” Dick says, hands up in surrender. “But I meant it, I really am glad you’re here.”

Tim exhales through his nose. “Can we just get to the part where we knock these idiots out, already?”

Because that, he can do. Any day of the week, Tim would take an early morning drug bust over talking to Dick one-on-one (and having to acknowledge more than one complicated emotion in the process).

And of course, Dick’s practically a god in motion. He vaults a crate, kicks a guy in the jaw, spins in the air because of course he does, and lands like the floor loves him.

Tim follows, knocking one of the thugs out with his first strike, before pivoting to hit another with his b-staff. This? This he can do.

Unfortunately, Dick Grayson is also insufferably good at this. He moves like a damn dancer, flipping over crates and landing cleanly, pulling off a spinning kick that has absolutely no tactical necessity but does, unfortunately, look incredible. His suit does nothing to help. Every time he moves, it’s a full-on PSA for why spandex should be banned. That ass should have its own fucking zip code.

“Fuck,” Tim suddenly hisses when a blunt force strikes his back. Pain blossoms, and he turns to see some moron with a baseball bat.

“You good, Red?” Dick yells, concern palpable in his voice.

“Peachy,” Tim snaps as he dropkicks the guy. Of course he’d get distracted by ogling Dick’s ass. Sloppy.

After that, the fight’s over in under a minute. It’s honestly insulting how easy it is when they work together. Like muscle memory. Infuriating, perfectly choreographed muscle memory. It makes Tim honestly doubt whether he was needed in the first place, or if this was some long-con from Dick to get him here.

Once they’re done, Dick wipes his brow (unnecessarily dramatic) and grins. “See? Just like old times. We should do this more often. You and me.”

“This was my night off.”

Dick grins as they start tying up the men. “How’s life in your new place? Gotten a plant yet? Ooh, gone on any dates?”

Tim zipties his last guy with maybe a little too much force. “We’re working, Nightwing.”

“And I’m making conversation. Besides, these morons are all knocked out,” Dick says, leaning against a crate now that he’s done, arms crossed like this is a casual catch-up and not hell. “You never call me anymore.”

“I’m busy.”

“Doing what? Brooding with better lighting?”

Tim levels a glare at him. “Having a life of my own, actually. Do you need something?”

Dick’s smile falters – barely, before returning – but Tim sees it. “Nah. Just checking in.”

That makes something in Tim snap tight. The softness in Dick’s tone. The gentleness. Like Tim is a broken thing to be monitored. Patched up. Saved.

“Well, I’m fine,” he says. “You can stop checking.”

Dick opens his mouth, then closes it.

Then grins again. Bright, big-brother energy turned up to eleven. Like nothing’s wrong. Like Tim didn’t spend a whole year learning how to live without ever expecting this again. And all he can think is it’s fakefakefakefake-

“Okay,” he says. “But you’re still coming back to the Cave. We need to look at that injury you took.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. But I’m still not letting you go without checking you over. Alfred would have my head.”

Ugh. Tim knows better than to argue. If he refuses, then it will just be filed in the mission report – and that will just balloon out the problem. There’s a dull ache in his lower back from where the bat connected, but he ignores it. He’s used to pain. Physical pain is easy. Predictable.

Dick’s already prying open one of the boxes, one of the henchman’s crowbar in his hand like this is some weekend DIY project. He whistles low. “Yep. Definitely not FDA approved.” He lifts a vial between gloved fingers, holding it up to the flickering overhead light. “Ooh, it’s glowing. That’s never a good sign.”

“We done here?” Tim asks. God, he’s so fucking on edge.

Dick pauses. Then forces the brightness back into his voice. “Just gotta call it in. But then we’ll head back together, yeah? Can you know. Catch up.”

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

Dick’s good mood seems to continue after the bust. He’s all smiles when they arrive back to the Cave, wiping slightly damp locks of hair out of his eyes as he gets off his bike. Tim tries not to stare. Right down until Dick grunts and bends forward, touching the floor easily with his hands as he stretches out his back.

“Shit, my everything hurts. I think my age is catching up to me,” Dick laughs. Tim thinks he’s talking to himself.

To be fair, Tim’s sore as hell too. Especially from where that one guy got the cheap shot in. He winces when his ribs catch with the next breath.

“I think we’re all in danger if it’s your back that gives out first,” he says eventually.

Dick straightens up from his stretch, that signature megawatt smile as dazzling as ever. The one that makes him look like he just stepped out of a toothpaste commercial.

“Naw, you’ll be fine, Timmy.” He rolls his shoulders beneath the skintight Nightwing suit. “This was fun, though.”

Heh, fun. Interesting way to describe what to Tim felt like an entire night of being on edge.

It’s just them in the Cave at this hour, by the looks of it. An uncommon sight, but not altogether impossible. But it’s that mix of being late enough that Alfred has likely gone to bed already, yet not late enough for Bruce to be back from his own patrol. Tim’s not sure why he didn’t expect this, when he agreed to come back to the Cave with Dick.

Most of the time, he hates crowds. He’s always been just fine by himself. But right now he’d do anything to have just one other person with them here.

“How was the rest of your night?”

Dick’s voice cuts through his musings. Shit, he hadn’t answered him, had he? Tim looks up to see piercing blue eyes cutting into him. Dick’s domino discarded on a bench beside him. A few more strands of hair fall over Dick’s brow when he leans forward, eyebrows pinching.

Tim quickly averts his gaze. Even though it’d originally been a night off, he’d ended up doing a mini-patrol in his way into Gotham proper to meet up with Dick. Old habits and all that. “Uh, pretty standard stuff. Some idiot was trying to break into a pharmacy. And I wrapped up some surveillance on a new player moving product down at the docks.”

“New player? Think it’s serious?”

“Nah, they seemed pretty amateur. Was going to get Babs to run a few prints through the system, then take them down tomorrow.”

Dick nods. Scratches at his chin. “Sounds fun, mind if I join?”

Tim wishes that half his brain wasn’t busy staring at those goddamn finger-stripes. Middle and ring fingers, bright blue against the black material covering the rest of Dick’s hands. They’d probably feel great if-

“Uh, sure.” Good to know there’s at least some baseline survival instinct intact. Even if he really doesn’t want to have Dick join him tomorrow.

But Dick’s grin stretches impossibly wider. Would almost give off Joker vibes if the idiot didn’t look so damn innocent at the same time, nodding like a fricking puppy. A puppy that seems intent on torturing Tim all night, even if he has no idea what he’s doing.

Any thoughts of Dick’s supposed innocence are quickly ejected from his brain though, when the man in question reaches back for the zipper of his suit. Tim’s mouth runs dry as golden, sweat-slicked skin is revealed. Broad shoulders and sculpted chest. Nothing compared to Bruce or Jason, but definitely enough to dwarf Tim. It’s stupid. Tim’s around people bigger than him all the time. Spent countless hours in his teenage years help patch Bruce up – there’s a particularly jagged scar on the man’s right pec from where Tim did a shitty job suturing a laceration from Killer Croc. Point is, Tim should be used to the… er, male form. He is.

But Dick is different.

He has to look away when the top half of the Nightwing suit hangs from Dick’s waist. Tim really doesn’t want to be caught looking at the washboard abs he knows are there. The dusty trail of dark hairs tracking from Dick’s navel, right down to the hem of his pants. Nup. Not going there.

“Are you doing okay?”

Tim blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” Dick continues, his full lips now curving down. His bare abs ripple as hands land on his hips. “After, er… Bernard.”

Oh. Tim feels himself stiffen almost involuntarily. “Yep, fine.”

Fuck, he hates how terse he sounds. He is fine.

He’s not expecting Dick to drop it, and indeed he doesn’t. “Are you sleeping okay? You look tired.”

“That’s me at baseline, asshole,” Tim huffs. Maybe if he tries for humour, Dick will leave him alone.

“I know you really liked him, Tim.” God, the concern dripping in Dick’s words makes him want to hurl. He’s pacing towards Tim now. Close enough that Tim can see Dick’s teeth biting into his plump bottom lip. “You don’t talk to me anymore.”

He tenses as Dick places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze that’s meant to be reassuring but just makes Tim hyper-aware of the contact. And that Dick is shirtless. “I’m doing good, Dick. Have been on a few dates, even.”

If sucking law-adjacent archers off in toilet cubicles count as dates, sure.

“Oh… good.” Dick says, his thumb absently working a small circle against the knot of tension in Tim’s shoulder. Dick’s always been so fucking tactile. “That’s, uh, really good, Timbo”

Why won’t he just fuck off?

The nickname makes Tim’s jaw clench. He used to love hearing that name spill off Dick’s lips. Familiar and warm. Any emotion evoked these days is hollow, though. Another reminder of when things were simpler. Easier. When Tim was Robin and he trusted Dick with all his heart. When he could go to him about anything.

Tim’s not Robin anymore. And the reason why he isn’t, is currently standing behind him. Half-naked and massaging his shoulders and pretending he doesn’t remember. Some ‘brother’.

“I saw some pictures of your party thingy the other night. Duke showed them to me,” Dick says suddenly. He must be talking about the rooftop gathering Tim held, if that’s the case. “Looks like you’re settling into the place well.”

When Tim hums in reply, Dick’s hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling briefly in the hair at Tim’s nape before giving a gentle squeeze. The casual intimacy of the gesture sends an unwelcome shiver down his spine.

“Just had a few friends over. Nothing big,” Tim replies, stepping away from Dick’s touch under the pretence of moving to the computer console.

He pulls up some data from his patrol, trying to look busy, but he’s acutely aware of Dick moving around behind him, still in the process of removing the lower half of his suit. The soft sounds of Kevlar being peeled away from skin make it hard for Tim to focus on the screen in front of him.

“One of the pictures had you and Impulse in the background. He was smoking something.”

Tim turns, a sharp retort ready on his lips, but the words die in his throat. Dick has stripped down to the compression shorts he wears under the Nightwing suit, the tight black fabric doing absolutely fucking nothing to conceal those powerful thighs and the perfect swell of his ass. Why Dick has decided to stand side-on to him, he has no clue. To torture Tim with curves, most likely.

He forces his gaze upward, but that’s hardly better. Dick’s body is a masterpiece of grace. Shoulders broad, waist narrow. And yeah, after all these years Tim should be used to seeing Dick in all states of undressed – he is, to a degree – but it never gets easier.

“I don’t need a lecture,” Tim finally says, his voice sharper than intended. It’d only been Bart smoking weed that night. But the point stands all the same. “Especially not from you.”

A brief flicker of hurt flashes across Dick’s face, but it’s quickly masked by another smile, this one not quite reaching his eyes. “Not a lecture. Just concern.”

“Well, I don’t need that either.” Tim turns back to the computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard with more force than necessary. He’s being too short with Dick, he can feel it. He should stop. Be less of an asshole. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years.”

“Barely,” Dick mutters, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he says, “Fine. Forget I asked, then.”

“I’m going to shower,” Tim announces, standing abruptly. He feels like he’s being suffocated.

“Great idea,” Dick agrees cheerfully. “I’ll join you.”

Fuck. Tim was afraid of that.

But he can’t back out now, not without being weird about it. Which it would be – to back out. Mostly because to Dick, this is especially not weird. Tim watches as Dick walks ahead of him, eyes tracking the movement of his broad shoulders, the flex of muscles in his back, the way his compression shorts hug every curve of his ass. That fucking ass, it’s going to be the death of him.

Forcing himself to unclench, Tim lets out a slow, controlled breath and curses whatever deity thought it would be funny to make him perpetually attracted to the one person who had betrayed his trust so completely.

“This is fine,” Tim mutters to himself. “Just a shower. Completely normal. Professional.”

Yeah, who is he fucking kidding?

Why Bruce hasn’t installed completely separate shower cubicles in the men’s shower by now, like he has with the women’s, Tim’s not entirely sure. Probably because he’s the only person who’s messed up to see the waist-high cubicles as a problem. Or more rather, a chance to perv. God, he’s pathetic.

By the time Tim undresses and enters, Dick’s already underneath the spray in one of the semi-open stalls.

Fuck.

Dick’s back is to him, so Tim allows himself a moment. Yeah, he’s trash. He knows that. But it’s impossible to tear his eyes away, okay? Not when he’s got the sight right in front of him of Dick’s broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Strong back muscles that ripple as their owner reaches up to rinse his hair.

And holy shit, that ass. An open shower stall means that the escaping steam does absolutely nothing to hide the fattest peach Tim’s laid eyes on. He could just-

Tim swallows hard and moves to the furthest shower head away from Dick. He needs to pull it together. Not just because his rock-hard cock will give him away in an instant. Because it’s also Dick, and Tim really can’t be thinking these thoughts. He thought he was over this. Shaking his head, he positions his body with his back to Dick. Turns on the water and steps under the spray, glaring down at his erection and willing it away.

“That bruise looks nasty.”

Tim actually flinches (holy lack of composure, Batman), then hazards a glance over his shoulder to find Dick looking at him, concern etched on his perfect features. Water cascades down the older man’s body, following the contours of his muscles like it’s worshipping him. His hair is slicked back from his face, emphasizing those sharp cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw.

“It’s nothing,” Tim says, quickly turning back to face the wall. “Just a stupid mistake. Have had worse.”

“You should have Alfred look at it,” Dick suggests. “Might be a cracked rib underneath.”

Uh, no. Because that would involve staying the night, rather than hightailing it out of the Cave (and more importantly, away from Dick) at the first opportunity. “I’ve had cracked ribs before. This isn’t that bad.”

“Still-”

“I said it’s fine, Dick.” Tim cuts him off, reaching for the pump soap.

He hears Dick sigh behind him, followed by the sound of movement. Tim tenses, but Dick doesn’t approach, just continues with his own shower. Tim tries to focus on washing away the grime of patrol, the sweat (and his own sins), but he’s hyper-aware of every sound Dick makes. Every splash of water, every subtle shift of movement.

Dick Grayson is in the same room as him – naked. It shouldn’t be that big a deal.

Against his better judgment, Tim allows himself just one more quick glance. Dick is back to being turned away again, head tilted back as he rinses his hair, water sluicing down the muscles of his back and over the curve of his stupid big ass. His gaze drops lower, following the path of a water droplet down the back of Dick’s thigh, admiring the definition there, the pure strength evident in every line of his body.

Tim jerks his gaze away, disgusted with himself. Yeah, Dick’s pretty, but he’s also hurt him. Bad. The fact that Tim still finds himself physically attracted to him feels like a personal failing, a weakness he can’t seem to overcome.

He shuts off the water with more force than necessary and reaches for his towel, wrapping it securely around his waist after drying himself off briefly. His erection hasn’t flagged, annoyingly. He should get out of there.

“Leaving already?” Dick asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“Got work to do,” Tim replies tersely, not meeting his eyes.

“You always have work to do.” The exasperation in his voice is clear. Like a whiny kid.

“You called me in from a night-off, Dick. And so now I have reports to write.”

Dick shuts off his shower and reaches for his own towel, but instead of wrapping it around his waist like a normal fucking person, he uses it to casually dry his hair first, standing there completely naked and apparently unconcerned about it.

Tim jerks his eyes away, face burning with shame. “Could you cover up?” he snaps.

Dick looks surprised, then amused. “Since when are you modest? We’ve been changing in the same space for years.”

“Doesn’t mean I want a full-frontal view,” Tim mutters, turning his back to Dick and his dick. Fuck.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dick says, and Tim can hear the smile in his voice. “Forgot you’ve gotten more private these days, Timbo.”

The towel finally wraps around Dick’s waist, and Tim allows himself to breathe again. He heads toward the locker area, aware of Dick following behind him. The weight of the gaze on his is suffocating, only made worse by the silence accompanying it. Dick’s only ever silent when he’s stewing over something.

Whatever, it’s not like he can do anything about it. Tim makes a point of evening out his breathing as much as possible, opening his locker and dropping his towel. His erection has flagged a bit by now (thank god). Trying his best to keep it that way, Tim yanks on a pair of soft sweats and a hoodie from his locker.

Of course, that’s the moment Dick chooses to come up behind him.

Tim almost doesn’t hear the footsteps at first, but then he feels the heat. Bare arms, bare chest, warm breath, all wrapping around him before he can react.

“Hey,” Dick murmurs as he hugs him from behind. “You sure you’re okay? You’re being weird.”

His voice is low and too close, and the towel he finally did wrap around his waist is pressed against Tim’s back now. Bare skin flush against the thin cotton of Tim’s hoodie.

Tim goes rigid. Completely still, like a prey animal hoping the predator will lose interest if it just plays dead. The hold is meant to be comforting, brotherly probably if you asked Dick. But it’s not. It’s fucking not. Not when Tim swears he can feel Dick’s bulge against the small of his back. Fucking hell, what is Dick thinking? In just a towel?

“Dick,” he says, with a calmness that’s almost convincing. “Let go.”

But Dick just hums. Doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re so tense,” he says, and his chin rests on Tim’s shoulder for one traitorous second. “You used to let me hug you like this all the time.”

Yeah, and he used to be dumb enough to think Dick was someone he could trust.

The anger sharpens, slips in under the ribs like a blade. He wonders if Dick would be this affectionate if he knew why Tim was still so fucking mad. If he actually grew a brain and realised why Tim stopped talking to him, why things were different.

But Dick, like always, just steamrolls over it with sunshine and dimples and frankly unbelievable levels of ignorance.

The hug lingers a second too long. A second too much.

Tim can feel the muscle of Dick’s chest against his back, the way the towel’s barely tied. One wrong move and that thing’s gonna fall right off. His breath stutters for a second before he tamps it down like a fire he’s too used to managing.

“You should let me help more,” Dick murmurs, the pad of his thumb brushing over Tim’s bicep. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

That’s rich, coming from him.

“I’m not alone,” Tim grits out. Tries to keep his voice even. “Now do you mind? I have an injury, remember?”

Tim can barely feel the ache anymore – it’s not that bad. But it’s the perfect excuse. And thankfully, he feels Dick’s arms loosen in response. A hitch in the breath as he mercifully steps away. Good. Tim settles his breathing, fights his racing heart down. Hates how much he misses the warmth of the embrace. Hates even more that he wants to turn around and crawl right back into it.

But escape mission: success.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Dick says, then frowns. “Now how about you let me take a look at your back, if it’s bothering you so much?”

Fucking dammit.

Chapter Text

Tim is pretty sure that if you ever want to know what someone’s soul truly looks like, you should take them to IKEA on a Saturday morning and ask them to pick a bedframe.

Kon is taking it very seriously.

Like, he has a measuring tape. A real one. Metal and retractable, clacking against his palm as he checks the width of a bedframe for the third time. There’s a notebook too, and a pen tucked behind one ear like a carpenter.

He looks like he’s about to assemble an office building from scratch, instead of just being in charge of furnishing Tim’s guest bedroom.

Tim watches him crouch beside yet another bed. Biceps stretch the sleeves of his very tight V-neck and Tim tries not to visibly lose brain function. He knows he should be helping, given it’s his apartment they’re here for. Or at least pretending to help. But in his defence, Kon’s shirt is doing a lot of heavy lifting. Tight black cotton, long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a soft cling around the chest. There’s also a frankly unnecessary fanny pack slung low around Kon’s waist, worn like a belt of honour. Tim loves it.

Cassie catches his eye over the edge of a nearby wardrobe. She raises an eyebrow, the fucking lurker. Tim does not respond. She knows. He knows she knows. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“Okay,” Kon mutters, standing up to scribble something down on his little notepad. “The MALM is good, but the legs on the SLATTUM make it more stable on uneven floors. Which your loft has.”

“You say that like you don’t fly,” Bart says, reappearing from wherever the hell he’s been for the last ten minutes. His arms are full of plushie sharks.

Kon doesn’t look up. “Yeah, but I don’t sleep in the air, dude.”

“I feel like I should be documenting this,” Cassie says, arms crossed as she watches Kon squat back down in front of the twin-sized MALM frame with the intensity of a bomb technician.

“Please don’t,” Tim mutters.

“He brought a notepad,” she replies.

Kon does, in fact, scratch something onto said notepad, then frowns at the IKEA tag zip-tied to the bedframe. Jots down the price. “I just think that if people are going to be staying over more often – which they are, right?” He asks without looking up.

Tim nods automatically. “Yeah. Of course. That’s the point of getting the room looking nice.”

“Then it should be a real guest room. Like, with furniture that fits. None of that industrial reclaimed crap you like to collect like a raccoon in a backstreet dumpster.”

Okay, rude. “You know, some of us managed to furnish an entire apartment without graph paper and a set square. This is one room.”

Kon blinks up at him. “You only bought, like, three chairs and an espresso machine by yourself.”

“And a very tasteful rug.”

Cassie strolls over and taps her nails against the nearest display shelf. “Can we not turn this into another domestic pissing contest? Some of us are just here for moral support.”

