Work Text:
Tim notices it on a Thursday.
He’s halfway through an energy drink at 3 a.m., half-slumped in the Batcave’s comms chair, pretending to analyse intel on a string of robberies, when he tabs over to the patrol logs. Jason signed off two hours ago. Nothing weird about that. Red Hood rarely lingers long after a mission. But something catches Tim’s eye—something small, innocuous.
Jason's logs show he checks out of the Cave every morning at exactly 8:07 a.m.
Every. Single. Morning.
Tim frowns, sits up straighter, and double-checks the timestamps. It’s not just today. It’s been happening for three weeks, maybe more. Always the same minute, give or take a few seconds. Not linked to any Wayne Enterprises obligations, and Jason sure as hell isn’t meeting with Bruce.
That means it’s personal.
“Okay,” Tim murmurs to himself. “What are you doing, Jason?”
He leans back in the chair and spins slowly, the cave's low lighting casting shadows across the concrete floor. It’s not like Jason’s been weird lately—well, no weirder than usual. He still patrols, still leaves half his gear strewn across the armoury table like someone raised by wolves, still trades sarcastic quips like it’s a blood sport. But there’s something else now.
A shift.
A steadiness.
Jason’s calmer. Less volatile. Less barbed. Less like someone living on a live wire and more like—Tim doesn’t know—someone who has a routine. A rhythm.
And that’s not normal. Not for Jason.
Tim pulls up the traffic cams, sets a facial-recognition trace, and taps his fingers restlessly on the keyboard.
“Just out of curiosity,” he mutters.
He tells himself it’s not weird.
The next day, he asks around.
Casually.
At breakfast.
Dick’s halfway through a protein shake when Tim says, “Hey, do you know what Jason’s doing during the day lately?”
Dick pauses, mouth full of peanut butter banana sludge. “Uh. Sleeping?”
“No,” Tim says. “He’s out early. Like, 8 a.m. early. Every day.”
Dick blinks. “Weird.”
“You’ve got nothing?”
“I don’t keep tabs on him like that.”
Tim frowns. “You’re usually annoyingly nosy.”
Dick grins. “I save that for you.”
Tim glares. Dick slurps his shake and shrugs.
Barbara’s not much better.
“Could be a job,” she offers, adjusting her glasses as she scrolls through a report. “He might’ve picked up freelance work. You know Jason—he doesn’t tell anyone unless it’s relevant to a gunfight.”
“Is it weird that I want to know?” Tim asks.
“Yes,” Babs says. “But not for you.”
“Comforting.”
“You like him,” she says without looking up. “It’s cute.”
Tim nearly chokes. “I do not.”
Barbara doesn’t respond. Just raises one very smug eyebrow.
Bruce, predictably, is cryptic as ever.
“I trust him to manage his time,” he says, which is rich coming from a man who once wore a watch over his glove just to punch someone with “efficiency.”
“Can you just tell me if he’s in trouble?”
“No,” Bruce says. “He’s productive. Leave it at that.”
Tim huffs. “You know, I thought you were against secrets in this family.”
Bruce’s eyebrow twitches. “I’m not required to divulge Jason’s employment schedule to his nosy little brother.”
Tim leaves the Cave muttering under his breath.
That night, he dreams of grease-stained hands and soft laughter and wakes up annoyed with himself.
Because here’s the thing: it’s not just about what Jason’s doing. It’s about the why. The secrecy. The routine. The version of Jason that leaves the house at 8:07 a.m. every single day is not the version Tim sees on rooftops or hears growling through the comms. It’s someone quieter. Grounded. Consistent.
That version is unfamiliar.
That version is—Tim swallows—kind of hot.
“Nope,” he says aloud, dragging a hand through his hair. “We’re not doing that.”
He absolutely is doing that.
Saturday morning, 8:03 a.m., Tim parks three blocks away in an unmarked, heavily tinted car and waits.
8:06.
8:07.
There he is.
Jason steps out of a nondescript apartment building in the Narrows. Civilian clothes. No helmet, no weapons. Just a plain black hoodie pushed up to his elbows, jeans stained with something dark at the thigh, and a travel mug in one hand. He walks with purpose. No visible tail. No hesitation.
Tim frowns and starts the car.
Whatever this is, it’s not vigilante business.
So he follows.
Three turns, a left through an alley, and Jason stops in front of a building with a faded mural and a rusted garage sign that reads: CHANCE AUTO & REPAIR.