“You’ve made that very clear,” Kon says, pointing his pencil at her like it’s a sword. “You refused to push the cart.”

“I pushed it for four whole minutes.”

“Only because you rode it like a scooter down the rug aisle.”

Bart looks up from where he’s pretending to make one of his sharks dance. “That was sick, by the way.”

Kon finally stands back up and makes a note of the bedframe dimensions. Tim tries not to watch the ripple of his pecs as he does.

“This one has built-in drawers, Tim. Efficient. Good for guests.”

“And by guests, you mean you,” Cassie says.

Kon shrugs. “I mean, if the shoe fits.”

Bart throws a stuffed shark into the air and catches it against his chest. “We should get, like, six of these. Line them up on the bed. That way anyone who stays over gets maximum cuddle support.”

“And by anyone, you mean you,” Cassie repeats, without missing a beat.

Bart looks wounded. “Excuse you, I’m a generous soul. This is for the good of the community.”

Tim starts walking. Not because he has anywhere to go, but because if he keeps standing next to Kon, he might start doing something idiotic like suggesting they coordinate throw pillows. It’s stupid. This isn’t Kon’s room, perse. Just a guest room that Kon, among other people, will be staying in. That’s all it is.

Cassie follows him. So do Bart and Kon, bickering lightly about colour schemes.

“No blue,” Bart says. “Too calming. It’ll mess up my circadian rhythm.”

“You’ve never had a circadian rhythm in your life,” Kon replies.

They pass a cluster of fake bedrooms arranged like little pods of domestic tranquillity. Tim resists the urge to look too closely. Every neatly made bed and cozy blanket feels a little too aspirational.

Kon pauses by a plain birchwood desk. “Could fit one of these in the corner. Not too bulky.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “You planning on doing homework in there?”

“Just thinking ahead. Guests might want to use a laptop.” Kon pauses, then frowns. “Hmm, but if we do go with the MALM bed, the nightstand I’m looking at to match will block the outlet we need for a desk.”

“Bro,” Bart says. “Just get an extension cord.”

“That’s a fire hazard.”

“Not if you’re careful. And have a hunky friend with freeze breath.”

Tim feels something loosen in his chest. The way it always does around these three. It’s all just so… easy. Moving around one another like they’re in orbit. Tugged along by shared gravity. It’s a kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask for attention. He forgets how rare that is, sometimes. How valuable.

Tim can’t help it. He smiles.

Cassie elbows him gently. “You okay, dreamboat?”

He doesn’t look at her. “I’m just admiring Kon’s commitment to Swedish modernism.”

“Sure,” she says dryly. “That’s what you’re admiring.”

She dodges out of the way before he can shove her, which is honestly a smart move. Cassie’s been giving Tim that look a lot lately – the one that says she knows exactly what kind of bi nonsense is happening in his head, and is just choosing to stay amused about it rather than be in any way helpful.

Tim is still figuring out whether that makes her a good friend or a menace. Maybe both.

The answer must be menace after all, because Cassie hums. “You know, you could just ask him to move in for real, rather than all this bullshit.”

“Not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching Kon squint at rugs like he’s trying to assess thread count by will alone.

It’s a nice guest room. Or it will be. Eventually. Right now it’s just a list of furniture, a blank canvas waiting for decisions to be made. But Tim lets himself imagine it, just for a second. Kon walking in without knocking. Dumping his keys on the little birch desk. Falling asleep surrounded by Bart’s stupid shark plushies and the faint smell of Gotham rain. Homey in a way Tim never let himself want before.

It’s silly. But it’s also kinda nice.

“I think we found a rug,” Kon calls from around a corner.

Tim blinks. Nods. Follows his friends deeper into the maze.

Kon continues to lead the way, notepad in hand, back straight, expression deep in thought in that way that makes Tim’s stomach flip. Bart strolls beside him, sharks tucked under each arm like bodyguards. Cassie’s back to texting, probably lining up lunch plans before Kon can suggest cooking back at Tim’s place. They fall into rhythm without talking about it.

He could get used to this.

The MALM bed has become Kon’s Everest.

He’s in the guest room with the IKEA manual spread open like sacred scripture, armed with an Allen key, three types of screwdrivers and a dream. Kon had refused all help (not that anyone had offered), instead insisting with righteous determination that he “had a system.” Which may or may not be swearing under his breath and periodically yelling out updates like he’s on a home renovation show.

It’s cute. Tim hates that.

He’s curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under him, sipping a half-cold decaf (he’s trying to make changes with coffee after lunch-time, okay?) while Bart fiddles with the DJ decks on the floor. They’d originally been a panic buy during Tim’s very brief “maybe I’ll become a DJ” phase  after first moving into the apartment. That had lasted exactly three YouTube tutorials.

But Bart? He makes the decks sing. The loft is full of soft instrumental beats now – a low, dreamy synth line humming under a crackling sample that might’ve once been a voicemail. Bart has his tongue stuck out and headphones looped only on one ear, bopping softly as he works. He mainly sticks to mixing existing songs for actual gigs. But in moments like these, when it’s just them? Out comes the hard drive filled with weird ass loops and pre-recorded sounds. Half of what Bart produces is utter shit. The other half is genius.

Across from him, Cassie sits cross-legged at the coffee table, grinding some of Tim’s weed into an old ceramic dish with the same focus Kon used earlier on IKEA price tags. She’s also swaying along to the music. The afternoon sun pours through the tall windows, buttery and warm, painting everything in the kind of golden haze that makes it easy to pretend nothing outside this loft exists.

From the guest room, there’s a loud thunk.

“All good in there?” Tim calls between sips of mid-level coffee (but is it even coffee like this?).

Kon’s voice floats out, muffled. “Yeah! Just dropped the Allen key. You wouldn’t believe how many screws are in this thing.”

“I would, actually. It’s IKEA. They always go overboard.”

“It’s a guest bed, Tim. It deserves structural integrity.”

Cassie snorts. “You deserve structural integrity, boo.”

“Aw,” Bart says, adjusting a pitch dial, “I love when Cassie flirts like a construction worker.”

The two of them finger gun at each other like total cool cats.

Tim sinks deeper into the couch. It’s warm today. The spring sun makes lazy patterns across the exposed brick and the massive windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze. For a place built out of concrete and glass and probably some inherited millennial guilt, it feels... lived in. Soft around the edges.

Cassie hums. “Are we smoking before or after the guest bed gets built? Because I can’t really be fucked waiting, but I feel like Kon needs all the help he can get, as funny as it would be to see him attempt this while baked.”

“Your misplaced doubt has been noted and filed away for reference,” comes the holler from the other room.

“Okay, well I’m rolling the first as a joint,” Cassie says, ignoring Kon. “Because I find your newfound obsession with spliffs worrying, Tim. We say no to tobacco in this house. It’s like you’re trying to be the Red Hood or something.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s done for me all year.”

Bart nudges him with his shoulder. “That’s because you don’t let me send you nudes anymore.”

“I have way too many, dude. It’s about moderation. And lighting. Your bedroom has shit lighting.”

“Art is never appreciated in its time.”

The music shifts again with Bart’s fiddling. It’s something low and hypnotic now, layered with mellow guitar. It hums pleasantly through Tim’s bones. He rests his head against the back of the couch and lets the room blur a little, eyes half-lidded. He can hear the soft rustle of Cassie’s fingers against the paper, the occasional metallic clink from Kon in the guest room, the rhythmic click and scratch of Bart’s fiddling. It’s not silence, not even close. But it’s peaceful. Like the kind of noise that makes a place feel lived in.

After lighting the joint and taking the first puff, Cassie shifts from the coffee table to the couch with a satisfied grunt, stretching her legs across Tim’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Which it kind of is. Tim just moves the ashtray to the armrest and starts working slow, rhythmic pressure with his thumbs into the arch of her socked foot.

She exhales smoke and melts deeper into the cushions. “I can’t believe no one in your family realises how touch-starved you are.”

Tim snorts, thinking back to the other night, in the Cave. “Dick hugged me in nothing but a towel the other night. I almost burst into flames.”

“You poor, damaged little rich boy.”

Bart groans and flops against the foot of the couch. Accepts the joint from Cassie. “Ugh, your brother is so hot. I would jump his bones and ride him in a heartbeat. No offense, Tim.”

“He’s not my brother,” Tim rebuts, way too quickly. When both of them look at him sharply, he coughs. “Uh… well he’s not? I just don’t see it that way, not after everything.”

“Holy unresolved trauma, Batman,” Cassie says as Bart passes him the joint. Thank fucking god. Tim’s way too sober for this conversation. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not on your fucking life,” Tim says as he takes a deep drag, and feels the warmth spread.

She shrugs, unbothered, and neither Bart nor Kon (who can surely hear everything they’re saying) feel the need to push. Not when the room is warm, their limbs all loose and lazy. The joint gets passed between fingers. Bart leans back over to the decks to fiddle with something, muttering about “autopilot” under his breath. The mix has settled into something moody and synthy, distant vocals melting into low percussion. It sounds like a song that exists only on rainy afternoons or in the ten minutes before you fall asleep.

“So,” Cassie says eventually, dragging the word out. “If we’re ignoring everything Dick related – capital D, I mean – then can we at least move on to little-D-dick and unpack you and Roy Harper, or what?”

Tim sighs. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Steph says you sucked him off in that nightclub bathroom, dude. Which is trashy as hell for the record,” Bart says as he leans back into the foot of the couch.

“I hate both of you. And Steph,” Tim mutters. But doesn’t stop himself from scratching at Bart’s floofy hair from where it’s right beneath him. The little imp preens like a cat.

“Okay, but did you sleep with him?” Cassie grins around the joint, handing it off to Bart.

Tim stares at the ceiling. “Define sleep.”

“Souring the krout,” Bart says immediately.

“He came back here. There may have been, like, a couch involved.”

“A couch,” Cassie echoes, nodding like she’s taking notes. “Not this couch, right?”

Tim doesn’t answer fast enough.

Bart snorts. “This couch? Bro.”

“There were blankets!” Tim says defensively.

“Soiled! Desecrated!” Bart flops over, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I can never sit again.”

“You’ve literally done worse on this couch. There is evidence,” Tim points out. “Do I need to remind you of that girl with the nose ring you brought back to my place while I was out patrolling?”

“True,” Cassie adds. So helpfully. Bart flips them both off.

From the guest room, Kon’s voice drifts out. “Should I be worried about this couch or just never sit on it again?”

“Definitely sit on it,” Bart yells back. “But like, know its history. And the fact that it’s definitely housed the bare ass-cheeks of a red-headed, law adjacent archer.”

“Hot.”

Cassie tilts her head toward the doorway. “Hey, are you done being a domestic god in there?”

“I’ve got three screws left and have no idea where they go.”

“Just eat them,” Bart suggests. “Forge your own destiny, bro.”

Tim keeps rubbing slow circles into Cassie’s foot, more out of instinct now than anything. His limbs feel heavier. Relaxed. It’s not the kind of high that spins, it’s the kind that drapes itself over your shoulders and whispers that you don’t need to move for a while.

“Do you think Jason’s gonna care?” Cassie asks after a while.

Tim frowns. Takes a moment to place who they’re talking about, in his baked state. “You mean Jason Todd? About Roy?”

“Yeah. You know, because you kinda defiled his friend on a couch. That I am still sitting on for some reason.”

“Yeah, well, Jason already wants to kill me. May as well go out with some flare, y’know?”

“And some good dick,” Bart mutters, then looks up at him. “Assuming it was good dick?”

“A-fucking-men it was.”

“My guy.” Bart says as Tim fist bumps him. Who says he can’t turn on the fuck boy persona when he needs to?

From the guest room, Kon calls, “Okay! Bed’s done. I’m not saying I’m a genius, but if you want to start calling me MALM Daddy, I won’t stop you.”

“Noted and discarded,” Tim replies.

“Seconded,” Cassie adds.

Bart just shrugs, “Show us your arms, Papi!”

Kon pokes his head out of the guest room doorway, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smug as hell. “What, these bad boys?”

He flexes.

“God, put those away,” Tim says, pretending to shield his eyes.

Kon grins, clearly pleased with himself. He pads over to them, then flops into the armchair next to the couch, letting out a low groan like he just got back from war. “Behold,” he says dramatically, “a man who has conquered the flatpack.” Then he points at them, one by one. “Also I do not recall giving you permission to smoke without me.”

Cassie offers him the joint like a queen presenting a relic. “Good news for you then, boyo, this is Timmy’s super special stuff that works on you.”

“Still can’t believe you used the Batcave labs for this. Nerd.”

“I was between projects,” Tim says with a shrug. “B definitely didn’t look like he approved, but he was already pissed off about the tattoo, and it’s legal here, so…”

Kon, for his part, takes a hit, then settles deeper into the armchair with a deeply satisfied sigh. Bart is quick to reclaim the joint with just a hint of Speed and the fluid motion of a man who has never fumbled a smoke in his life. “So back to what’s important: Jason.”

Tim catches a flicker of something cross Kon’s face. It’s gone quickly – replaced by that open, soft-eyed expression he wears like a default – but the silence that follows feels just slightly... thinner. Less buoyant than before. It’s probably nothing. Just the fact that Kon has never liked Jason. Not since the first stabbing event.

Still, Tim groans. “We’re not talking about Jason.”

Cassie raises an eyebrow. “We’re absolutely talking about Jason. You slept with his best friend/partner in crime. You have no one to blame but yourself for this conversation.”

“I haven’t even seen him in, like, a month. And when I did, he was shooting at me.”

“Wait, really?” Kon asks dozily. “He shot at you? Again?”

“It was just a warning shot,” Tim says mildly. “I think. Could’ve been a very aggressive hello.”

“That’s not normal! You can’t just shoot someone as a greeting!”

“To be fair to Jason, I was pretending to be a zombie to piss him off.”

Kon makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Bart shrugs. “It’s Red Hood, man. The bar’s underground.”

Tim sits up slightly, Cassie’s legs slipping off his lap. “It’s fine, though. We’re fine. We have a... net-neutral working arrangement.”

“Which means you assume he still wants to kill you,” Cassie says dryly.

“Well. Yeah.”

Kon frowns. “But… he doesn’t really, right?”

“I dunno, Kon. He’s been real quiet lately. For all I know, he’s waiting for the perfect moment to corner me in a parking garage and monologue about dead birds before snapping my neck.”

Cassie hums. “I feel like Jason Todd doesn’t monologue.”

“Unless it’s Mortal Kombat style,” Bart adds, thoughtful. “You know, like those little pre-fight intros. Speaking of, Kon, you still suck.”

Kon doesn’t take the bait about his gaming skills (or lack thereof). “Wait, are we seriously worried about Jason killing Tim?”

Tim waves him off. “No, no. It’s just our dynamic. I think.”

“Your dynamic involves murder?”

“Look, I got stabbed by Damian once and we still do birthdays.”

Bart snorts. “You mean you got stabbed and you apologised. Doormat.”

Kon is still frowning. “But like... if you know Jason would care, why did you bang his boy?

“I didn’t do it to spite him,” Tim says, annoyed. “I did it because Roy’s hot, and I was drunk. It was fun.”

Kon blinks. “Oh.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Tim stretches and yawns, his shirt riding up just a little as he shifts on the couch. “Anyway. That’s it. Not a big deal. I’m not, like, seeing him again.”

No one responds for a moment. Then, in a quieter voice than usual, Kon says, “Do you, uh... want to?”

“Want to what?”

“See Roy again?”

Tim shrugs. “Not really. He’s hot, but kinda weird. Kept calling me Babybat.”

“Ew.”

That gets a laugh out of Bart and a snort from Cassie. Kon just nods and goes back to staring at the ceiling like it has secrets he’s trying to crack. Tim watches him for a beat.

He’s not pouting. Not exactly. But there’s a tightness around his eyes he usually doesn’t wear. Like he’s doing mental math and coming up short. He doesn’t say anything else. Just folds his arms and sinks a little lower into the chair, expression unreadable in a way that isn’t normal for him. Tim frowns, but chalks it up to Kryptonian weed doing Kryptonian things. Or maybe Kon’s just tired. Or trying to figure out how many screws he actually left in the guest bed.

Whatever it is, it’s probably nothing.

Probably.

Tim should probably before more concerned about waking up to a mouth on his dick, the next morning.

Like, it’s not the first time it’s happened before? But definitely the first since, well, being dumped by his semi-serious boyfriend. Who had been a big fan of morning sex, but Tim is also pretty positive that it’s not Bernard that’s climbed into his bed at seven in the morning.

The sensation is enough to drag his consciousness back to the surface. Tim’s eyes flutter open, staring at the ceiling for a moment as his mind catches up to what’s happening below his waist. It’s mostly quiet, save for the wet, rhythmic sound barely perceptible beneath the covers.

“Ngh.” Fuck, that feels good. Tim frowns as he rubs his eyes. “… Bart?”

A wet pop, and then, “Nah bro, it’s your conscience.”

The snort Tim lets out quickly turns into a choke, as lips wrap back around him. He’s mindful of the Kryptonian with super-hearing next-door, who’s hopefully still asleep and not hearing this. Even if the thought of the opposite makes his cock jump in Bart’s mouth. Fucking traitor.

The covers shift as Bart adjusts his position, and Tim feels a hand wrap around the base of his shaft, stroking in tandem. He can picture exactly what’s happening beneath the sheets – Bart’s flushed face, hazel eyes glazed over with that look of cock-drunk pleasure he always gets when he’s really into it. It’s almost a shame that Tim can’t see it, but he’s also so boneless and floppy and just really can’t be fucked moving.

Settling back against his pillow, Tim threads his fingers under the covers until he finds Bart’s hair, soft and just a little tangled. He scratches gently at the scalp, earning a pleased hum that vibrates deliciously around his cock.

“Fuck,” he can’t help but breathe. “Such a menace, Imp.”

And he is. The combination of wet heat, skilful tongue, and the vibration of Bart’s moans (with probably just a hint of Speed Force vibration) sends sparks of pleasure up Tim’s spine. He continues to play with Bart’s hair, scratching at his scalp in the way he knows drives the speedster wild.

Beneath the covers, Bart makes a particularly obscene slurping sound as he takes Tim deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of other man’s throat. Bart doesn’t gag – he’s had plenty of practice – instead, just swallows around Tim. Throat muscles contracting in a way that has him arching slightly off the bed.

“Jesus, Bart,” Tim hisses, his free hand clutching at the sheets. “Gonna cum.”

The wet sounds from beneath the covers grow more enthusiastic, punctuated by Bart’s occasional moans as he clearly ruts against the mattress.

The combination of Bart’s eager mouth and the mental image of him grinding against the sheets pushes Tim over the edge. His back arches slightly as his orgasm hits, waves of pleasure washing over him as he spills down Bart’s throat with a muffled groan.

“Bart, fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, trying to keep quiet as his hips jerk with each pulse of his release.

Tim can tell the moment Bart also reaches his own climax, by the way his mouth falters on Tim’s sensitive cock, a high-pitched whimper escaping a moment later.

For a few moments, everything is still, both of them catching their breath. Tim’s hand continues to stroke Bart’s hair gently, a gesture of affection rather than encouragement now. Eventually, Bart releases Tim’s softening cock with one final, gentle kiss to the tip before crawling up from under the covers, collapsing chest-to-chest on top of Tim.

“Morning,” Bart says with a grin, his hair sticking up in all directions, lips swollen and red from use. There’s a satisfied flush to his cheeks, eyes bright with post-orgasmic contentment. A string of spit hanging grossly off his chin, then dripping onto Tim’s pecs.

Still, Tim laughs softly, reaching out to smooth down a particularly wild tuft of Bart’s hair. “What did I do to deserve that?”

Bart stretches like a contented cat. “Eh. Woke up, got hungry, figured you wouldn’t mind,” he says with that characteristic Bart-logic that somehow always makes sense in its own way.

“Did you seriously just compare my dick to breakfast?”

“High in protein,” Bart replies without missing a beat, waggling his eyebrows comically. “Besides, Cassie’s hungover and Kon’s still disgustingly straight. I think.”

Tim snorts and shoves at Bart’s shoulder playfully. “You’re ridiculous. Coffee?”

“God, yes,” Bart agrees enthusiastically. “And food. Many, many foods.”

Unfortunately, Tim’s goodwill towards Bart only lasts a few more minutes. Because by the time they get to the kitchen, it’s very apparent that the speedster has zeroed in on one of those foods particularly. And more important, it’s resulted in a standoff over the espresso machine.

“I’m just saying,” Bart whispers, elbow-deep in the fridge, “you’ve got the ice cream, I’ve got the vision, Cassie has the hangover. This is fate, broski.”

“This is stupid,” Tim whispers back, trying to edge him away from the counter. “It’s not even eight o’clock, Bart.”

“Which is exactly when you need an affogato. Cold sugar, hot espresso. It’s the ideal breakfast. It’s what the Italians would want us to do.”

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just want my normal cup of coffee, not a lactose trap disguised as dessert.”

From the couch where she passed out last night, Cassie lets out a low, agonised groan and rolls over like a dying sea lion. Tim and Bart both freeze.

“If either of you so much as breathe loudly again, I will kill you and feed you your own balls,” she croaks.

Tim gulps. “Noted.”

… They return to their silent war.

Tim finally manages to jab the espresso machine’s power button and claim the first shot – black, bitter, and blessedly without a hint of sweetness – when he hears a soft, slow shuffle from down the hall.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just sips. Blessed caffeine. So much better than a blowjob. But then Bart makes a small, involuntary wheeze and Tim glances sideways.

Kon walks into the kitchen like a sunrise that doesn’t know how much damage it’s doing.

His hair is tousled, sleep-mussed in every direction, and there’s a pink indent on his cheek from where it’s been pressed against a pillow. He’s yawning as he goes, scratching absently at his muscled chest, which is bare. Gloriously bare. Just the right amount of chest hair, buzzed over with clippers. Must come from the Luthor genes, because Tim likes to imagine that Clark is a hairless ken-doll. Boxer shorts sit low on Kon’s hips, revealing a very distracting line of muscle that leads south into the line of his waistband. The netherworld that Tim must never, ever think about.

He forgets how to swallow.

Bart lets out a soft, reverent, “Jesus Christ.”

Kon blinks at them, completely unbothered, then smiles. “Morning, dudes. The MALM held up, for the record.”

Tim does not respond. He is trying not to die. Kon opens a cupboard and peers in like it’s a puzzle he doesn’t understand. “Is this where you keep the cereal? Or is it in one of the fake ones? You’ve got, like, six fake cupboards, man.”

Tim nods. “Left of the fridge.”

Kon opens it, beams. “Yes!”

He pulls out a box of granola with triumph and pours it into a bowl. Tim only has eyes for Kon’s happy trail.

Bart, traitorous bastard that he is, leans against the counter facing Tim and stage-whispers, “Are you seeing this?”

Tim’s mouth opens. No words come out.

“Seeing what?” Kon asks as he pours milk. Super-hearing for the win.

“Cassie being our worst nightmare this morning,” Tim answers quickly.

Kon looks over at the lump of corpse on the couch, then snorts. “Yeah, I ain’t touching that with a ten-foot pole. Knew we shouldn’t have brought out your expensive Wayne-boy whiskey.” He takes his first mouthful of cereal, then moans in a way that is utterly criminal. “You got the stuff I like on purpose, didn’t you? You’re the best, man.”

He flashes a blinding grin, and Tim has a brief, vivid mental image of throwing himself out the window.

Cassie groans again from the couch. “Too loud. No talking about friendship. Or food.”

Kon winces. “Sorry, Cass.”

She mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “himbo menace” and pulls a pillow over her head.

Kon, oblivious and still chewing granola like a wholesome cereal mascot with shoulders that block out the sun, turns back toward the hall. “I’m gonna grab a shirt. Then I’ll help make – what was it, affo-goat-o?”

“AFFO-GATO,” Bart corrects, wild with glee. “And yes. My reign begins.”

Kon gives them a sleepy salute and ambles away, holding his bowl in one hand and scratching at his lower back with the other.

Tim stares after him for a moment too long. Chooses not to think about how far back Kon has been using his super-hearing this morning, if he’s at least aware of the ice-cream war.

Then, softly, Bart says, “So… do we need to talk about the amount of thirst currently in this room?”

Tim finishes his coffee like it’s a shot. “Nope.”

“Perrrfect, because I am full bi!panic and would like to keep ignoring my problems, good sir.”

“Both of you shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep!”

Chapter Text

“You’re overthinking it, dude. It’s not that hard.”

“Just because you collect hook-ups like Pokémon cards doesn’t mean we all do, okay? This is actually important.”

Watching as Duke frowns at his phone again, Tim just shakes his head and sinks deeper into his beanbag. Fine. He can drown in indecision, if that’s what he wants.

Still, Tim can’t leave well enough alone. “Look. Just text her. Say, ‘Hey, you free this weekend? Would you like to grab coffee?’ Dunzo. No poetry required.”

From his own beanbag, Duke just looks at him with an arched eyebrow and an unimpressed stare. His phone is balanced on his chest like it’s a grenade. Which would make sense, given how Duke seems to be handling it.

“I’m trying not to fumble this, man,” he says after a beat, with a sad little sigh. Poor boy.

The coworking space on the ground floor of Tim’s Burnside building hums with quiet life. It’s not a library – nobody’s shushing anybody – but there’s a cozy rhythm to it, like a coffee shop that forgot to charge for the vibes. Exposed brick walls soak up the late morning light, streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that face the street. A few mismatched rugs soften the concrete floor, and the furniture’s a hodgepodge of thrift store finds and furniture store  rejects Tim scavenged when he first bought the place.

He and Duke have claimed the far corner area – Tim really rates beanbags, as it turns out.

Looking at Duke, he shrugs and flicks a stray pretzel crumb off his hoodie. “You’re not fumbling. You’re just, like... dramatically pausing. For effect”

“Bro, this is why you’re banned from giving advice. You talk like an AI chatbot trying to emulate generation Z.”

“Rude. I’m helping you out of the goodness of my heart.”

Duke rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Your heart’s got too many area codes, Tim.”

A Bluetooth speaker pumps out lo-fi beats, all mellow synths and soft drum loops. It’s a Saturday, so the space is busier than usual. Maybe a dozen people scattered around. A guy with a man bun sketching on a tablet near the window, his coffee cup balanced precariously on a stack of books. Two women in their thirties murmur over a laptop. A kid, probably no older than fifteen, slouching in an armchair, headphones on, nodding to some private rhythm. It’s Tim’s little experiment, this place – free Wi-Fi and free coffee, no cameras, just a spot for the neighbourhood to breathe.

He’s stupidly proud of it, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

In front of him, Duke’s still staring at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Tim stretches, his hoodie riding up to reveal the edge of his bird tattoo, and grabs another pretzel from the bowl between them. “Okay, let’s workshop this. What’s the holdup? You like this girl, right?”

Duke groans, tossing his phone onto his lap. “Yeah, I like her. Maya’s... cool. Like, actually cool, not just ‘I own a skateboard’ cool. She’s in my poetry class, does these readings that make you feel stuff. But I don’t know, man. What if I text and she’s like, ‘Who?’”

Tim snorts, chewing thoughtfully. “Then she’s got amnesia, because you’re Duke Thomas. Soccer superstar, poet, guy with objectively great hair. You’re not exactly forgettable.”

“Flattery’s not helping.” Duke smirks, but there’s a flicker of nerves in his eyes. “I just don’t wanna come off desperate. Or boring. Or, like, a creep.”

“Fair. But you’re overcomplicating it. Look, you’ve already talked to her in class, right? She knows you’re not a creep. Just keep it simple. Why don’t you ask her to come with you to that open mic night you mentioned. Low stakes, no pressure.”

Duke tilts his head, considering. “Open mic could work. She’s into that scene. But what if it’s a shit gig? Or I’m awkward?”

“Then you laugh it off. Girls dig vulnerability. Or so I’ve heard. Steph changes her tune every fucking day.” Tim grins, dodging the pretzel Duke chucks at him. “Seriously, just be you. She’s already into your vibe if she’s talking to you.”

Duke picks at a loose thread on his jeans, thoughtful. “You make it sound easy. But you’re out here living like a rom-com villain, so I’m not sure I trust your judgment.”

“Villain? I’m at least a chaotic neutral antihero.” Tim laughs, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The mullet’s growing out. A little less tragic now, but still a choice. “And I’m not saying I’m a relationship guru. My track record’s... eclectic. But I know people. You’re overthinking because you care, which is good. Just don’t let it paralyse you.”

Duke leans back, phone still untouched. “Eclectic’s a nice way to put it. How do you even function with that many bad decisions?”

“Pure spite and caffeine.” Tim pops another pretzel in his mouth, crunching loudly. “And I’m thriving, thank you very much. Burnside’s my oyster.”

“Yeah, until Jason shows up to yeet you into the river for defiling his best friend.”

Tim groans, tilting his head back. “Why does everyone keep bringing up Jason? I’m not scared of him. He’s all bark, no bite. Mostly.”

Duke frowns. “Didn’t he try to slit your throat?”

“Eh, I was probably talking shit at the time or something. I’m over it.”

Duke’s laugh blends into the soft music and the low hum of conversation around them. The space feels alive, not crowded but full, like a living room where everyone’s just comfortable enough to coexist.

A shadow falls over their beanbags, and Tim looks up to see a lanky dude with glasses and a faded band tee, clutching a laptop. “Yo, Tim, sorry to bug you. Wi-Fi’s acting up again. Password still ‘GothamSucks69’?”

Tim nods. Sees Duke raise an eyebrow from the corner of his vision. “Yeah, but try restarting the router. It’s that box under the counter. Red button, hold it for ten seconds.”

“Sweet, thanks.” The guy – Tim thinks his name’s Leo, he’s seen him around a few times – gives a thumbs-up and shuffles off, nearly tripping over a rug.

Duke watches him go, and then, “Are you twelve?”

“And a comedic genius.”

God, he likes this – being part of something that’s not about capes or crime. Just people, existing. Making 69 jokes and patching dogy Wi-Fi connections.

Duke picks up his phone again, staring at Maya’s contact. “Alright, fine. I’ll text her. But if I crash and burn, I’m blaming you and your chaotic neutral bullshit.”

“Deal. I’ll even buy you ice cream to cry into.” Tim nudges Duke’s knee with his foot. “But you won’t crash. You’re too smooth for that.”

“Smooth? Me?” Duke laughs, shaking his head. “Man, you’re delusional. But... thanks. For real.”

Tim waves it off, but the sincerity in Duke’s voice hits him. It’s rare for them to get time together like this – just the two of them. No mission, no Bat bullshit. Duke’s always been the one who gets it, who doesn’t push too hard or expect Tim to be anything he’s not. It’s easy, like breathing.

“You’re welcome,” Tim says, softer. “Now text her before I do it for you. Because my version would involve at least one eggplant emoji. Or the taco one.”

Duke flips him off but starts typing, a small smile tugging at his lips. Tim leans back, closing his eyes for a second, letting the music wash over him. The beats loop gently, a soft piano riff threading through the synths. Someone laughs across the room, and the coffee maker hisses softly. It’s not perfect, but it’s his.

“Yo, Tim,” Duke says suddenly, lips curling all funny-like. His phone is by his side now. “This place, man... you’re killing it. Like, I know you’re out here making bad choices with archers and crushing on pretty much all your best friends, but this? It’s real. You’re building something good.”

Tim opens his eyes, caught off guard. “Uh... thanks. Just trying to make Burnside less of a dumpster fire, you know?”

Duke looks at him, grin easy but eyes serious. “Nah, it’s more than that. You’re, like, happy. Not just surviving – you’re thriving. It’s cool to see. Makes me think about what I want, y’know? Outside of the suit.”

Tim blinks, a flush creeping up his neck. He’s not sure what to do with the compliment. The word ‘thriving’ hasn’t really been something associated with him in the past.

“Aw, you’re gonna make me blush.” Tim grins, tossing a pretzel at Duke’s head. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me. You’re already out here writing poetry and charming girls. You’re doing plenty.”

Duke laughs, shaking his head. “Fair, fair. Just saying, you’re making it work. Gives the rest of us hope.”

Tim grabs another pretzel, tossing it in his mouth to hide the stupid smile threatening to break out. “Hope, huh? Careful, you’re gonna ruin my rep as a chaotic mess.”

“Too late for that. But when- Oh shit, she texted back.”

Tim leans over, trying to peek. “And?”

“She’s down for the open mic. Thursday.” Duke’s grin is so wide it’s practically glowing. “You’re not totally useless, Drake.”

“High praise.” Tim settles back, feeling light. “Told you it’d work.”

The music shifts, a new track with a slightly funkier bassline, and the room keeps humming along. Leo’s back at his laptop. The sewing machine that one girl brought with her whirs gently. Outside, Burnside bustles – cars, voices, the faint wail of a siren that’s too far to matter. Tim closes his eyes again, just for a moment, and lets himself exist in it. This space, these people, this life he’s carving out. It’s enough.

The universe must be out for him though, because that night doesn’t go nearly as smoothly as the morning with Duke.

Which is to say, Tim is royally pissed off.

“Hey Red,” Dick greets him, smile wide from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the rooftop. The South Gotham docks are a light below him – Tim’s target for the night. Although it’s now looking like it’s his and Dick’s target. God fucking dammit.

“Nightwing,” Tim answers, instinctively sounding much curter than he’d like. “I can handle this operation myself.”

“Yeah, but…” Dick trails off as he gestures around them, “you said I could come.”

And fuck, Tim had said that. Even if it’d been a week ago. He’d originally been planning to return to the docks immediately, to take down this new group of idiots illegally importing god knows what. Small-time and sloppy, moving product through the docks like they thought nobody’d notice. Until they’d gone under the radar all of a sudden. Which… fine. Tim had had Ikea furniture to buy and needed a way to shake Dick being overly clingy. It hadn’t been the worst turn of events.

Unfortunately, the fuck-knuckle crew had decided to make a resurgence. Which meant so had Dick.

The docks stink of salt and diesel, the air thick with mist that clings to Tim’s suit. The warehouse itself is a crumbling relic. Windows honest-to-God boarded, but light leaks through the cracks, betraying the activity inside. Tim adjusts his domino mask, zooming in with the HUD. Six thugs, two armed, hauling crates that probably hold knockoff venom or worse. Amateurs. He could’ve handled this solo in his sleep.

“Looks like a standard smash-and-grab,” Dick says as he climbs to his feet. Stretches annoyingly. “You got a plan, or we just winging it like old times?”

Tim doesn’t reply at first, just keeps his eyes on the warehouse. He’s not doing this – not the big-brother routine, not the nostalgia trip. Not when every word out of Dick’s mouth feels like a reminder of what Tim lost.

But god, does Dick have to look so stupidly perfect doing it? The Nightwing suit hugs every line of his body, as fucking always. His hair’s a mess, dark strands falling over his forehead, damp from the mist. When he shifts to scan the docks, the muscle in his jaw flexes, and Tim’s stomach does a traitorous flip. It’s unfair. Nobody should look that good in spandex, especially not the guy who broke Tim’s heart without even noticing.

“Winging it’s your thing,” Tim mutters eventually. “I was gonna drop in, knock out the two with guns, zip-tie the rest. Quick and clean.”

Dick grins, teeth flashing. “Love it. But let’s add a little flair. I’ll take the high ground, you hit low. Bet I can take out three before you get two.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “This isn’t a game show, Nightwing.”

“Everything’s a game show if you believe in yourself.” Dick claps a hand on Tim’s shoulder, and the touch burns through his suit, warm and grounding and infuriating. Tim shrugs it off, ignoring the way his skin prickles.

“Fine. Just don’t get in my way.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tim bites back a retort and fires his grapple, swinging silently toward the warehouse roof. Dick’s right behind him, moving like gravity’s just a suggestion. They land in sync, Tim on the skylight’s edge, Dick perched above him, all effortless grace. Tim hates how easy it is to fall into rhythm with him, like muscle memory from a life he doesn’t live anymore.

Below, the thugs are arguing, voices muffled through the glass. Something about “the boss” and “moving fast.” Fucking typical. Tim signals Dick – two fingers, then a point at the armed goons. Dick nods, already slipping through a broken skylight pane like he’s auditioning for a heist movie. Tim follows, dropping into the shadows of a catwalk.

The warehouse smells like rust and cheap cigarettes. Crates are stacked haphazardly, some pried open to reveal vials of glowing green liquid. Definitely not FDA-approved. Tim creeps along the catwalk, bo-staff ready, while Dick vaults over a railing, silent as a cat. The first armed thug doesn’t see Dick coming. One spinning kick to the temple, and the guy’s out before he hits the floor.

Dick catches the gun mid-fall, winking at Tim like a smug bastard.

Fuck. Tim hates that he suddenly feels the need to show Dick up. He drops onto the second armed goon, staff cracking against the guy’s wrist. The gun clatters, and a swift jab to the jaw sends him down. Not as stealthy as Dick, but Tim’s grumpy. He wants a fight.

The other four thugs freeze, then scatter like roaches, shouting. Amateur hour.

“Red, two o’clock!” Dick calls, already flipping over a crate to tackle another guy. His suit stretches tight across his back, muscles rippling, and Tim’s brain stutters for a split second before he pivots, staff sweeping low to trip a thug running for the exit. The guy faceplants like a loser, and Tim zip-ties his wrists in one fluid motion.

He hears Dick’s laugh echo behind him, bright and infuriating, as he disarms another thug with a flourish that’s pure showboat. Why does he have to make it look so easy?

The last two thugs try to bolt, but Tim’s faster, throwing a bolo that tangles their legs. They hit the ground hard, cursing, and Dick’s on them in a blink, zip-tying with a grin. “Nice throw, Red!”

“Just make sure they’re secured,” Tim growls, checking the crates. Nice and tough of him.

Vials, syringes, some kind of lab equipment. And wait – maybe this isn’t just small-time after all. It’s organised, even if the grunts are idiots. Maybe he should’ve hit this crew sooner, before they got cocky enough to resurface.

Dick leans against a crate, catching his breath, looking like a goddamn model despite the sweat on his brow. “Is that more of that knock-off venom shit? Goddammit,” he says pouts as Tim holds up a vial.

“Looks like it. We should call it in.”

Dick nods, then pauses all of a sudden. The tone of his voice shifts. “You gotta admit though, we’re still good together. Like old times, right?”

Tim’s fingers tighten on his staff. Old times. When Tim was Robin, and Dick was the brother he’d have died for. The memory stings, and Dick’s cheer just twists the knife. He doesn’t get it. He never will.

“Job’s done,” Tim says, voice flat, repeating himself. “Call it in.”

Dick’s smile falters, just for a second, but he taps his comm nonetheless. “Hey Oracle, we’ve got six down, crates secured. We’ll take a sample but it looks like more bootleg Bane juice. Send GCPD for pickup?”

“Copy. Nice work, boys.”

Tim’s already moving, scanning the warehouse for anything they missed, when a low, gravelly voice cuts through the silence like a blade.

“Well, ain’t this cozy. The Bat-boys playing house.”

Tim freezes, immediately snapping to alarm. Dick’s head snaps up, hand on his escrima sticks. Not that they’ll need to fight – Tim thinks – because he immediately recognises that voice.

See? Shit like this is why Tim cut back on patrol.

Because standing in the doorway, silhouetted slightly against the fog, stands Jason Todd. His helmet gleams under the lights, leather jacket looking as stupid-emo as ever. Oh, not to mention he’s packing. Tim swears that Jason changes guns every time he sees the guy.

Tim’s stomach drops. Of all the nights for Jason to show up.

“Hood,” Dick says, voice cautious but warm, like he’s greeting a stray dog. “Didn’t know you were invited to the party.”

Jason’s helmet tilts, and Tim can feel the smirk even through the modulator. “Didn’t know I needed an invite to crash your little playdate. What’s the matter, boys? You both look like you’ve seen a dead man.”

Ah. Dead jokes… again. Whoever said Jason didn’t have range (Tim thinks it might’ve been Steph) was clearly correct.

Tim’s grip on his staff tightens, and he forces his voice steady. He’s been ready for this, ready to face Jason. Even if he really doesn’t want to. “What do you want, Hood?”

Jason steps closer, boots heavy on the concrete, and the air shifts, thick with something Tim can’t quite name. Trouble’s coming, probably. He feels his heart kicks up a notch. Jason’s not exactly his biggest fan – years of attempted murder, endless vitriol, and that one time Tim maybe hacked Jason’s safehouse security haven’t built a lot of trust. Not to mention that he’s a wildcard, and Tim’s not in the mood to roll the dice tonight. Especially not with Dick hovering like a cheerleader who doesn’t know when to quit.

For a horrible moment, Jason’s body language reads wrong. Tim is almost certain he’s going to attack. But then the tension breaks with Jason’s chuckle, as he holds his hands up in mock-surrender.

“Easy, Red,” Jason drawls eventually, voice modulator crackling with amusement. He holsters his pistol with a lazy flourish, but his free hand rests on a second holster, a subtle reminder. “I ain’t here to gut you. That’s on my mood board for next week.”

Dick steps forward, smile tight. “Let’s keep this friendly, guys. You tracking this crew too?”

“Something like that.” Jason’s helmet tilts towards the unconscious men around them. “These clowns also happen to be moving product on my turf. Thought I’d drop by, see what’s what.” His head swivels to Tim, and Tim swears he can feel the smirk. “Didn’t expect to find you two playing Batman and Robin. Kind of cute.”