Tim blinks.
Jason ducks inside. The garage bay opens slowly, creaking on old hinges. A car pulls in—a beater of a Honda—and Jason waves it forward, already pulling on a pair of gloves.
Another mechanic greets him with a fist bump.
And then Jason—Jason Todd, Red Hood, former assassin and general source of Gotham’s collective cardiac problems—smiles.
Not a smirk. Not a threat. A real, genuine, blinding grin.
Tim’s jaw goes slack.
He sinks lower in his seat and mutters, “What the hell?”
Inside the garage, Jason is laughing about something. He wipes his hands on a rag and leans into the engine block like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Tim watches for a long time.
He tells himself he’s only gathering information.
But his heart is doing something traitorous and warm and stupid in his chest.
Tim tells himself not to go back the next day.
He loses that argument by 7:45 a.m.
By 8:10, he’s sitting across the street in a different car, this one borrowed from a WayneTech pool fleet, trying not to look like a creep while sipping the world’s most lukewarm coffee. The garage is already open. Jason’s inside.
There’s classic rock playing faintly—some old Stones track—and Jason’s half-under a lifted Mustang, his legs sticking out while a socket wrench clatters against something metallic. A teenage girl with oil-streaked cheeks waits nearby, arms crossed, holding a tablet and arguing with one of the other mechanics about wiring diagrams.
Jason slides out from under the car, bolts upright, and promptly smears more grease across his cheek with the back of his glove.
Tim makes an embarrassing noise.
Jason doesn’t see him.
He’s laughing with the girl, gesturing with a wrench as he explains something animatedly. His hoodie sleeves are shoved up past his elbows again, revealing strong forearms that Tim should not be staring at. He’s not even wearing a work uniform—just old jeans and a Gotham Knights t-shirt that clings in all the right places.
Tim feels his brain shutting down.
There’s something disorienting about seeing Jason here. In this place. No armour. No weapons. Just…comfortable. At home in his body. In the moment. Not posturing or bristling or on edge. Just Jason.
And Tim can’t look away.
The girl—Ash, Tim learns later—pulls out her phone to show Jason something. He squints, grins, and gives her a thumbs-up.
Then, for no reason Tim can understand, Jason glances toward the street.
Directly at Tim.
Their eyes lock across the sidewalk.
Tim freezes like he’s been hit by a stun baton.
Jason’s expression goes very still. Then his mouth twitches at the corner.
Tim starts to reverse the car before he remembers that’s even more suspicious. He parks instead and gets out like this is normal, like he just happened to be in the neighbourhood.
Jason wipes his hands on a towel and walks over.
“Stalking me already?” he asks, voice low and amused.
Tim shrugs. “Just following a lead.”
Jason squints. “What kind of lead requires two mornings and a surveillance van?”
“Technically not a van.”
“You tracked me to my day job.”
“I was curious.”
“You’re insane.”
“Says the guy who taught a ten-year-old how to strip a Glock blindfolded.”
Jason’s grin flashes. “Touché.”
They stand there a moment, Jason leaning against the garage’s frame, Tim fidgeting with his coffee cup like it’s a fidget spinner. Behind them, someone revs an engine and yells for more brake fluid.
Tim blurts, “You work here?”
Jason deadpans, “No, I’m just deeply passionate about loitering near exhaust fumes.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “Seriously.”
Jason gestures inside. “Yeah. Been here a while. Cash work. Nothing shady.”
“I didn’t think it was shady.”
Jason raises a brow. “You thought something, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Tim shrugs again. “I guess I just…didn’t expect this.”
“What? Me? In the sunlight? With legal employment?”
Tim glances past him into the garage. It’s busy, humming with movement. There’s a chalkboard wall listing the week’s jobs, a busted jukebox in the corner, and three kids arguing over which tire belongs to which car.
It doesn’t feel like Gotham.
It feels like something better.
“I didn’t expect you to look happy,” Tim says before he can stop himself.
Jason goes still.
His expression softens—just barely—and he huffs a quiet breath. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”
Tim smiles faintly. “No promises.”
He comes back the next morning.
This time with coffee. One for himself. One for Jason.
Jason sees him walking up and makes a show of looking around like he’s waiting for a hidden camera crew.
“Did I die?” he asks. “Is this heaven?”
Tim holds out the cup. “Medium roast, two sugars, one cream. Don’t say I never bring you anything.”