Tim’s jaw clenches. Must be the group that Jason had had Roy scoping out, back at the club. Which makes sense. They have been moving product in some weird places. “Well either way, you’re late. Job’s done.”

“Or maybe I just like watching you work.”

Okay… that makes Tim pause. The tone in Jason’s voice is weird. He doesn’t know what to make of it, and can only tense as the other man steps towards him. Jason’s unpredictable at the best of times. His next step could be a fist, could be a joke. With their history, it’s usually both.

But instead, he gets his answer about what Jason’s up to when a gloved hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and deliberate. “Gotta say, though, you’ve been keeping busy. Heard you and Roy got real cozy at that club. You little freak.”

Oh, fuck. He had that one coming.

“Excuse me?” Dick’s voice is sharp, but there’s something else under it, a tightness Tim can’t place. “What’s this about Roy?”

“Jason-”

But Jason just snorts, pulling his hand back to cross his arms. “Oh, you didn’t hear? Your little boy here gave a certain archer the VIP treatment in the bathroom stall of a club. Real classy, by the way.”

Tim’s stomach twists as he hears Dick make a weird, choked noise beside him. He kind of fucking hates Jason for that. Dick didn’t need to know. And he’s fucking lucky all those thugs are knocked out. Last thing he needs is Red Robin rumours making the rounds at Blackgate.

Still, Tim can’t help but rise to the accusation because screw it, he’s not letting Jason (or Dick) get the upper hand. He’s not fucking ashamed.

“Jealous, Hood? I mean, Roy’s got those nice archer arms. Can’t blame me.”

“Tim!” Dick yelps, codenames suddenly forgotten. Yeah, definitely good that Tim was angry enough to be going for knockout blows on the thugs.

Jason’s laugh booms, echoing off the warehouse walls. “Kid, I ain’t jealous. Roy’s a free agent, and you’re out here collecting notches like a damn trophy hunter, from what I hear. Respect the hustle.” He tilts his helmet, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Gotta say, I didn’t know what to think when Roy mentioned the mullet – but you make it work.”

Oh.

This is… definitely unexpected.

Of all the reactions Tim had expected Jason to have, after all the brainstorming with Kon, Cassie and Bart about damage control post-Roy Harper – this had not been what Tim had expected. Guns and throwing knives, sure. But unabashed flirting?

He likes this.

It doesn’t hurt that beside them, Dick is doing his best impression of a blanched tomato. Which, to be honest… good. Let him squirm. If Dick wants to play disappointed big brother, then Tim’s gonna crank it to eleven and see how much he can take.

He steps closer to Jason, voice low and teasing, pushing the flirt just enough to see how far he can take it. “What, you want a turn? I’m flexible.”

“Oh, I know that. Heard you’re real good at putting on a show. Roy couldn’t shut up about that mouth of yours.”

“You two gossiped about me, now?”

Dick makes a garbled noise, then coughs. Loud enough to cut through the fog. “Okay, stop.” His tone’s total disapproval, but his face is flushed, jaw tight. “Tim, what the hell? Roy Harper? In a bathroom?”

“And on his couch after,” Jason adds, oh-so helpfully.

Tim watches as Dick sighs in defeat, eyes darting between the two of them, like he’s trying to work out whether they’re actually being serious right now. Which – Tim would also like to know. Just a little bit. Because as fun as it is pissing Dick off, the only thing better than that is the potential to bite into the finest rib-eye that Tim hadn’t even realised was on the menu.

Still, he can’t help but wilt under Dick’s stare. Just a little. “I’m allowed to sleep with who I want, you know. Unless you want me to run all my hookups by you first? Get a gold star for good behaviour?”

Dick flinches, and for a second, Tim thinks he’s hit a nerve. But then Dick’s mouth twists. “Jesus, Tim. That’s not what I meant, Tim. I’m just... worried. You’re better than that.”

“Better than what?” Tim snaps. “Having a life outside being there for you when you call?”

Dick’s eyes widen, and there’s that tightness again, something raw and unsteady that Tim can’t parse. “That’s not fair,” Dick says, quieter, but his voice shakes, and his hands are clenched like he’s holding himself back. “I just want you to be careful.”

Tim laughs, bitter and sharp. What a joke. “Careful. Right. Because you’re so good at looking out for me.” He turns back to Jason, leaning into the mock-flirt with a reckless edge, because if Dick wants to play disappointed, Tim’s gonna give him something to choke on. “What do you say, Hood? You and me, one night only. I’ll even let you keep the helmet on when we bump uglies.”

Dick makes a noise like a kettle boiling over, and Tim doesn’t need to look to know he’s imploding. Jason laughs, a rough, delighted sound that vibrates through the warehouse. “Fuck, kid, you don’t play fair. I like it.” He leans in, close enough that Tim can smell leather and gun oil, and his voice dips to a filthy whisper. “You wanna come round later, I’ll leave the door unlocked. But I don’t do gentle, and I know you like it rough.”

“This isn’t funny,” Dick says from the side, but his voice cracks, and it’s the most un-Dick thing Tim’s ever heard. “This is not funny.”

Tim’s heart pounds, a mix of entertainment and something darker, something that thrills at seeing Dick unravel. He steps even closer to Jason and throws a lazy grin. “Why wait? There’s a perfectly good crate right over there.”

Jason tilts his head, clearly eating this up. “I like the way you think, Red. Bet you’d look great bent over-”

“No, enough!” Dick’s voice cuts through, louder now, and Tim startles, turning to see him practically vibrating. His chest heaves, and his eyes are wild, locked on Tim with an intensity that makes Tim’s skin prickle. “Both of you, knock it off. We’re on a job, not... whatever this is.”

Jason chuckles, stepping back. Damn. “Relax, Dickie. Just having fun with your boy. Ain’t my fault he’s got a mouth on him.”

“Not his boy,” Tim interjects, pointing at Dick. He’s ignored.

“As much as I’d love to sit here and plan our future honeymoon, Red, we got bigger problems,” Jason continues. Gestures at the contraband they’ve located. “These vials? They’re also moving through my streets, and I wanna know who’s pulling the strings.”

Tim’s still buzzing, Dick’s reaction burning in his mind. He forces himself to focus, glancing at the crates. “Then help us load them for GCPD. Unless you’re just wanna sit there looking pretty.”

Jason’s helmet tilts again, and Tim can hear the grin. “Oh, I’ll help. But you owe me a drink for stealing my kills tonight, slut.”

“Jason!”

Jason laughs, stepping back with a mock salute. “Alright, alright, don’t stroke out. I’ll load the damn crates”. He nudges Tim’s shoulder, voice low. “This ain’t over. You wanna play, I’m game. Name the time and place.”

Tim’s still buzzing, Jason’s touch lingering like a brand. He shoots Dick a defiant stare, ignoring the way his chest tightens at Dick’s glower. “You’ve got my number, Hood.”

As they haul the vials, Dick’s silence is deafening, his hands shaking as he works. Tim feels Jason’s gaze, hot and heavy, and for the first time, he’s not sure if he’s more thrilled by Dick’s meltdown or the dangerous spark he’s just ignited with Jason. Either way, he’s in deep, and he’s not sure he wants out.

Dick just utters a defeated sigh, and Tim bites back a laugh. He’s still pissed, yeah, but seeing Dick this flustered – red-faced, stuttering, completely off his game – is almost worth the fight. Almost.

Tim’s not really expecting Jason to message him. He’s really not. It was just a bit of fun to get Dick riled up – something they clearly both love doing. So aside from newfound trauma-bonding over shitty not-quite older brothers, it’s not like there was a future there.

Jason: U up?

Tim stares at the message, feeling his brow pinch. His phone’s balanced on the edge of the bathroom sink, screen glowing in the dim light. It’s only 1am – early for a patrol night, but that’s standard for him these days. No more early morning debriefs or crawling into bed as the sun rises. He’s trying to be an actual person, and this actual person needs to be up in the morning to meet Tam for brunch.

Cliché one-liners aside, he wasn’t really expecting Jason to text him. Not really. Tim’s got no illusions about Jason Todd. The guy’s a walking arsenal with a chip on his shoulder and a rap sheet longer than Tim’s patrol logs. Flirting was fun, sure, but a future? Nah. That’s not how this works.

Right?

He’s halfway through peeling off his Red Robin suit, the Kevlar sticking to his skin where sweat and Gotham grime have clearly fused it to his body. Fucking annoying. Tim drops the suit in a heap by the washer, already mentally cataloguing the repair kit he’ll need tomorrow. For now, it’s a quick rinse cycle with the special detergent Babs hooked him up with – smells like lemons which is fucking baller, and more importantly, cuts through blood like nobody’s business.

It's not like Jason actually wants to sleep with him anyway. The guy’s a maniac who clearly gains a sick pleasure for riling Dick up. Besides, Tim’s pretty sure Jason’s dating Artemis.

Tim can’t help but let out a (slightly exaggerated) moan when the steaming hot spray of the shower hits him. He tilts his head back under the water, feeling muscles loosen even though his mind’s still racing. He’s not sure what he’s doing. Teasing Dick was one thing, but Jason’s different. Dangerous. The guy’s tried to kill him, for fuck’s sake, and yet that all Tim can think about is that Jason apparently doesn’t “do gentle”.

He scrubs himself down with soap, lathering his chest, his thighs, the curve of his hips. Tim’s hand lingers on his stomach, fingers brushing the damp skin, and he catches himself wondering what Jason’s hands would feel like there, rough and heavy. He shakes it off, but the thought’s already taken root, low and dangerous.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s such a disaster.

He shuts off the water, grabs a towel, and wraps it low around his hips after drying off. And when he reaches for his phone again, Jason’s text is still fucking there.

He types, then deletes. Repeat and recycle seven more times, because what do you even fucking say to that?

Tim: Yeah. You?

That, apparently. Fucking smooth.

God, Tim’s such a dork. Of course Jason’s up, he just fucking texted him.

He groans, tossing the phone onto the counter, and paces to the living room, where his couch – same one he rode Jason’s best friend – sits there like it’s innocent. Like it’s not the reason he’s in this stupid mess. Tim flops onto it, towel riding up his thighs, and stares at the ceiling for approximately three seconds.

And then his phone buzzes from back on the kitchen counter. Tim bolts over to it like the biggest fucking loser on the planet.

Jason: Ha. Cute.

Jason: You’re cute

Jason Todd sent 1 picture.

Oh. Fuck.

That… is a picture of a very shirtless Jason Todd.

Chapter Text

“Dudedudedude, be a bro. You have to show us the pic.”

Bart’s practically vibrating in his seat. Hands waving around and getting dangerously close to the mojito in front of him. Tim’s sure he’s not the only one at the table eyeing the glass warily, in case it becomes collateral damage.

“Uh, no,” he replies a second later.

“Come on, don’t be such a loser. You can’t just leave us hanging with the little nugget that Jason freaking Todd has been sending you nudes, and then just refuse to elaborate.”

“They’re not nudes! And no one else wants to see them other than you, anyway.”

“Um,” Steph begins, only for Tim to shush her with a finger.

He groans and sinks deeper into the creaky wooden chair, which seems far too structurally fraught to be allowed for this bar. Then again, the bar’s so extra it almost hurts – exposed brick walls plastered with vintage band posters, Edison bulbs dangling from ceiling rafters. The type of place that serves ten different craft IPAs and only artisan pretzels. Not to mention that everyone working there has a tattoo and a side hustle. Tim’s pretty sure the bartender, Benji, is knitting a scarf between pours.

Still, Tim likes the vibe. Even if it’s pretentious.

“You only like this dump because you’re leeching its personality to hide your own lack of one,” Steph had said earlier, when Tim had suggested they all meet  for afternoon drinks. Which – rude, but not entirely wrong.

When Bart makes grabby hands again at him, signalling for the phone, Tim groans. “It’s not like it’s even a big deal.”

“Oh it’s not a big deal?” Cassie chimes in, oh so helpfully. “I believe the exact words you used at the time were ‘someone help me I’m gonna fucking die’, no?”

Tim hates her. He hates them all. Why do his friends always seem to gang up on him exclusively?

As Steph cackles, Bart nods like a sage. “Exactly. Jason sends you a shirtless mirror selfie, and now you’re suddenly acting like it’s junk mail? C’mon, man, that’s prime content. And I for one am being deprived.”

The group of friends (and he is currently using that word lightly) are sprawled around a wobbly table, a mess of half-drunk glasses and more than one bowl of truffle fries. Bart’s taking up enough attention for all of them, but Steph and Cassie aren’t far off either. Both blondes grinning evilly like little gremlins as they arch their eyebrows at him. God, Tim hates that they’re friends. Probably the worst mistake of his life was introducing them to each other.

Either that or showing Steph the photo Jason sent him in the first place. Who then told Cassie, who told Bart, bringing them to now.

The far end of the table, in comparison, looks far more peaceful. Tim wishes he could reside at the far end. Cass and Duke are playing Jenga, for fuck’s sake. But between Tim and them is Kon, who’s slouched and scowling at his pint of beer like it’s personally offended him.

“Tim, just nut up and show us the pic again already,” Steph says, tossing a fry at Bart, who catches it easily in his mouth and waggles his eyebrows. “Or don’t, and we’ll all watch Bart pout till he chugs that mojito and starts drunk-texting his exes.”

Bart grins, unrepentant. “I don’t drunk-text, Steph. And I don’t have exes. Not when I’m smart enough to avoid relationships in the first place.”

“No one’s seeing the pic,” Tim says, pocketing his phone tighter. “Bart would probably mentally frame it for his spank bank, and I’m not enabling that.”

Not that Tim would blame Bart in the slightest. Because that mirror selfie Jason sent – abs carved like a goddamn statue, sweat glistening on pecs that could crush Tim’s resolve as well as his head – is already doing enough damage. Tim’s zoomed in too many times, tracing the thick curve of Jason’s biceps, the V of his hips, the thick trail of dark hair leading further south. Not to mention that smirk that screams trouble. Jason’s so buff it’s unfair, and Tim’s not proud of how long he’s stared, but fuck, it’s effective.

Still, his phone feels like a live wire in his pocket, what with all of Jason’s texts from the past three days. Flirty crap that’s frankly got Tim’s head spinning. Is Jason serious? Or just screwing with him to keep the (admittedly hilarious) meltdown of Dick’s at the docks going on loop? Tim’s gut says it’s both, and that’s what’s got him hooked. Half wary, half way too into it.

Bart laughs, low and sharp. “Harsh, dude. This is easily the, like, most exciting thing to happen to us in ages!”

“Really? How is Jason sending a-” Tim goes to retort snidely, only to pause. “Hang on. Us?”

Bart just looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Uh, yeah? Because when you fuck Jason, he’ll be drawn into this circle. And hence closer to me.”

“Gross.”

“I know,” Cassie adds. “Since when does Bart use words like hence?”

“Looks like boyo’s been doing his homework. Jason’s a literature nerd,” Steph says.

Bart’s eyes flash dangerously. “Maybe I’ll apply for some extra credit.”

Tim snorts, only to flinch when beside him, Kon suddenly slams his glass down. Hard enough to make the table rattle.

“Can we stop acting like this is cute?” he snaps, voice low but sharp. “Jason’s a psycho. He’s tried to kill you, Tim. Multiple times. And now we’re all just cool with him sending you nudes? What, because he’s hot?”

The table goes quiet, leaving just the bar’s hum of clinking glasses, low chatter, some hipster strumming a guitar in the corner. The outburst is enough to garner the attention of the adults in the room, both Cass and Duke now eyeing Kon warily. Tim meets his eyes, and there’s something there – anger, yeah, but something deeper, raw and unsteady. Kon’s been grumpy all afternoon, scowling at his drink, barely touching the fries Steph keeps shoving at him. Tim’s not sure what’s up.

“First, it’s not a nude,” Tim says, keeping his voice light. “It’s a shirtless pic. Second, I’m not an idiot, Kon. I know Jason’s a mess. But it’s just texting. I’m not marrying him.”

“Yet,” Bart says, grinning like a little devil. “C’mon, Kon, lighten up. Tim’s just living his best life. And that life is apparently banging every hot vigilante in Gotham. Respect the grind, bro.”

Kon’s jaw tightens, and he leans back, arms crossed. “It’s not a grind, it’s a death wish. You’re all acting like Jason’s some misunderstood bad boy instead of a freak who’s put bullets in people. Including us.”

From the far end of the table, Cass tilts her head. Stirs her straw through her mocktail. “Jason’s... complicated,” she says, voice soft but firm. “But not all bad.”

Duke nods. “Yeah, Kon, I get it. Jason’s got issues. But Tim’s not exactly defenceless. If he wants to flirt with the guy, that’s his call. Live and let live, you know?”

Kon sneers, looking away. “Whatever. Just don’t come crying to me when he pulls a knife.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Tim says, waving a hand. “Jason’s all bark now. Mostly.”

Tim honestly hopes there’s still a little bit of bite too. Oops.

“Please, the guy’s a psycho with a gun fetish. He shot at you last month, Tim. And now you’re, what, swapping flirty texts? That’s not okay.” Kon’s eyes are hard, and Tim feels a twinge of guilt, or something else.

“Kon, relax,” Steph says, tossing another fry. “Tim’s a big boy.”

Cassie’s already nodding along. “Besides, it’s not like Jason pulled a knife the other night, anyway. Not when he’s apparently too busy sending Tim soft-core thirst traps.”

“It’s not a thirst trap,” Tim says, too fast, and Steph’s grin turns predatory.

“Oh, my god, you’re so toast,” she says, kicking his chair. “You’re mentally sculpting his abs into your shower fantasies, aren’t you?”

“Fuck off,” Tim mutters, ears burning a little.

Kon mutters something under his breath, and Tim catches “idiots” but doesn’t push.

He’s always been better at ignoring problems. The bar’s relaxed hum is helping in that regard. Music playing, people chattering around them. His phone buzzes again, and Tim’s fingers itch, but he leaves it. Jason can wait – if it’s even him. For now, he’s got his people, and that’s enough.

Later, when Tim goes to get another round of drinks from the bar, Cass follows him.

“You like Jason,” she says as they stand in line, not a question. Her eyes are sharp, reading Tim like a book. “But you’re scared.”

Tim freezes. “I’m not scared,” he lies, but it’s weak. “It’s just... Jason. And Kon’s kinda right. I’ve never had a healthy conversation with the guy in my life before a few days ago.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“It’s a lot. I don’t know if he’s serious or just screwing with me. Or just talking to me to keep screwing with Dick.”

Cass tilts her head, inquisitive. “Maybe both. But you will figure it out. You are smart when you are not being dumb.” She pauses. Her lips twitch, a rare smirk, and Tim chokes on a laugh.

“Wow, thanks,” he says, but the tension in his chest loosens. Cass has a way of cutting through his bullshit without making it heavy. “I’m trying, okay? Gut’s saying one thing, brain’s saying another.”

She shrugs. “Then listen harder. Good at that.” She nudges his arm, gentle but firm, and heads back to the table, leaving Tim with the bar’s buzz and a half-formed thought he’s not ready to unpack.

Tim eventually returns to the table, passing the drinks out. Kon immediately grabs for his beer with a muttered, “thanks,” but his eyes don’t meet Tim’s. He catches a faint gold shimmer in the glass – Tim’s own synthesised version of Gold Kryptonite. Nothing more than a watered-down, harmless version he cooked up in the Batcave to let Kon catch a buzz. Kon’s been sprinkling it in his drinks all afternoon.

“Easy, big guy,” Tim says, sliding into his chair. “You’re gonna be face-down in the fries if you keep that up.”

Kon snorts, a little too loud, and waves a hand. “I’m fine, Tim. Super fine. Kryptonian fine.” He leans into Tim’s shoulder, heavy and warm, and Tim pauses, caught off guard by the change. “You’re not that dumb, right, Tim? With Jason? You’re... you’re careful, yeah?”

Tim’s chest tightens – a dull echo of Cass’s earlier words. He pats Kon’s arm, easing him upright. “Yeah, Kon. Careful. Promise.” He’s not sure who he’s convincing, Kon or himself.

Across the table, Bart’s already back to talking. “Well if we’re not gonna be able to visually benefit from Tim’s trainwreck lovelife,” he pauses to mock glare at Tim, “then can I interest anyone in a change in topic? Namely something that Tim and I have been cooking up?”

Once again, eyes turn to him, and Tim sighs. He knows what Bart’s talking about – their latest idea.

“I, uh, was thinking we could do a camping trip of some kind.”

Bart groans. “Ugh, you never sell it right. What we were thinking was a little impromptu gig out in the woods. A kind of bespoke festival. Just us and the people we love. Like, thirty to fifty people tops.”

“You sure love a lot of people,” Steph snarks, but is looking interested. “But you have my attention.”

“Then picture this, Stephy-girl. Intimate, vibey, out in the wilds somewhere. Tents, bonfires, music. Total escape.”

Kon has already finished his beer. “So like Burning Man, but… not insufferable?”

“Exactly!” Bart says, pointing. “No influencers, no crypto bros. Just us, some friends, maybe a few randos who don’t suck. I’ll DJ, we’ll get a keg, roast some marshmallows. Chill but epic.”

Steph perks up, stealing another fry. “Okay, I’m listening. But only if there are s’mores. And no one invites Damian. He’d probably lecture us on fire safety.”

Duke nods, swirling his stout. “I’m in. Could use a break from Gotham’s bullshit.” Beside him, Cass nods. Her eyes light up, and Tim can already picture her meditating by a campfire, serene as hell.

When all eyes turn to Cassie, she shrugs. “Like I have a life outside you idiot boys,” she gestures at Tim, Bart and Kon. Fucking score. “But can we please ban phones. No one’s live-streaming my drunk dancing.”

“Deal,” Tim says, grinning. “We’ll make it a tech-free zone. Just happy times. Keep it simple.”

“Oooh, invite Jason!” Bart adds, all excited.

“Not on your fucking life.”

The table laughs, and Kon abruptly stands. “Need another drink,” he mutters, and leaves before anyone can respond.

“Uh, how many has he had?” Duke asks the moment Kon’s gone. Even though he can still hear them all.

Tim shrugs. “He’s fine. But…” he turns to look at Bart, “maybe lay off the Jason talk for a bit? It’s clearly getting to him.”

Bart salutes with a “Sir yes sir!”, but Tim doesn’t miss the conspiratory look the speedster shares with Cassie. What that’s about, he’s not sure. Probably a little too tipsy to care.

Tim: U ever have one of those days where u just wanna nap forever?

Jason: Always. And grammar is sexy, just so you know.

Jason: Why are you always so tired? Haven’t you completely cut back on patrol?

Tim: It’s a life skill

Tim: My friends are trying to make me go out tonight. And I really can’t be fucked

Tim: As in go to the club. Not patrol, lol

Jason: Wow, nice flex on the social life.

Tim: They’ve all been trying to look at that pic you sent 👀

Jason: Maybe you should send one back then. Kinda left me hanging Red

Tim: I’m at a bar, idiot

Jason: I don’t see how that’s a barrier

Jason: You’re smart, and there’s bathrooms there

Tim: Ugh

Tim: Fine. Gimme a sec

Tim Drake sent 1 picture

Jason: Fuck

Jason: Didn’t think you’d strip

Tim: Like you said

Tim: I’m smart 🤓

Tim had been really hoping for a quiet night.

So naturally, he finds himself on a street curb at 2am, watching Steph puke her guts out.

The sidewalk smells like beer and regret, the club’s bass still thumping through the walls, muffled but relentless. Tim’s standing under a flickering streetlamp, phone in hand, trying to play group mum while his own head swims from too many drinks and not enough water.

The gameplan’s simple: get the supers – Kon, Cassie, Bart – to fly and/or run everyone else back to Steph’s apartment, which is closest. Easy. Like herding cats into a 2am Uber, except the cats have superpowers and zero chill.

Steph herself is hunched over a gutter, retching like she’s auditioning for an exorcism, her blonde hair a tangled mess. Cassie’s holding it back thankfully, one hand steady, the other scrolling her phone like this is just another Tuesday. “You’re a lightweight, Brown,” Cassie says, smirking, but there’s a gentleness to it.

“Fuck... you,” Steph gasps between heaves, then groans. “Never mixing gin and tequila again.”

Tim leans against a graffitied wall, his sneakers sticking to the pavement. Gross. He’s buzzing, not drunk but loose. Cass is next to him, still swaying to the beat. She’s sober as hell, but the dancefloor had been her kingdom tonight. Owning it as always. Her eyes are still bright, cheeks flushed, and she’s humming softly, a rare smile curving her lips.

“You have fun?” Tim asks as he nudges her shoulder.

“Yes. Good night. Feel... free.”

Tim grins. “You killed it out there. I’m jealous. Two left feet and zero rhythm.”

She laughs, soft and quick. “You try at least. Not terrible.”

“Liar,” Tim says, but he’s warm inside, the post-club haze making everything softer. He scans the street, counting heads. Steph’s a mess, Cassie’s on vomit duty, Cass is vibing. Duke and Bart are AWOL, off on a kebab quest. Tim’s stomach growls at the thought. Kon’s the real problem, though. He’d been getting drunker all night, thanks to Tim’s Gold Kryptonite stash, and now he’s vanished altogether, probably lost in the club’s sweaty chaos.

Understandably, Tim is not all too concerned for his safety.

“Anyone seen Kon?” Tim calls, checking his phone. No texts, just another text from Jason. Tim’s been firing back when he’s been able to, but he ignores it now, pocketing the phone. Jason’s a distraction he can’t afford while playing superhero sheepherder.

Cassie glances up, still holding Steph’s hair. “Last I saw, he was doing shots with some randoms.”

“Wonderful,” Tim mutters, rubbing his temples. Kon’s been a sloppy mess all night, full of loose limbs and too-loud laughs, his earlier grumpiness drowned out by booze.

Steph retches again, then slumps back, wiping her mouth. “I’m done,” she croaks, leaning into Cassie. “Someone take me home before I die. Again.”

“Drama queen,” Cassie says, but she’s gentle, helping Steph sit on the curb. “Tim, you got a plan, or we just gonna stand here till Steph pukes her soul out as well?”

Tim’s about to answer when Duke and Bart appear, strolling from a kebab store down the street, greasy wrappers in hand. The smell of grilled meat hits Tim like a punch, and his stomach twists with jealousy. Duke’s munching happily, sauce on his chin, while Bart’s tearing into his wrap like it’s his life’s mission, lettuce falling everywhere.

“You assholes, where’s mine?” Tim says, pointing at Duke. “I got you your fake ID and this is how you repay me? I’m starving.”

Duke grins, waving his wrap. “Snooze, you lose, Drake. These are life-changing. Want a bite?”

“God yes,” Tim says. Then promptly takes a very big bite of Duke’s kebab and moans like a bitch. Fucking amazing.

“Ah, an accurate representation of how Tim entertained Roy the other night,” Bart chirps. Tim flips him off without pausing to stop chewing.

“Fuck me, that’s good,” he says as he swallows. “I don’t suppose you left Kon back there?”

Bart shakes his head, licking sauce off his fingers. “Nope. Last I saw he was with you.”

“Damn, fine,” Tim mutters, scanning the crowd spilling out of Neon Pulse. The club’s a Burnside staple. Flashing signs, sticky floors, and a DJ who thinks 90s remixes are peak culture (even though they kinda are when you’re white-girl wasted on a Tuesday). The street’s a mess of drunk clubbers, cabs honking, and someone screeching out for McDonalds. Tim’s head throbs, but he’s got to rally. For the sake of the collective.

“Okay team, plan – I’ll stay and look for Kon. Bart, you run Duke back. Cass, Steph, you two good to hold onto Cassie?”

Steph groans, head in her hands. “If I don’t puke mid-air, sure.”

Cassie rolls her eyes. “I’ll go slow. You’re welcome.”

“Fly discretely, please?” Tim all but begs. “I’m enjoying having a secret identity here.”

It’s only as they’re about to break when a laugh, loud and slurred, cuts through the noise. Kon stumbles out of the club, arm slung around a random girl with glittery eyeliner and a minidress that’s more straps than fabric. Kon’s a mess, his flannel half-unbuttoned, hair all over the place and eyes glassy. The girl’s giggling, clinging to him, and Tim’s stomach twists. Just fucking perfect.

“Tim!” Kon bellows, spotting him and lurching forward, dragging the girl along. He crashes into Tim, wrapping him in a bear hug that smells like beer and his cheap cologne. Tim staggers, steadying them both, and Kon’s breath is hot against his ear as he mumbles, “Been looking for’ya, bud.”

“Well… you found me.” Tim is distinctly aware of a lot of eyes on him. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, her! S’okay if she comes back with us? She’s... she’s cool. Really cool.”

The girl looks older than them – brunette, maybe late 20’s – and waves vaguely, her lipstick smudged. Tim’s mind flashes to how it got that way, and the twist in his gut tightens. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Kon’s hooked up with girls before, it’s not new. In fact, he’s usually less… active than Tim, Bart or Cassie. Which is probably why it stings more, Tim reasons. Either that or the way Kon’s looking at him, all sloppy and hopeful, like his approval matters.

God, Tim’s pathetic.

“Uh,” he says, glancing at the crew. Steph’s still on the curb, Cassie’s smirking, Cass is watching with those sharp eyes, and Duke’s paused with his mouth still wrapped around his kebab, eyes flickering back and forth. Bart’s grinning, like he’s eating popcorn at a show. “We were gonna go back to Steph’s and watch Surf’s Up.”

“Where no one will be having sex, thank you,” Steph adds like the wingman she is, thank fuck.

The brunette girl giggles, and Kon’s eyebrows twist as he turns back to Tim. “Can we just go back to yours, then?”

“… We?” Tim hates how high-pitched his voice goes.

“Yeah! Me and, uh… Jen?”

“Jess,” the brunette adds. Doesn’t look offended. Compared to Kon, she definitely looks like the less drunk one. Good, one less thing to worry about.

And Tim gets it, in a way. It’s not like Kon’s in a position to take this girl back to his own place in Metropolis, not without revealing the whole superpowers thing. And it’s not like it’s an out of the ordinary request, either. Bart’s brought back more than his fair share of conquests to Tim’s, when he’s been in Gotham. Even Cassie too.

But Kon is… Kon. Fuck.

“She’s cool, I promise,” Kon insists, slurring, his arm still around Tim. “S’fine. Just... wanna have fun. You’re my best friend, right? S’cool?” His voice cracks, and Tim’s heart flips at the same time his stomach sinks.

Cassie steps in and pulls Tim from under Kon’s arm, saving his ass. “Why don’t we go back to Steph’s, and you make sure Kon and his friend get back to yours. Then we can send Bart to come rescue you. We’ll wait to start the movie until you’re there”

Tim sighs, nodding. “Yeah, okay. That works. Steph’s place for you guys. I’ll get an Uber and deal with...” He gestures at Kon, who’s now humming off-key, Jess giggling against him. “That.”

“Hero,” Steph croaks, giving a weak thumbs-up from the curb.

“Gross,” Bart says. He finishes his kebab, tossing the wrapper in a bin. “Alrighty team, I’ll run Dukey-boy here to Steph’s. Cassie, you got the girls?”

“Yep,” Cassie says, already hauling Steph up. “Let’s move before she hurls again. Do we need a distraction for the homewrecker?”

“Not necessary,” Tim laughs, pointing at Kon and Jess with his thumb, who are back to making out.

Cassie looks at them, then back at Tim. Lips thin. “Uh, enjoy?” She says as she hauls Steph into a nearby ally, Cass following them. And a moment later, the telltale sound of her taking flight.

Shaking his head, Tim turns to Bart and Duke, only to find them already gone as well. Traitors.

“Alrighty,” Tim says, pulling his phone out to order and Uber. “Let’s get you two home.”

“Home!” Kon bellows as he pulls away from the girl’s mouth, then laughs, stumbling. “You’re the best, Tim. The best. Jade, he’s the best, right?”

“So best,” Jess (not Jade, fucking hell Kon) slurs, tripping in her heels. Tim sighs. He feels fucking old.

By the time the Uber finally pulls up, Tim’s one camera short from being the director of an amateur porn flick. Kon and Jess go straight into the backseat, lips barely parting as Tim hauls them in, before he finally sags into the passenger seat up the front with a groan.

“Long night?” The driver says with a knowing look.

Tim just shakes his head. “You could say that.” He looks over his shoulder, to see that Kon has Jess in his lap now. “Seatbelts, you two.”

It’s for Jess’s sake rather than Kon’s, and he’s rewarded with the Kryptonian letting out a silly giggle, but thankfully complying.

“God, I feel like I’m forty-three,” Tim says to the driver.

The drive’s only ten minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. Tim’s never been one for idle small talk, and thankfully the driver doesn’t try to force it. Unfortunately, even the best of the driver’s Spotify playlist does little to mask the backseat symphony. By the time they pull up to Tim’s loft, Tim’s ready to yeet himself into the harbor.

“Thanks, man,” Tim says, tipping the driver generously as he opens the door. “You’re a saint.”

Kon and Jess stumble after him on the way up to his loft. Even still, Kon’s quick to pull Tim in close with his other arm. His breath is warm. Reeks of alcohol, though. “You’re so good, Tim,” he slurs, nuzzling Tim’s shoulder. “Best friend. Best... best guy I ever had.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, steering them up the stairwell, his chest tight. “Let’s go, Romeo.” Jess giggles, tripping, and Tim catches her arm, guiding them both up the stairs. It’s a miracle they make it to the loft without face-planting.

Inside, Tim flips on a lamp, the loft’s brick walls and hardwood floors glowing dimly. He points Kon and Jess to the guest room, avoiding their eyes. “Bed’s in there,” he says, voice clipped. “Don’t... uh, don’t break anything.”

“Love you the most, Tim!” Kon bellows, dragging Jess inside, her laughter echoing as the door shuts.

Tim groans, rubbing his face, and heads to the bathroom. He needs a reset, something to wash away the night. He’s got a gameplan. Shower, change, then text Bart or Cassie for a lift to Steph’s. Get out before the whole fucking loft turns into a porn set.

The shower’s hot, steam curling around him as water hits his shoulders, loosening the night’s grime. But Tim’s mind is infuriatingly stuck on Kon. His slurred “best guy,” that needy hug, the way Jess was all over him. Tim scrubs his chest, his abs, his dick, but the sharp twist in his gut doesn’t fade. He’s not jealous. He’s not. But the thought of Kon in that bedroom, hands on Jess, lips on her neck, stings like a bruise.

… He’s so fucking jealous.

Once back in his room, Tim pulls on boxers and a clean tee, planning to grab jeans and bolt. Because he can already hear it. A low, rhythmic creak from the guest room, followed by Jess’s breathy moans. Tim freezes, his pulse spiking. The wall’s thin, too thin, and every sound carries. The bed’s headboard tapping, Jess’s gasps, and then Kon – fuck, Kon – letting out a deep, guttural growl that’s pure animal.

Tim’s mouth goes dry, his body betraying him as heat pools low. He shouldn’t listen. He can’t listen. But the sounds are relentless. Kon’s thrusts, hard and steady, Jess’s whimpers rising, the bedframe’s creak like a metronome. He can hear skin on skin. Kon’s going hard.

Fuck. How messed up is he to take note of that?

Desperately reaching for his phone as a distraction, Tim goes to text Bart or Cassie, only to see another message from Jason.

Jason: Make it back in one piece?

Tim: Well I’m currently listening to my kinda housemate have sex through the walls, so…

“Fuck,” Tim whispers, sinking onto his bed, hands gripping his thighs. He’s hard. Painfully, embarrassingly hard, and he hates himself for it. Hearing Kon fuck like that is too much, all raw power and no restraint, his groans rough and unfiltered. Jess’s moans pitch higher, desperate, and Tim’s mind flashes to Kon’s strength, his hands, the way he could break a wall if he wanted.

Jason: Fucking rest in peace

Jason: Wait you have a housemate?

Tim: I mean it’s Superboy. And we don’t technically live together. He’s over a lot though

His boxers are tight, breath ragged, and he presses a palm to his forehead, desperately trying to unlisten to everything he’s hearing. Even if Tim can’t bring himself to leave. Fucking pathetic. The sounds are too much. Kon’s low “fuck, yeah,” Jess’s cry, the bed’s relentless rhythm.

Jason: And he just brings people back to yours???

Tim: I mean… I’ve done the same to him when in Metropolis

Jason: You’re fucking wild, Red.

Jason: You could come over?

Jason: If you need to get out of there.

Oh.

He… he could do that.

For a moment, Tim thinks about Kon. How upset and angry he’d been earlier today, with all the talk about Jason. Wonders for a moment if Kon would stop having sex with this girl just to stop him from leaving. He probably would. Which is toxic and unhealthy as fuck for Tim to even think that, Christ.

Mind made up, he texts back.

Tim: Give me 30-45. I already know your address.

Jason: Ha, stalker.

Heart pounding, Tim heads back to the bathroom. Suddenly in need of another shower.

Bart: So am I coming to pick u up or have u also been swallowed by Kon’s hook-up.

Bart: U also noticed how big her mouth was right?

Tim: Uh. No and no. And no

Tim: So change of plans, I’m going to a friends instead

Tim: 🍆

Bart: My guy. Say no more hombre

Bart: Wait OMFG is it Jason?!?!

Chapter Text

Jason’s apartment building is a dump.

The inside of the stairwell is all peeling wallpaper and flickering bulbs, like it’s one bad day from collapsing. Of course, Tim had been expecting this. One of the first things he did once Jason started becoming a bigger factor in his life was scope out his safehouses. And most notably his actual main apartment.

Because once a guy attempts to slit your throat once… let’s just say it’s good to know your options.

Which is yet another reason on this list of reasons why it’s probably a bad idea he’s here. For what may or may not be solicited sex. Who knows. Jason was kinda vague in his text.

It’s definitely up there on the list of crazy things Tim’s done for a bit of D. Probably inches out pretending to be a student at Gotham U to get that one lit major’s number.

There’s no elevator in the building, so Tim’s thighs are burning after taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. He’s not drunk (he thinks), just feeling loose. Enough that coming to Jason’s – a guy he barely knows, a guy he’s always linked to blood and bullets – feels reckless, even for him. His phone buzzes. At least Bart (and probably by default, everyone fucking else) knows where he is.

You know… in case something happens. Like Jason slitting his throat.

Tim hesitates in front of Jason’s door, knuckles hovering. Their texts over the past few days are just a drop in the ocean compared to what came before. His gut twists at the thought. Even so, he’s like, 90% sure he’s not walking into a trap. A pity invite, though? Definitely maybe.

He knocks, sharp and quiet, the sound swallowed by the empty hall. No answer at first. He shifts, sneakers sticking to the grimy floor, wondering if he should bolt.

Thankfully (or perhaps not), the door opens before he can commit to it. And Jason is… not dressed how Tim expected. No leather jacket, no guns, just a loose tank top clinging to his chest, gym shorts riding low on his hips. Hair wet, dark curls pressed to his forehead like he just showered.

The big, bad murderous Red Hood, looking like a guy who just got back from the gym and forgot it was laundry day. Who knew.

“Hey,” Jason says, voice low, almost hesitant. “Didn’t think you’d use the front door, to be honest.”

Tim leans against side of the doorway, hands in his jacket pockets, trying to mask the awkwardness clawing at him. “Yeah, uh, I’m not suited up tonight.”

Jason’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t pry, just steps aside to let him in. His arm brushes Tim’s as he passes, and Tim’s pulse spikes. Jason’s tank top reveals too much. It’s one of those ones with big, loose hanging arm-holes which always drive Tim wild. Especially when the body underneath is as shredded as Jason’s. Fuck. Tim can see the muscles of his sides already.

“Place is a mess, but it’s home,” Jason says behind him as he steps inside. His tone’s neutral, like he’s not sure why Tim’s here either, and the awkwardness hangs heavy.

Tim’s suddenly acutely aware of the fact that neither of them really fucking know a thing about each other.

Inside, the apartment’s dim, streetlights outside casting orange slants through Venetian blinds. A small lamp in the corner glows softly. Bookshelves sag with paperbacks, and there are plants.

Jason Todd has fucking plants.

Despite himself, Tim lets out a silly little snort. The apartment is plain, lived-in, and nothing like the danger Tim associates with Jason.

“You want something to drink?” Jason asks. Tim turns to see him brush damp hair out of his eyes, and there’s a few damp patches on his singlet. He must’ve just gotten out of the shower right before Tim arrived.

“Uh, no. I’m good.”

Fucking idiot. Always say yes – water hurts fucking no one. And it avoids awkward silences like this.

Jason nods once, sharply. Like he’s forgotten how to nod properly. All of the bravado he wore the other night, out at the docks, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Tim’s left staring at a blank-faced, albeit fucking massive, twenty-something year old. Neat.

Tim shifts, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. This was a bad idea. He barely knows Jason – the Red Hood, not this cute guy with wet hair and too many plants – and showing up at 3am screams desperate. And crazy.

“Uh, nice place,” Tim says, cringing at the lameness. “Kinda normal. Not what I expected from, y’know, you.” He tries a laugh, hoping to diffuse the tension, but it lands flat, and he wants to die.

Jason pauses, leaning against the counter, his tank top shifting to show a scar across his left pec. “Normal’s the goal,” he says, voice quiet, almost defensive. “Not all of us live in lofts paid for by daddy with their superhero friends.”

His eyes flick to Tim, searching, and Tim’s stomach knots, unsure if it’s a jab or just Jason being... Jason. Although it confirms his hunch that he’s not the only one that’s been stalking other people’s addresses.

“Yeah, well,” Tim mutters, rubbing his neck, “Normal’s overrated when your roommate’s... loud in the bedroom.” He winces again, Kon’s hookup flashing back, and Jason’s lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smirk.

“You like him.”

“What fucking gave that away,” Tim snaps back immediately on reflex. Then pauses when Jason’s eyebrows skyrocket. “Not that it matters. Kon’s desperately straight.”

“Either that or in deep denial,” Jason says as he shrugs and pushes off from the kitchen counter. Takes a step towards Tim, then stops. Swings his arms.

The silence stretches, awkward and heavy. Tim’s ready to bolt, his decision to come here feeling dumber by the second, when Jason steps closer.

And then takes another step. Followed by another.

Tim shivers when Jason’s close enough to graze Tim’s arm with his own hand. Like he’s testing the water. “Glad you came, though,” he murmurs, voice soft and so unlike anything he’s ever heard from the man before.

The space between them shrinks even further as Tim leans in, hesitant, his lips brushing Jason’s, a question more than a kiss. Jason stills, then answers, his mouth pressing back. Slow and careful. His lips are warm. Wet, too. Like he’s been licking them while waiting.

For some absolutely crazy reason, that’s the thought that drives Tim further.

Because something shifts in the air – hunger, need – and the kiss deepens. Jason’s hand reaches up to cup Tim’s jaw, pulling him closer. In return Tim digs his fingers into Jason’s tank top, feeling hard muscle underneath. He’s kissing Jason Todd. Jason fucking Todd, who Tim used to follow around on rooftops as a kid to take pictures. And then run away from on rooftops, all these years later. For as long as Tim’s been aware, the idea of Jason has been just that – an idea. Even up to a few days ago, both masked up and flirting cheekily.

Now? Now Tim really wants to fuck Jason Todd. The person. 

The thought makes him shiver, his lips parting wider and allowing Jason’s tongue to delve in. Tim gives up control immediately, moaning like a bitch as he feels the older man exploring his mouth with his tongue. Licking over his teeth. Biting his bottom lip. Jason’s every bit as demanding as Tim had hoped.

Jason’s hands are everywhere, greedy, like he’s been starving for this. His fingers slip under Tim’s shirt. He’s bold, that’s for sure, hand quickly moving on to dip into Tim’s pants, past the waistband. Tim gasps into the kiss as Jason grips his cock, firm and deliberate.

“Not bad,” Jason murmurs against his mouth, and Tim can’t help but snort.

That same laugh quickly turns into a shudder, as Jason’s thumb swipes over the head of his dick. Slick already with precum. “Fuck,” he breathes. Then breaks the kiss, his forehead against Jason’s.

But Jason’s hand doesn’t stop, slow and teasing, and Tim’s thighs tremble. He pulls back just enough to see Jason’s eyes. Pupils blown wide. Fuck yeah.

Tim can’t think, can barely process the moment, that he has Jason right here. Looking at him like this. He needs to move – to do something – or he’ll unravel. His hands drop to Jason’s gym shorts, gripping him through the fabric and fuck. That’s definitely a cock.

“Shit. You gonna fuck me tonight with that thing?”

He watches as Jason seems to swallow his tongue in real time. “Fuck. Yeah –  yes that can definitely be arranged.”

Aw, he’s also a huge dork, just like Tim. Real fucking cute.

The request seems to be enough to spring Jason into action. His hand slides out of Tim’s pants, only briefly, before diving back in again. This time from the back, pausing to squeeze at Tim’s ass cheeks for just a second before fingers slip between them. Handsy fucker. Tim tenses, then moans, soft and broken, as Jason finds his hole.

“Fuck, baby,” Jason groans, then leans into to kiss him again. “You’re ready for me.”

And then they’re both gasping as Jason slides a knuckle in. Tim from the stretch (it’s not like Jason has small hands, and he only had a quick moment to prep). Jason from the… reverence of the moment? Tim’s gonna run with that, mostly because the thought him being the cause of Jason looking like this – mouth open and eyes wide – is too hot to properly describe.

Because he’s making out with Jason Todd (Jason freaking Todd!), who has a finger inside him. What is his fucking life?

“Fuck,” Tim breathes when he next pulls back from the kiss. Jason’s lips are bright red. He’s been nipping at them. “Can I suck you off? I really wanna suck you off.”

The other man’s Adam’s apple visibly bobs. “I mean, sure. I ain’t gonna turn that down.”

Tim decides it’s the right mix of slutty (and kind of trashy) when he doesn’t even bother taking off Jason’s gym shorts to get at his dick. Instead, after kneeling down, he just tugs Jason’s thick cock out the bottom of one of his pant legs. His mouth is already watering. Thick and heavy in his hand – and even fucking better in his mouth.

Fingers tangle in his hair as Tim takes Jason’s cock in his mouth. He hears a perfect breath hitch above him, then the slightest tug of his hair.

“Shit, Tim.”

Despite himself, Tim looks up. Lips still stretched around the head of Jason’s cock. “Mmm?”

“Oh my fucking god.” Jason looks ruined already. He loves that. “You’re insane.”

A hand tangles in Tim’s hair, not pushing, just holding. Tim hums, taking him deeper, his tongue swirling. It’s messy, spit dripping, his own cock throbbing as he sucks, hollowing out his cheeks. He glances up, and Jason’s staring, eyes dark, jaw clenched. Like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Shit, Tim,” Jason rasps, his voice breaking, and Tim’s chest swells. He bobs his head faster, one hand stroking what his mouth can’t reach, the other digging into Jason’s thigh and feeling muscle flex under him. Jason’s groans grow louder, rough, and Tim’s dizzy. All high on the taste. The power of the moment.

Jason’s hand tightens in Tim’s hair, pulling him off with a wet pop. Tim gasps, lips swollen, staring up as Jason hauls him to his feet, effortless and rough. “Not here,” Jason growls, and before he can blink, Jason lifts him. Hands under his thighs, carrying him to the couch. Holy shit he’s strong. Tim’s back hits the worn leather, Jason tossing him down like he weighs nothing.

And fuck. The way Jason looms over him like a beast – huge cock still hanging out the bottom of his gym shorts – it makes Tim want to be bent in half. Until he snaps.

Jason’s on him in a second, tearing Tim’s clothes off him. Their lips crash together as he does so. Gnashes of teeth, the wet slick of tongues against each other. It’s hungry, desperate. Tim kicks his boxers off his legs as Jason tugs them down with the rest of his clothes. Spreads his legs as Jason settles between them, their cocks brushing. Jason’s hands are roaming again, gripping Tim’s hips, his chest, one sliding back to his hole again. His hands are big – huge, really – and they’re everywhere.

“Hang on,” Jason says. His voice rough as he leans over to the coffee table. When he pulls back, there’s a small bottle in his hands. “Figured you want more than spit,” he says with a small laugh.

Still, Tim shivers from the cold drip of lube on Jason’s fingers when they next slide to his hole, circling the rim before dipping in again. It’s messy, and Tim’s brain short-circuits for a second because Jason Todd is finger banging him.

“Uh, you good?” Jason asks, his voice coming out breathy and a little uncertain. His face is flushed, that wet hair still sticking to his forehead. The big bad Red Hood looking like a damn puppy.

Tim nods, biting his lip to stifle the grin. “Yeah, yeah. Just… keep going. Feels good.”

Jason exhales and pushes his finger deeper, crooking it just right. Tim gasps, his hips jerking up involuntarily, and Jason makes this low, rumbling noise in his throat. Like a growl mixed with a moan. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, almost more to himself than anything, his free hand fumbling up Tim’s thigh, squeezing awkwardly like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

He’s so fucking allowed it’s not funny.

With the next arch of Jason’s fingers, Tim groans and lets his head fall back against the couch arm. Jason’s fingers are thick, callused from years of vigilante bullshit. They drag just right inside him.

“Jason, c’mon,” Tim pants, reaching down to stroke himself, but Jason bats his hand away gently.

“Nah, let me – uh, I got you,” Jason says, his voice cracking a little. He wraps his free hand around Tim’s cock, stroking slow and experimental, thumb swiping over the head. “God, look at you. Fuck, I could do this all night.”

Tim’s laughing again, breathless and a little delirious. “You’re cute when you’re trying.”

Jason pauses, fingers stilling inside him, and looks up with a mock-glare. “Cute? Fuck off.” But there’s a grin tugging at his lips that absolutely delights Tim, and a moment later he leans down to bite Tim’s inner thigh gently, making him yelp. “See? Ferocious.”

“Alright, alright. Just – fuck, I need you to fuck me. Now.”

“… Yeah. I can, uh, definitely do that.”

See? Fucking dork.

Jason pulls his fingers out slow, careful, and Tim feels the loss immediately, his hole clenching around nothing. Jason fumbles for a second, patting his pockets before realising he’s in gym shorts. “Condom – shit, hold on.” He scrambles off the couch, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bolts to the bathroom, cursing the whole way.

Despite the moment, Tim bursts out laughing, propping himself up on his elbows. “Just leave it, dude.”

There’s a beat of silence from the bathroom. Then Jason’s head appears around the corner. “You sure?”

Really? “Jason, it’s me. I look after myself. And I’m pretty sure you do too.”

“… Yeah, I’m on PrEP.” Jason’s red in the face as he pads back towards Tim. Another moment of silence. Tim can’t wipe the smirk off his face. Jason won’t meet his eyes. Awkward puppy mode activated again.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t ruin the mood. Maybe your reputation as a badass, though.”

Jason huffs and then kicks off his gym shorts. And – fuck. Yeah, that’s a really big dick.

“You were saying?” Bravado suddenly back again, it seems.

The cackle Tim bleats out sounds insane even to him. He instinctively spreads his legs even wider. “Just get in me already.”

He watches in hunger as Jason slicks himself up with lube – generous about it, thankfully – and climbs back between Tim’s legs. Jason lines up, pressing the head of his cock against Tim’s hole. He pushes in slow. It makes Tim hiss. Jason’s fucking thick, but it’s good, so good.

“Fuck,” Jason breathes, his voice already cracking. “You’re – shit – fuck you feel amazing.”

The pain recedes, and Tim wraps his legs around Jason’s waist. He can take this, no sweat. Uses his legs to pull Jason in the rest of the way. “You can move.”

And Jason does, thrusting in with a groan that’s loud enough to echo off the walls. Tim watches as his forehead creases. “Ahh, fuck. Feels... feels incredible.”

His hips snap forward, tentative at first, almost like he’s testing the waters, but then he clearly finds a rhythm.

Tim’s hands roam over Jason’s body, feeling the muscles shift under his tank top. He tugs at the fabric. “Off. Take this off.”

Jason pauses mid-thrust, fumbling to yank the tank over his head without pulling out of Tim. It’s awkward – he gets stuck for a second, arms tangled, and Tim laughs, helping him tug it free.

“Real smooth.”

“Shut up, perv,” Jason mutters, but he’s smiling too, diving back in for a kiss that’s more teeth than lips at first, both of them snorting into it.

It’s definitely not the vibe Tim had been expecting, when he’d decided he was up for fucking Jason Todd. But he’s also not complaining in the slightest.

Jason starts moving again, slower this time, rolling his hips in a way that makes Tim see stars. He clenches around Jason, and watches as his thrusts stutters. Jason swears and clenches his eyes shut. “Holy shit, do that again.”

Tim does, feeling breathless. A loud groan rips out from Jason, before he dives back in to kiss him. “Fuck,” he breathes against Tim’s lips. A real talker in the sack, apparently. “You’re so – ngh – perfect. Taking me like this. God, Tim, I could fuck you forever.”

His pace picks up, hips snapping harder, and the couch creaks under them. Jason’s noises get louder. Grunts turn to whines. Breathy curses mixed with Tim’s name as he pants between thrusts.

The noises start pouring out. Grunts with every thrust, low moans when Tim clenches around him, breathy “oh shit’s” that make Tim’s toes curl.

“You’re so vocal,” Tim teases, his own voice strained as Jason hits that spot again and again.

Jason laughs, breathless, burying his face in Tim’s neck. “Can’t – ahh – help it. You feel too good.”

He punctuates it with a harder thrust, and they both moan. Jason’s louder, his mouth vibrating against the crook of Tim’s neck. Tim looks down over Jason’s back, watching in awe as muscles flex with each thrust. The taper of Jason’s lats into his narrow waist. A fucking machine.

Jason moves, hard and fast, each thrust punching a gasp from Tim’s lungs. He pulls back from Tim’s neck, and their lips find each other again Almost instinctively. Tongues tangling, teeth nipping. Tim’s hands are everywhere – Jason’s hair, his back, reach down to grab his ass as he thrusts. Anything to pull him closer. Jason’s hands grip Tim’s face. Fucking passionate, enough to make Tim gasp. Their bodies slam together, sweat-slick and frantic.

Tim’s own moans are loud and unashamed, mixing with Jason’s growls. They can’t stop touching one another. Tim’s nails down Jason’s spine, Jason’s fingers in Tim’s hair, tugging, claiming. The kiss breaks, and Jason whines the moment it does. Mouths back down to Tim’s neck. Sucking, biting, leaving marks, and Tim arches, his cock trapped between them. He’s so fucking close.

It’s too much. Jason’s cock drags just right inside him, and every thrust comes with a soundtrack of Jason’s moans, like he’s unravelling right along with Tim. “Jason. Fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Do it,” Jason gasps, his voice cracking. “Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you come undone.”

And he does, arching up as his orgasm hits, spilling between them with a cry. Jason groans loud a second later – really fucking loud – but keeps thrusting. Drawing it out. “Oh god… fuck me. Fuck, I’m gonna-!”

Jason’s hips stutter, but he doesn’t stop, chasing his own release. His noises turn desperate and then he’s slamming in deep, body going rigid. Through his own recovering delirium, Tim watches as Jason’s mouth drops open.

And he feels it, the pulse of Jason’s cock as he cums, pumping hot and thick into him. Jason’s moaning the whole time, loud and unrestrained, his hips grinding in slow circles like he can’t stop. He keeps going, thrusting through his orgasm, until he’s spent, collapsing half on top of Tim with a final, shaky groan.

Holy fucking shit.

They lay there for more than a moment, panting, Jason’s weight heavy and sweaty but not crushing. Tim’s hand finds its way into Jason’s hair, petting absently, and Jason nuzzles into his neck with a soft “Mmph.”

“That was... intense,” Tim says, still catching his breath.

Jason lifts his head, grinning dopily. He looks stunned. “Yeah?”

But as Jason shifts, pulling out slow with a wet sound that makes them both groan, Tim feels the cum leaking out, warm and sticky. Jason watches, transfixed, and lets out another soft noise. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

They somehow manage to rearrange to a (somewhat) more comfortable position. Tim with his legs slung over Jason’s lap, one ankle hooked lazily over the other. Jason already sagging into the couch cushions.

When Jason eventually makes a half-hearted move to grab his shorts from the floor, Tim swats his hand away. “Nup, not happening. I earned the view.”

Jason arches an eyebrow. “You’re a freak.”

“Guilty,” Tim says with a wink before stretching out, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. He senses Jason’s eyes on him again, and looks up to see the man staring at his forearm. Ah – his bird tattoo. Jason’s eyes linger on it for a second, but he doesn’t comment, just lets his head loll back against the couch, looking thoroughly fucked-out.

Tim, on the other hand, is quickly buzzing with that kind of post-sex energy that makes him restless. He slides off the couch, ignoring the slight ache in his hips.

“M’gonna quickly clean up,” he says, gesturing to his lower half. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Uh… down that way, second door on the right. The left towel on the rack is clean”

“Kay. You stay there and keep looking pretty.”

“Can do boss.”

And look, Tim’s not gonna lie – he uses the opportunity to snoop. He doesn’t stay in the shower for long, not when Jason’s water pressure is shit, instead opting for a quick rinse. Then spends an inordinate amount of time looking over Jason’s bathroom spread. Toothbrush and comb arranged unexpectedly neatly for a supposed murderous psychopath (Kon’s words, not his).

“Gotta say, I didn’t peg you as a fine literature guy,” Tim says once he walks back into the living room, still naked and making a beeline for the bookshelf he’d seen earlier. a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. He brushes his fingers over spines of dog-eared paperbacks—Dostoevsky, Kerouac, a surprisingly worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. “Jane Austen?”

True to his word, Jason hasn’t moved. Just raises a middle finger from the couch. “It’s a classic, asshole. And it’s not like I’m out here reciting sonnets. I just read.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Nerd.” He moves to a shelf cluttered with random knickknacks. A chipped ceramic mug, a stack of coasters, a tiny cactus that looks like it’s been overwatered into submission. “You’re expanding your of the no-kill rule to plants now too? Or just looking to get Ivy pissed?”

“Fuck you. I’m trying to resuscitate the poor guy. It’s Roy’s – he’s a literal man-child, you know.”

“Yeah, I do actually. Don’t forget that he fucked me too. On my sofa.”

Jason looks around them. “You really love a couch fuck, huh?”

“I mean, you also could’ve shown me to the bed.”

Tim looks over to where Jason’s still sprawled, one arm flung over the back of the couch and legs spread wide. Stupidly big cock now soft and draped over one thigh. He looks like a guy who’s just run a marathon and won, but also like he might pass out if he tries to stand.

Heh. Good to know that Tim’s still got it.

He keeps snooping, shameless. Finds a record player tucked into a corner, a sleek black thing with a stack of vinyls next to it. Tim hums, only to frown after a quick flick through Jason’s record collection.

“Why do you only listen to either old man or white girl music?”

“Fuck you is why.”

Seriously, would it kill Jason to have something with a bit of zest to it? Tim flicks through the meagre collection again, before settling on the option that does the least harm. “Disco Inferno is actually half-decent, so I’ll give you that.”

“It’s nearly four in the morning, Tim,” Jason groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re not seriously putting that on.”

“Watch me.” Tim slides the record out, sets it on the player, and drops the needle with a satisfying scratch. The opening beats fill the apartment, loud and pulsing, completely at odds with the quiet night outside.

“You’re gonna wake up the whole damn building. My neighbour’s a retired cop. He’ll probably shoot through the wall.”

“He cute?”

Jason stares at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything. Just keep looking dumb and cute.”

“How are you actually the bigger asshole out of the two of us?”

Tim snorts and gestures his hands. “Get to know me and it’s actually a pretty widely known fact that I’m kind of a cunt.”

He watches as Jason shakes his head. Then stretches, arms flexing, and Tim doesn’t bother pretending he’s not looking. “So are you just gonna snoop through my shit all night, or you got a plan?”

“No plan,” Tim admits, moving a little bit to the beat of the music. “Just vibing. You got a problem with that, big guy?”

Jason snorts, shaking his head. “Nah. Vibing’s good. Just didn’t expect you to be so… chill about this.” He gestures vaguely between them, at their nakedness, the mess that is the couch. “Thought you’d be the kind of guy that’d be halfway out the door by now, overthinking it.”

“I’m trying something new.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh. Less brooding, more questionable disco.”

“4am disco is certainly a choice,” Jason says, but he’s smiling, a real one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. So unlike anything that Tim’s seen from him before. “You’re weird. I like it.”

It’s like the world’s paused in that moment, just for a bit. Tim’s okay just existing in it. Being present.

“… Even with your shitty mullet.”

“Oh fuck off.”

Chapter Text

“Come on, you gotta swirl the water.”

“I am swirling!”

Jason snorts, leaning over the stove, one hip cocked against the counter. “Try a little less rough, then. Just a soft vortex, then drop it in. Gentle like you’re caressing it.”

Tim squints at the pot, spoon hovering like he’s defusing a bomb. “Caressing. Right. Because eggs are super into foreplay.”

“Hey, you’re the one that said it.”

Jason’s in nothing but black boxers and a faded apron, tied loose around his waist, the kind of look that should be illegal at eleven in the morning. His hair’s a mess, curls sticking up from where Tim’s hands were tugging all last night, and the apron does jack shit to hide the way his chest flexes when he gestures. Tim’s trying not to stare, but it’s a losing battle. It’s honestly like Jason’s trying to invent ways to make him drool like a dog.

The kitchen’s cramped, morning light slanting through the windows. It would almost be relaxing if not for the walking, talking thirst trap in front of him. And the fact that he apparently can’t poach an egg to save his life.

“This is dumb,” Tim mutters, stirring the water anyway, watching it spin unevenly. “Microwaves exist for a reason.”

“Yeah, to ruin perfectly good eggs. I can’t believe you actually admitted to poaching eggs in a microwave.” Jason steps closer, crowding Tim’s space, and takes the spoon from him. His fingers brush Tim’s, warm and deliberate. “Watch, okay? Slow spin, then crack the egg, let it slide in. No drama.”

Tim rolls his eyes but watches as Jason proceeds to perfectly crack the egg in. The white blooms soft and perfect, like some culinary magic trick. “Show-off,” Tim mutters, but he’s grinning, leaning closer despite himself. He could just rip that apron off. It’s practically useless.

Jason smirks, wiping his hands on the apron. “You’ll thank me when you’re eating actual food instead of sad bachelor sludge.”

“Sludge is efficient.” Tim steals a sip of Jason’s coffee from the mug on the counter, grimacing at the sweetness. “Are you sure you don’t have diabetes?”

“Stop bitching and make yourself another coffee then, instead of stealing mine.”

When Tim instead goes to crack a second egg in, Jason leans in again, his chest brushing Tim’s arm. “Okay now remember, you gotta ease it in. Don’t dump it like you’re mad at it.”

…  Tim cracks the egg too hard. Yolk spills messily into the water. “Oops.”

Jason shakes his head, but he’s chuckling, low and rough. “Amateur. Here, let me.” He takes over, guiding Tim’s hand on the spoon, their fingers overlapping. The touch is casual, but it lingers, Jason’s thumb pressing lightly against Tim’s knuckles. The stove’s heat mixes with the warmth from Jason’s body, and Tim’s pulse kicks up a notch, even though they’re just making eggs.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Tim says, voice light, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Someone’s gotta teach you how to adult.” Jason’s breath ghosts Tim’s ear as he scoops the mess Tim made out with a ladle. When he cracks a third egg, Tim fumes when it settles perfectly. “See? Patience.”

Honestly, if the world knew that the big, bad Red Hood could poach an egg to perfect, everyone would probably be better for it. The fact alone seems to make Jason ten times less threatening and a thousand times hotter.

Jason nudges Tim’s knee with his own, lingering just a second too long. The air’s easy, loose, like they’ve done this a hundred times. They haven’t. Still, Tim really should hate how perfect Jason’s egg is compared to his. On principle at least.

… Doesn’t stop him moaning like a whore a few minute later, when he takes his first bite.

“Oh my fuck, that’s good,” he moans, already going back for a second bite as he cuts his toast up alongside it. “I’ll totally have your babies if you keep making these for me.”

Jason just winks and returns to the stove. Tim doesn’t bother trying again – may as well just let the guy do his thing. He knows when he’s beat.

Of course, the perfection of the moment has to be broken.

The knock on the door has Tim raising an eyebrow at Jason. “Why don’t you have your security measures activated?”

“I might’ve…” Jason pauses. Looks sheepish. “Okay look, so I deactivated them for you last night, and hypothetically was too fucked out afterward to remember to reactivate them. Sue me.”

Before Tim can even begin to process that as a compliment, there’s a yell from the other side of the door. “Yo Tim, you alive in there? Or do I gotta call for back-up?”

Of fucking course.

“Your fan club, I’m assuming?” Jason says as he steps towards the door. Apron strings swinging.

Tim flips him off, but his eyes are stuck on the way Jason’s boxers hug his ass. Fucking criminal.

Jason swings the door open, and sure enough, Bart’s there, vibrating like he’s been mainlining Red Bull since waking up. He probably has been. His hair’s a floofy mess as always, hoodie half-zipped, and his eyes go wide as they land on Jason. Like, cartoon-level wide. “Well hello there.”

“Hello yourself,” Jason says as he crosses his arms over his chest. His aproned chest.

“You must be Jason.” Bart’s grin is positively wolfish as he shoves his hands in his hoodie. “I’m Bart. It’s an absolute pleasure to finally… see you in person.”

Jesus Christ. That’s gotta be the slowest and most deliberate that Tim’s ever heard Bart speak. He’s also not holding back from raking his eyes up and down Jason’s body. Never mind the fact that the damn Imp barely comes up to Jason’s chest – his forwardness actually makes Jason pause.

“I’m alive, by the way,” Tim dryly calls out from the kitchen bench.

Bart glances his way for only a second, with a quick “Good for you, honeybun,” before recentering on Jason. “So Jason… do you always dress up for guests this way?”

And then Bart bites his lip as he looks up at Jason through his eyelashes. Like a sixties pin-up poster.

But Jason’s already relaxing. Tim watches in near horror as the man leans against the door frame, arm braced. “Only for the ones I really like. Are you always this direct?”

Bart’s eyes are glued to Jason’s exposed armpit, the fucking slut. Tim watches as his Adam’s apple visibly bobs, before Bart regains some composure. “Oh, you wanna see me being direct? I can-”

Channelling his own version of the Speed Force, Tim is across the room in a second, shoving past Jason to slam the door in Bart’s face. “Nope, not today. Bye, Bart.”

The door rattles with Bart’s muffled “Rude!” but Tim’s already turning back to Jason, who’s grinning like a cat who’s got the cream.

“Your friend seems cute.”

“Don’t you even fucking start. He will literally fuck a rock.”

“I heard that!” Comes Bart from the other side of the door. Tim ignores him.

Instead, he steps into Jason’s space, hands on his hips, just above the apron. “Just block him out. That’s what I do.” He smirks, voice dropping. “Anyways, I’m gonna suck your dick now.”

Jason chokes, the laugh dying in his throat. “Fuck, Tim, warn a guy.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Tim’s already sinking to his knees, brushing aside the apron and hooking his fingers into Jason’s boxers. The kitchen suddenly feels a lot warmer than it did a minute ago.

By the time Tim stumbles back through his own apartment door, it’s well into the afternoon. His shirt’s rumpled and his hair’s still a disaster. A real walk of shame for the ages. Not that he regrets anything. Not even remotely.

The loft smells like coffee and something faintly floral – perfume? Oh right, Kon’s hookup.

Tim kicks off his sneakers once he’s inside. Toes them toward the rack and pads into the kitchen barefoot. Kon’s there, wearing a singlet and shorts. His broad back to Tim, drying a mug with a dish towel like it’s the most important task in the world. No doubt he’s heard Tim coming from a mile away.

The kitchen sink’s empty, counters wiped down. Domestic as hell, which would be almost cute if Kon’s shoulders weren’t so tense.

The girl from last night, Jess, isn’t anywhere to be seen. Fucking great.

“Morning,” Tim says slowly. Deliberately casual. He makes a beeline for the coffee pot, which thankfully Kon has already made. “You cleaned up and made coffee? Thanks, man,” he says as he pours himself a fresh mug.

Kon doesn’t turn right away. Just sets the dish he’d been cleaning down with a soft clink, towel tossed onto the bench a moment later. When he does face Tim, his expression’s tight. Jaw set. “Where were you?”

Tim takes his first sip of gloriously dark coffee. “Out.”

“Out.” Kon repeats it flat, like it’s a bad joke. He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “Where?”

“Kon… we both know that you know where I was. Do you really need a play-by-play of exactly what I was up to? Because I can go there.”

He watches as Kon’s eyes flick over him. No doubt taking in the wrinkled clothes, the faint mark on his neck that Tim’s pretty sure Jason left on purpose. Steeling himself, Tim sets the coffee down and mirrors Kon’s stance – arms crossed, leaning against the opposite counter.

A stand-off for the ages.

Kon visibly swallows. His eyes are narrow. “Well maybe I want to hear you say it.”

“Really, dude?”

“Yeah, really. If you’re gonna go fuck the guy who tried to kill you multiple times, then at least have the balls to admit it.”

Tim scoffs. “Well if we’re done with the bullshit, technically he fucked me…”

“Jesus Christ, Tim!”

Kon slams his hands down on the bench. Not hard enough to break – which shows it’s more for show than actual unbridled anger.

“What were you even thinking?” Kon steps closer, voice rising just a notch. “Tim, he’s a psycho. He shot at you barely a month ago. And you just… what, hooked up with him? Sucked his dick in return for a place to crash?”

“First off, Jason fired a rubber bullet at me that time – I think. And second, yeah. I did. What’s the big deal? You’ve certainly put out for less,” Tim says.

Kon’s jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding back. “The big deal is that you’re smarter than this. He’s dangerous. Unstable. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“I didn’t.” Tim fights the urge to grind his teeth together. “And since when do you get to vet who I sleep with? You brought a total stranger back here last night. To my apartment. And fucked her loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Excuse me for wanting to get away from that, by the way.”

Kon flinches, colour creeping up his neck. “That’s not the same.”

“How?” Tim steps into Kon’s space. Not aggressive, but close enough to make a point. “You picked her up at a club, dragged her here, and I didn’t say shit. Didn’t grill you about it. Because it’s your business.”

Kon’s eyes dart away, then back. “She wasn’t trying to murder you.”

“Neither is Jason now.” Tim’s voice sharpens, frustration bubbling up. “We’re good. Or at least, we’re figuring it out. And honestly? It was fun. He’s not the monster you think he is. He’s actually kind of sweet.”

Kon’s expression twists, something raw flashing in his eyes before he masks it with anger. “He’s fun? Tim, this isn’t some game. He’s killed people. Since when are you shallow enough to throw away all your morals just to get dicked-down?”

Tim’s chest tightens, Kon’s intensity throwing him off. This isn’t just protectiveness – it feels heavier, personal. But Tim pushes it down, focusing on the hypocrisy staring him in the face. “Again, not your call to decide who I can and can’t sleep with. And you don’t get to lecture me after using my place as your personal hookup spot. What if that girl had been dangerous? Some meta in disguise, or a plant from Luthor? You didn’t even know her name last night.”

Kon’s flush deepens. “It’s not the same. She was just… a girl. Harmless.”

“Jess,” Tim says flatly. “Her name was Jess. You were too drunk to remember that – or check whether or not she was harmless. Thankfully I was able to do that for the both of us. And yeah, it is the same, by the way. You brought her here, fucked her in my guest bedroom, and I didn’t say a word. Because we’re friends. I trust you to handle your shit. And in return, you’re acting like you own me or something.”

Kon’s mouth opens, then closes. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. “I don’t own you. I care about you. That’s why this pisses me off. You deserve better than some guy who’s one bad day away from snapping.”

“Better like what? Like you bringing home randos and expecting me to clean up after?” Tim snaps, the words sharper than he means. “You don’t get to play protective big brother after that.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about you being stupid.”

“Stupid?” Tim laughs, cold now. “Fuck you, Kon. You’re my friend, not my fucking boyfriend!”

The words hang there, heavy and jagged. Kon’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes widening like Tim slapped him. The loft goes dead silent, the coffee maker’s drip the only sound. Tim’s chest heaves, regret flickering in but not enough to take it back. Kon stares at him, something unreadable in his eyes. Hurt? Anger? He looks away first, jaw working like he’s chewing on words he can’t spit out.

“Yeah,” Kon mutters finally, voice tight. “Guess I’m not.”

Tim’s stomach twists, the air thick with whatever just broke between them. He wants to say something, fix it, but the words stick. Instead, he grabs his mug, dumping the coffee in the sink. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Kon doesn’t respond, just turns back to the counter, picking up the dish towel like nothing happened. Tim walks away, the tension trailing him like smoke, the loft feeling smaller than it ever has.

In the bathroom, door shut, Tim strips and steps under the spray, hot water pounding his skin. He scrubs hard, like he can wash away the fight, but Kon’s face lingers – all flushed, eyes sharp with something Tim can’t name. It wasn’t supposed to go like that. Why does Kon get to fuck whoever he wants, just pick up randoms off the street, but Tim’s suddenly the one being held to a higher standard? It’s bullshit.

Tim groans and leans against the tile, water running over his face, wondering when their friendship got this tangled.

He stays in longer than he needs, letting the steam fog the mirror. When he finally steps out, towel around his waist, the kitchen’s empty. Kon’s gone, the dish towel folded neatly on the counter. Tim stares at it, chest tight, then heads to his room.

He’s left stewing for the rest of the day, even as he enters the Batcave later that evening through the manor entrance. Wayne Manor itself is deserted, which Tim expects. All the action is going on below.

The Cave hums with activity – the controlled kind – monitors flickering with data streams, the low hum of the Batcomputer. Something’s cooking in the analysis chamber, judging by the whirr coming from that direction. Still, Tim winces when his sneakers squeak on the polished floor. It’s not like he was sneaking up on anyone. But still.

The four pairs of eyes that flick towards him on arrival make him feel instantly underdressed – wearing just a faded band tee that’s seen better days and grey sweatpants.

No suit, no gear. Just Tim Drake, and not Red Robin.

Bruce stands at the central console, fully suited up aside from his cowl. Beside him, Dick’s similarly prepared to head out. Tim makes a point of not staring at his ass in the suit. Nope. He’s better than that, really.

Nearby, Damian’s perched on a stool and sharpening a batarang with deliberate strokes. Tim watches as the kid not so subtly checks his own reflection in one of the blank computer monitors. Damian’s really begun to lean into the edgy teen side of things lately, which Tim honestly finds hilarious. He’s so much less intimidating now that he actually tries to look cool. Little Demon never knew he had it right from the get-go.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred greets as he sets down a tray of sandwiches.

“Hey Al,” Tim waves and tosses his water bottle onto the table, grinning when it lands the right way up. Fucking score. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was a nightmare.”

Dick turns, his smile too quick, too bright. “Tim! Glad you made it. We were just going over the chem breakdowns of the stuff we found the other night. You want a chair? Or, uh, coffee? Alfred’s got-”

“I’m good. Not staying long,” Tim cuts in, waving him off. He pulls up a stool near Damian, dropping onto it with a casual slump. His tee rides up a bit as he leans forward, elbows on knees. “Just fill me in. Duke passed on a few leads he caught onto. Sionis’ guys this time, but they also have the compound in their supply.”

Bruce glances up, his expression unchanging, but there’s a subtle nod. He doesn’t comment on Tim’s choice of outfit. “Yes, I read Signal’s report. Oracle’s pulling feeds from the docks.”

And sure enough, Babs waves from one of the screens, her voice crackling through the speakers. “Already got eyes on three shipments. Looks like the cheap venom knock-off is spreading east.”

Damian pauses his sharpening, eyes narrowing at Tim’s arm. “Drake. What is that?”

Tim follows his gaze, then shrugs. His bird tattoo is exposed, simple black lines stark against his skin. “Would you believe me if I said it was a very coincidental birthmark?”

Damian’s nose wrinkles, like he’s smelled something foul. “Father. Drake has defaced himself with an identifying mark. Surely this violates protocol.”

Bruce doesn’t look up from the console, but his voice carries that even keel, like he’s discussing the weather. “It’s his body, Damian. Tim knows to keep it covered. As long as he’s careful, it’s fine.”

He sounds tired. Honestly, Tim relates hard.

As Tim turns a shit-eating grin on Damian, the kid sputters, batarang forgotten in his hand. “But protocol dictates-”

“Just drop it, Damian,” Bruce interrupts. He turns to look at them both. And then Tim watches as Bruce arches an eyebrow. Lips quirk. “When it comes to potentially compromising his identity, we should just all be glad that Tim’s no longer using his surname as his vigilante identity.”

Damn, okay. Tim’s not smiling anymore. Why did Bruce have to bring that up?

Damian whirls around, his evil little eyes alight with triumph. And nearby, Dick is already choking on a laugh. “Wait was the whole ‘Drake’ phase just you using your last name? I thought you named yourself after the duck?”

“Ohmygod, stop it.”

“Yes, Drake, please do tell us which of the seventeen different hero identities you’ve had is your favourite?”

“It hasn’t even been that-”

“The brown suit was rather unflattering, Master Timothy,” Alfred interjects.

Tim just gapes, staring around at his family. “What is happening right now? And what did I even do to deserve such abuse?”

“You mean aside from simply existing?” Damian snarks back.

“Okay, rude. You are now uninvited from my next party.”

“You mean the parties where you serve illicit-”

Tim is quick to slap a hand over Damian’s mouth to shut him up. Not that it’s really a secret – or even true. Weed is legal in Gotham, and there’s no fucking way Bruce doesn’t know that Tim smokes. But that doesn’t mean he wants to openly have that discussion either. He’s always been a fan of ignoring problems and hoping they just… stop becoming problems.

The disappointed look Dick shoots him is only spoiled when Tim yelps loudly, because the fucking Demon Brat just licked his hand. He pulls away and shoots a glare at Damian, who just bounces his eyebrows and smirks. Teenagers.

“May I suggest a more… pertinent choice of topic,” Alfred interjects, thank fuck. “Perhaps one that doesn’t have Ms Gordon putting the entire Cave on mute.” He not-so subtly pushes forward the plate of sandwiches – untouched so far. And despite his earlier claim about not staying long, Tim doesn’t hold back from taking two at once.

Barbara, for her part, looks like she’s been enjoying the conversation as much as Damian has. Figures. Tim doesn’t really know where she got the reputation for being all down to business – she’s always lived for the chaos as much as anyone has. Still, her fingers are tapping away at a keyboard from what Tim can see from the camera.

“The sample you boys recovered was helpful,” she says at the mention of her name. “The base compound does seem to be related to venom. And the few other additives should be able to be linked back to a supplier.”

“The stuff’s spreading though. It’s hit the Narrows,” Dick says.

Tim nods as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “Yeah. I tailed a dealer two nights ago, down my end of town. Low-rent op, but they’re sourcing from a lab set up in the old Sionis steel mill. Formulas also match what we pulled from the docks.” He leans forward, pointing at the holo-map on the Batcomputer he’d sent Bruce in advance. “The building is around there, I already mapped it out for you. It’s heavily guarded, but has a few entrances through the ventilation system. Should be easy in, if you’re not going loud.”

Bruce grunts approval, adjusting the display. “Good work. Nightwing, Robin – I want you both with me. Oracle on comms. I want more samples, and someone talking.”

Dick nods, but his eyes flick to Tim again, lingering. “You sure you don’t want in? Could use your eyes on the ground.”

Tim’s already shaking his head. “Nah. Got plans. But ping me if it goes sideways.”

“Plans. How convenient.” Damian says has his eyes narrow. “Abandoning the mission for your civilian frivolities.”

Tim ruffles the younger man’s hair as he stands up, moving quickly before Damian can stab him. “Frivolities like sleep? Yeah, guilty. I’ve decided that having a thing called circadian rhythm really suits me. You should try it some time. Might stop you looking like fifteen going on fifty.”

“Tt. You’re just weak.” Damian says as he swats his hand away, but doesn’t try to cut off any of Tim’s fingers. Progress.

Babs chuckles over the comms. “Play nice, boys. Tim, that Sionis lead – gold. I’ll cross-ref with GCPD logs.”

“Happy to be of service. Now if you’ll excuse me, my bed calls,” Tim says as he steals another sandwich for the road.

Alfred nods, pleased. “And before you leave, Master Bruce. If I may – the sandwiches are for sustenance, not decoration.”

Bruce takes one absently, still staring at the map. “Appreciated, Alfred.” Then, to Tim, “Get home safe, Tim. Your cutback on patrols. It’s working?”

The question’s gruff, but there’s that undercurrent to it. Bruce’s version of concern. “Uh, yeah. Feels good. Like I have time to breathe.”

Bruce nods once. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Well damn. Hard not to feel like the favourite child (for once) with something like that.

Still, it’s hard for Tim to feel completely on top of the world, given the big fat Kon-shaped hole in his life. The only blemish on an otherwise pretty great twenty-four hours.

As much as he hates to admit it, Tim kind of regrets his choice of words with Kon. He hadn’t meant it to land that harsh, but the overprotectiveness had been stifling. Where does Kon get off policing him, but not Bart or Cassie?

He pulls out his phone one last time as he swings exits the front door of the Mansion – still no messages from Kon.

Figures.

Chapter Text

“You look like a cartoon character that threw up on a thrift store reject.”

“Aw, thanks. I was going for capitalism’s worst nightmare. Think I nailed it?”

Over the rim of her latte, Tam’s eyes narrow in judgment. She doesn’t look impressed. But then again, when does she when it comes to Tim?

He sips his black coffee, extra hot, and fights what’s probably a childish grin. He’d timed his arrival just right – sauntered in five whole minutes late, hoodie slung over one shoulder, his newly thrifted shirt in full glory. Neon green, splashed with pixelated Looney Tunes characters mid-chaos. It’s the kind of thing that screams “I no longer give a fuck about boardroom optics,” and judging by Tam’s stare, it’s landing exactly as intended.

Fucking marvellous.

He’s even willing to award himself bonus points for the patchy stubble he’d “forgotten” to shave clean – scruffy and nowhere near a full beard. More of a dirty mo’ kind of look. And despite everything, he’d gotten Steph to re-buzz the sides of his mullet last night, just for Tam’s benefit. Is it petty? Absolutely. But after years of Wayne Enterprises’ soul-sucking dress code, this is his quiet rebellion. Freedom looks obnoxious to those who don’t have it – someone wise surely said that at some point.

“You’re insufferable,” Tam says in response to his look, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the barest crack in her armour. She, in contrast, is in full corporate chic – tailored blazer over a silk blouse, hair pulled into a bun so sleek it could slice bread. A real power look. Tim admires it, to be fair. Tam’s always been the one who thrives in the viper pit, turning schmoozing into strategy, and still having the mental fortitude to not go crazy in the process.

He salutes her for it, really. Just because Tim couldn’t hack it in the corporate world doesn’t mean he doesn’t want his friend to succeed.

The coffee shop’s one of Tim’s favourite in the neighbourhood near his apartment building. Full of mismatched mugs, and probably some mismatched patrons. The kind of where each table has a different type of chair to the next one. Probably more than a little obnoxious in its individuality. Sunlight slants through the front window, gilding the tabletops. Tim probably should’ve travelled to meet Tam at a place closer to Wayne Enterprises. After all, her days are far busier than his. But he’d been hungover (cocktail night with Steph had gone a tad overboard) and Tam had insisted on coming to him (he thinks she’s taking a long break on purpose).

Outside, he half-watches as a guy on a bike nearly clips a pedestrian, earning a lazy middle finger in return. About as chill as Gotham gets, all things considered. He loves it.

“Insufferable is my brand now,” he replies to her, propping his elbows on the scarred wooden table. The chair creaks under him, probably older than both of them combined. “No more proof-reading proposals at three in the morning. No more listening to that old fossil from accounting who still emails in Comic Sans.”

Tam snorts, a rare unguarded sound, and sets her mug down with a soft clink. “Hargrove’s still around, you know. Promoting ‘innovative disruption’ like it’s not just code for firing the interns.”

“Ugh, he’s the worst.

“Last week, he cornered me in the corridor with his ‘big idea’ for incorporating blockchain into our practice. I had to pretend to be getting a call in order to escape.”

Tim winces, sympathetic, but it’s laced with what’s probably petty glow of vindication. “God, sounds like the elevator pitch from hell. At least you get hazard pay and sick leave?”

“Perks of mid-level management,” she says dryly, stirring her latte with unnecessary vigour. The spoon clinks against the porcelain, a rhythmic tic. “You, on the other hand, get to swan around in... that. What even is this outfit? A cry for help? Or did you lose a bet to your own reflection?”

He tugs at the hem, smirking. “This is high fashion, Tam, catch up. Retro-ironic or some shit. Pairs perfectly with the five o’clock shadow I cultivated just for you. See? No more clean-shaven corporate drone. I’m a free-range chaotic bisexual now.”

Her laugh is short, sharp. “Free-range. Cute. Do you miss WE?”

“Nah,” he says immediately, setting his mug down. “I mean, I miss the people – the good ones. Sure as fuck don’t miss Hargrove. But getting to actually have a life? Chef’s kiss. I slept past ten AM yesterday. Voluntarily. It still kinda feels like committing treason.”

Tam hums, noncommittal, tracing the rim of her mug with one manicured nail. “Must be nice. Meanwhile, some of us are still grinding for that lovely office you vacated. Not to mention Vicki Vale cornered me yesterday in the parking lot. She wants an exclusive on the Drake exodus.”

“Tell her I left for the vibes,” Tim says, deadpan. “Or that I was fired after Bruce caught me unionising the interns. She’d eat that shit up.”

Tam’s lips quirk. “You seem… content.”

It’s something Tim’s come to hear a lot over the last few weeks. Which is nice, because Tim does feel content. Kinda. Mostly. The office had been a cage, all glass walls and echoing ambition, every day a reminder that he was burning the candle at both ends. Now? His loft’s a revolving door of friends, half-built IKEA disasters, and the occasional patrol that doesn’t bleed into his soul. It’s messy, yeah, but it’s his.

It’d be near-perfect, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s still in a weird patch with his best friend. Neither he nor Kon have made the move to reach out. Cassie had called it a special brand of toxic masculinity, which Tim still rejects on principle. He’s just… processing. Yeah. Processing.

Friend-shaped feelings.

“Things are going mostly well,” is what he settles on eventually. He speaks slowly, deliberately, and Tam picks up on it by the way she arches a perfectly styled eyebrow. “It’s just, uh, Kon and I got in a fight.”

“Oh? Do tell, then.”

Tim gulps. “Promise you won’t judge me?”

“I almost certainly will.”

He really should’ve expected that. “It’s... complicated,” Tim starts, voice low, like Kon himself is listening in. Hell, he might be. “Essentially he got pissed at me for sleeping with someone who’s maybe… not the smartest choice.”

“I see. Is this about Roy Harper?”

Tim blinks. “How do you-”

“Steph.”

Fucking figures. At this rate, Tim’s honestly surprised Steph hadn’t just mass posted a video of Tim climbing Roy like tree on the dancefloor that night.

“I’m not even going to try and be mad about that. But no – not Roy,” he says. “Try his business partner instead.”

Tam tuts and points her spoon at him. “Tim… I make a point of not knowing every in and out of the vigilante scene. So you’re going to have to spell it out for me, okay?”

It’s Tim’s turn to hum, noncommittal. The sound sticking in his throat. He traces the mug’s handle, then glances around despite himself. It’s safe enough. Still, he drops his voice another notch.

“Uh, well Kon’s mad about me sleeping with Jason.”

There, he said it. The words land flat, swallowed by the shop’s easy chatter. But Tam’s eyes flick to his, sharp as a stiletto heel. For a beat, there’s silence. Then she exhales, slow and measured, leaning back in her chair with a creak that echoes his unease.

“Jason… as in the Jason that you grew up idolising, who’s since tried to kill you multiple times, correct?”

Probably the most concise way to encapsulate the issue, without revealing any identities in a public space. “That’d be the one, yes.”

“Of which one those murder attempts involved stabbing you in the chest?” Tam presses.

“It didn’t even scar!”

Her lips press into a thin line, but it’s not disapproval – not the judgy kind, at least. She picks up her latte, takes a measured sip. “Okay. Walk me through this. Because if I’m piecing this together right, you went from corporate slave to sleeping with an undead not-brother.”

“Woahwoahwoah, Jason’s not my brother.”

“Exactly. Which is the least of your problems here, for the record.”

He winces, rubbing his neck where the stubble itches just enough to ground him. He fucking hates scruff. Tim’s gonna shave it first thing after getting home – it was a stupid idea. Straight back to his baby-faced self.

“You also think I’m an idiot for doing this, don’t you?”

“Oh for sure,” Tam says quickly. Super. “And you’re also potentially morally corrupt, given Jason’s history. But that’s your mistake to make. I’m not going to lecture you for it.”

Tim’s laugh comes out sharper than intended, drawing a glance from a couple nearby. He waves it off, casual, but his fingers drum the table – an old habit, the one that surfaces when his brain’s spinning too fast. “That’s… probably better than I deserve. I think. But for the record, Jason’s actually really sweet.”

“When he’s not trying to kill you.”

“Correct,” Tim concedes. “But he also hasn’t done that for a while. I dunno, now that I’ve gotten to know him, he just seems, um, normal? Kinda chaotic normal. Like me.”

Tam hums again, that thoughtful vibration she does when she’s filing away data for later. “Normal’s relative. But fine. You’re an adult. Make your mistakes. Just don’t come crying when he arranges your kitchen knives by width or whatever killers do for foreplay.”

“You have a very creative way of envisioning my sex life.”

Tam wrinkles her nose at that. Her judgment – if it can be called that – is blunt, but never laced with pity. It’s why they click. She gets the thrill of the edge, the petty joy of thumbing your nose at the rulebook. After all, for a while, Tim was her version of Jason. Someone dangerous and very much out of the normal.

“This line of conversation is gross, for the record.” Tam continues as she finishes off her coffee. “I take it that Kon’s taken a more judgmental route with this?”

Tim frowns at the memory. “That would be an understatement. And the worst part is that he brought home this random girl the same night – to my apartment. Fucked her loud enough to wake the dead.” When Tam looks at him knowingly, Tim scrambles to elaborate. “Which is fine, for the record. None of my business. But then he has the nerve to lecture me about who I sleep with. He never even found out her name!”

Throughout his explanation, Tam’s eyebrow has climbed even higher. A perfect arch of scepticism. She leans forward, elbows on the table, blazer sleeves riding up.

“Are you sure he’s not just jealous?”

Tim’s laugh chokes out, half-cough, half-disbelief. “Uh, yeah no. That’s definitely not it. He’s just being an overprotective asshat.”

“Tim… that boy looks at you like he’s one bad day away from writing your name in a journal with little hearts,” Tam deadpans.

Please. Tim scoffs and leans back in his chair. Kon, pining? The image flashes: Kon’s arm slung heavy around his shoulders on the club curb, slurred and needy. “You’re the best, Tim. The best guy I ever had.” Then the kitchen the next day, the way his voice cracked. No. That’s not...

“You’re projecting. Hard. Kon’s straight as an arrow. When we first met, he used to go after girls in a way that was, like… okay, not quite problematic but also not that far off. I mean, that was completely CADMUS’ fault considering they grew him in a fucking tube, but I still had to have a chat to him about it. So really he’s just-”

“Tim,” Tam’s words make him stop, and god he hates that knowing star. “You’re rambling hard, honey.”

He thinks of Kon’s flush in the kitchen, hands slammed on his bench, that jagged stare, full of disappointment.

“Even if – and it’s a massive if – you’re right,” Tim says, voice steady as he can manage, “there is so much loaded history between us. It’s not like I can just… I’m not even…”

When he flounders like an idiot, Tam reaches across the table and clasps a hand over his. He’d been tapping the table. Kind of hard. “It’s okay, Tim. You don’t need to explain. Let’s talk about something else.”

Shit, he loves Tam. Really. Amongst all his friends – those with capes and those without – she’s always just had a certain quality. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, but is so fucking thankfully for.

And so by the time they’re parting ways, twenty minutes later so Tam can get to her 12 o’clock meeting on time, he feels both lighter and heavier at the same time.

He meant it, when he’d told Tam that Jason was shockingly sweet. Still, it was still catching him by surprise though. Because the next time they fuck is at Tim’s place, and when Jason disappears into the bathroom afterward, Tim doesn’t think much of it. Until he hears the taps running.

Turns out, Jason’s running a bath for him.

Although to be fair, Tim thinks he earnt it, given how hard Jason railed him into his own bed. He’s feeling downright raw.

The bath is amazing, of course. And what’s even more amazing is the fact that Jason doesn’t duck out while he’s relaxing in the water. Instead, he finds them ensconced on his living room floor afterward. Tim’s sitting cross-legged next to the coffee table, DJ decks humming softly under his fingers as he fiddles with a few settings. Blue light cast across the loft from the glow from his laptop screen. It’s past one in the morning by now, the city’s distant hum filtering through the cracked window like white noise. No doubt his own garbled attempts at mixing songs are adding to the that same hum.

It’s a small mercy that Bart’s not here to see and judge his attempts to teaching Jason how to mix.

The wool jumper Tim’s got on scratches softly against his skin as he leans forward, fiddling with the crossfader. He probably should’ve put something on underneath to spare his skin. He’s just got it and a pair of underwear on. Cliché morning after look, except it’s still the night. Classic Bat sleep cycle. No shirt for Jason at all, though, and Tim’s not complaining about the view as he works. Although imagining smooshing his face between Jason’s pecs is really not the best thought to have when he’s trying to nail a transition.

Jason’s sprawled beside him, back against the couch, stretched out in a pair of Kon’s sweats that Tim had dug out from the clean laundry pile. They’re a little loose on Jason’s thighs, and yes, Tim’s acutely aware of how loaded the choice was to give Jason a pair of Kon’s clothes. Still. Kon’s not here. Kon’s not talking to him, because Kon is being a dickhead. Tim might as well repurpose.

“Okay, so... this see how one’s got a steady beat, right? It’s like, 120 BPM or something.” Tim says as the track plays, a low synth hum filling the room. “You wanna match the next one to it. Listen for the drop. I know some people try to hammer the transition with Fx, but I’m pretty sure that’s a trap.”

He looks up to see Jason nodding, one arm draped casual over his knee. His hair’s still wet from the shower he took after Tim’s bath. Curls falling over his forehead in a way that’s distractingly soft. And that little white tuft at the front is cuter than Tim realised. Smelling all like Tim’s citrus body wash.

The transition comes, and Tim frowns. The next song has a similar vibe, with a crackly vinyl sample weaving through bass. “Okay. Now, you gotta time it right – here – to line up the beats. Like this… shit.”

The tracks overlap with a slight wobble. It’s not perfect. The transition hitches, one beat clipping the other before smoothing out. Tim winces. “See? Kinda choppy. But I never claimed to be an expert.”

Jason watches, head tilted, that quiet focus that Tim’s noticed he gets. Like he’s piecing together a puzzle instead of just nodding along. “I mean, it sounded good to me. You’re overthinking it.” He reaches out, fingers brushing Tim’s on the controller, and gives the wheel a tentative spin. The new song glitches for a second, then blend. Rough, but not actually terrible. Jason pulls back, brows raised. “Shit, I didn’t think that would actually do anything.”

Tim laughs, soft and surprised. “That actually didn’t sound terrible. Of course your accidental faux pas would sound better than anything I do.”

“Just a talent of mine, baby.” Jason’s says as his voice dips low, comfortable. Like they’ve done this a dozen times. He leans back again, legs crossing over Tim’s legs, casual as breathing. The sweats ride up a bit, exposing the dark hairs over his ankle and lower calf. Tim finds himself reaching forward to scratch at the exposed skin.

Jason’s eyes flick to his at the touch. Not uncomfortable. Just… calm. The look is enough to make Tim swallow. “What about you, then? Do you have a secret knitting circle I don’t know about?”

Jason’s snort rumbles low. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He stretches, arms flexing in a way that’s distracting as hell, but his voice stays easy, like he’s testing the waters. “I mostly read. Try out a few recipes in the kitchen here and there. Nothing nearly as batshit as you, that’s for sure. You ever played in front of a crowd?”

“Nah, not really. I’m nowhere near good enough,” Tim shrugs as he adjusts the EQ, fading the bass to let the melody breathe. The room pulses gently, the loft’s exposed beams catching the laptop glow like veins. “I bought the decks on a whim after moving in. Bart’s way better, but I gotta up my game because there’s this gig thing we’re hosting, and I just know I’m gonna be roped into looking after the music during Bart’s smoke breaks.” Sex breaks too, knowing Imp.

He’s been focused on the decks as he speaks, but Tim glances up after that to see Jason’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You in the event space now, huh?”

“Kind of? It’s mainly Bart’s idea, some kind of party out in the woods or some crap, I’m not really sure on the details. I’m just footing the bill. Do you want to come?”

The question slips out before Tim can stop it, and he watches as Jason’s amused expression visibly closes off. Shit. “I don’t like crowds.”

Yeah, he really should’ve seen that coming. “Your loss,” he replies, trying to seem as casual as possible. It would’ve been a recipe for disaster anyway. Kon would probably try and take Jason’s head off the moment they made eye contact.

The silence that follows isn’t too tense, thankfully. But the jumper Tim’s wearing suddenly feels too warm, his bare thighs prickling where they touch Jason’s outstretched feet. Tim fiddles with the decks, nudging the track slower, the beat syncing like their breaths.

After a stretch, he clears his throat. He should really know better than to push his luck, but he can’t help it. “You free Thursday?”

“That’ll be three booty calls in one week, Replacement. Anymore than that and we’ll be hitting boyfriend-girlfriend territory.”

Yeah, no. Not exactly what Tim had in mind. Although, given what he’s about to ask, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for Jason to think that. Oops. “I’m hosting a games night with some people I’m pretty sure you don’t hate. Duke, Steph and Cass… you should come.”

“And what makes you think I’d even remotely consider that a good idea?” Jason’s eyes are narrowed as he speaks.

Because Jason clearly isn’t the murderous psychopath he wants to project to everyone, Tim wants to say. Because even after spending just a few nights together, it’s obvious that Jason yearns for some semblance of normalcy. He’s just not sure where to get it. Tim’s always considered himself pretty perceptive. It comes with the territory. And Jason’s a man in flux, desperately caught between maintaining the façade he displays to everyone, while still looking to find out who he is.

Because this world took so much from Jason. Tim just wants to give a little back.

Instead, Tim shrugs. “Because we’ll probably get drunk and trash talk the people that aren’t there. And board games are more fun with more people.”

“Five is an odd number.”

“Steph is a sore loser who usually quits after the first round,” Tim counters. “I’m just thinking ahead. And I can guarantee that Bruce, Dick and Damian won’t be there.”

He actually doesn’t think that Jason has much of a problem with Damian. But Tim sure as hell isn’t inviting the brat. If Steph’s a sore loser, then Damian gets absolutely nuclear when things don’t go his way. Tim still has the Articulate piece that was once wedged up his nose to prove it.

Really, he’s expecting to be shot down. Or at least for Jason to get angry, to push back. But instead, Tim’s surprised when he sees the other man’s curious gaze.

“What’s going on between you and Dickface, anyway?”

Fuck.

Tim shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “It’s nothing. Just some old beef. You know how it is.”

“Bullshit,” Jason says as he leans forward. “First of all, Dick and me disagree on things a fundamental level. Like, differences in how we view the world. It’s nothing like whatever pity party you’re throwing at the guy. Trust me.”

“I’m not throwing a goddamn pity party, Jason.” Tim can feel himself bristling at the accusation. He hates when people make him feel childish. He’s not. “It’s just- I’m fucking mad at him, okay?”

Never mind the years of wildly inappropriate sexual repression that have somehow found way to feed the anger. That’s always super.

“Because he took Robin from you and gave it to the Demon Brat?” Jason counters. When Tim flinches in surprise, the other man leers. “Hey, I know more than you think I do. And I get it, I really do. Why else do you think I tried to eighty-six you all those times?”

“That’s different. Unlike you, I wasn’t dead when I was replaced.”

“Are you seriously saying that out of the two of us, you got the short end of the stick more?” Jason scoffs. “You were right, Timbo. You are a cunt.”

Naturally, Tim doesn’t pay attention to the missed transition between songs. There’s a beat of silence instead, before the next track starts up. Bart would have a conniption at it.

“Why are you even defending Dick? You hate him more than I do,” Tim finds himself saying.

“Damn right I do, because you do not hate Dick.”

“You don’t get to decide how I feel.”

Jason stares at him for a beat, before clambering to his feet. Tim watches as he pads around the room, retrieving the shirt Tim had ripped off him a few hours ago.

After stretching it over his head, Jason levels him with a stare. “I’m not gonna tell you how to live your life, or what to do with Dick. Look, it’s obvious that he hurt you. It’s also pretty obvious that you don’t like being vulnerable with people, and it sounds like that would be required if you and Dick were ever gonna patch things up.”

“I can be vulnerable-” Tim starts, spitting out the word only for Jason to cut him off.

“I’m just saying that forcing yourself to pretend to hate Dick ain’t gonna make things better, okay? Especially when it sounds like there’s a mountain of repressed shit under there to deal with. Your new life is pretty sweet, Tim. But you don’t need to throw the good parts of what you used to have away, in order to have it.”

It’s frustrating, how someone Tim’s always associated as being an aggressive bruiser can speak so eloquently. Enough that Jason’s words have Tim feeling silly. Childish. He just doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get how Dick throws himself at Tim every time. Like he’s trying to wallpaper over the cracks. How that toxic positivity seems so forced, how he won’t just take no for an answer. Especially when Dick knows what he did.

… He does know, doesn’t he?

Tim stays silent as Jason finishes dressing. He keeps Kon’s sweats on, mostly because the pants he arrived in may or may not be ruined. Tim will give them a wash and return them. An excuse to see Jason again, or whatever.

“What time are the others coming over?”

The question makes Tim blink in surprise. He realises that Jason’s talking about Steph and the others this Thursday.

“Uh, six,” he says after a beat. Stupidly.

Jason pauses at the door. Collects the jacket, helmet and keys for his motorbike. “Guess I know when to avoid coming to yours, then.”

Cute. Jason’s not fooling anyone.

Just like Tim, apparently.

“You’re nothing like I thought you would be, you know,” Jason adds after a beat.

Tim’s fingers pause from where he’d been fiddling with the decks again. Mostly to have something to do. He hadn’t expected Jason to say anything else. Glancing up again, he meets Jason’s gaze. Steady, no edge.

“What did you expect?” His throat feels thick.

Jason’s lips twitch as he shrugs. “Not sure, to be honest. But I guess it shows how actually talking goes a long way. It’s maybe something I should do more of. It’s real easy to hold onto anger, y’know.” He opens the door. Pauses again. “It’d suck if you made the same stupid-ass mistakes I did.”

The door’s shut behind Jason before Tim can think of an eloquent reply.

What an insightful asshole.