Jason takes it slowly, cautiously. “Did you dose this with tracking nanites?”
“Would I do that?” Tim says, entirely unconvincingly.
Jason smirks. “You’re lucky I like sugar.”
Tim watches him take a sip, then watches his throat as he swallows, and then wants to walk directly into traffic.
“You could’ve just asked,” Jason says. “If you wanted to know what I do during the day.”
“You would’ve told me?”
Jason considers it. “No.”
“Exactly.”
“Still creepy.”
“Still accurate.”
Jason chuckles under his breath and turns to walk back into the garage. “Come on. If you’re gonna loiter, you can hold a flashlight.”
Tim hesitates, then follows, trying not to grin like an idiot.
He spends most of the day there.
Jason walks him through an oil change, a spark plug replacement, and a mystery sound that turns out to be a bottle cap stuck in a tire well. He’s sharp, fast, casually brilliant when it comes to engines. The way he moves is fluid, confident—he knows exactly how much pressure to use, which tools to grab, how to make a forty-year-old transmission purr again.
Tim finds himself handing Jason wrenches without thinking, trying not to stare.
Jason doesn’t talk much about why he works here, but Tim can read between the lines. The steadiness of it. The control. The peace. It’s quiet in the way Gotham never is. And Jason fits here in a way that Tim hasn’t seen in years.
There’s a moment, late in the afternoon, when the sun hits just right and Jason’s wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. His coveralls are tied at the waist, shirt clinging to his chest, eyes crinkled at the corners from a smile he doesn’t even realise he’s wearing.
Tim thinks, with full force and zero warning: I am so screwed.
By Tuesday, Tim is basically an intern.
He shows up right before Jason's shift starts, coffee in hand, and Jason only pretends to be annoyed for the first ten minutes. After that, it’s familiar banter, engine grease, and the sharp tang of metal in the air. The garage staff knows him now—Ash has started calling him “Little Wayne,” and Ollie, the ancient, grumbling manager, just grunts whenever Tim passes, which apparently counts as approval.
Tim doesn’t question it. He’s too busy falling apart.
Because here’s the thing: it’s Jason. Jason, who always seemed like smoke and gunpowder and too much silence between explosions, now elbow-deep in an old Harley’s engine block, sleeves rolled, jaw smudged with oil. Jason, who calls tools by nickname—“Hand me Big Bertha,”—and curses at rust like it personally offended him. Jason, who tosses Tim a wrench with unthinking ease and says, “You’re better with this stuff than you pretend, y’know.”
Tim swallows the compliment like it’s a live wire.
He can handle murder investigations. He can handle tactical debriefs, alien invasions, and League of Assassins ambushes. He cannot, apparently, handle Jason Todd complimenting his mechanical intuition while looking like a Calvin Klein model who took a wrong turn into a Jiffy Lube.
It’s fine. He’s fine.
He’s going to implode.
At lunch, Jason drags him outside to sit on the curb with two paper-wrapped sandwiches and two cans of orange soda. They eat in comfortable silence, watching a stray cat try to climb into someone’s engine.
“You gonna tell me why you keep showing up?” Jason asks eventually, without looking at him.
Tim shrugs. “I like engines.”
Jason snorts. “You like me.”
Tim chokes on his soda. “Excuse me?”
Jason finally glances over, one eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You think I didn’t notice the staring?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You definitely were.”
“I wasn’t that bad.”
Jason leans back on his palms, sun catching in his hair, and says, “Drake, I’ve seen you disable a security system using just a shoelace and spite. You think I can’t clock a crush?”
Tim goes very still.
Jason’s smile fades slightly. “It’s not a problem. I’m just—surprised, I guess.”
“Why?”
Jason looks away. “Most people don’t exactly line up for the Red Hood Experience.”
Tim frowns. “That’s not what this is.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Tim wipes his hands and turns to face him more directly. “You think I’m following you around because I want to fix you?”
Jason shrugs. “Isn’t that the Wayne speciality?”
“No,” Tim says, voice firmer now. “I’m here because you’re already fixing things. You’re good at this, Jason. You’re good with people. With engines. With kids—don’t think I don’t know about Sundays, by the way.”
Jason’s head snaps toward him. “You followed me?”
Tim raises both hands. “Investigated.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I wanted to know what made you happy,” Tim says, softer now. “Because you never really talk about it.”
Jason looks down at the asphalt. “Didn’t think anyone cared.”
“I care.”
The silence stretches. Not tense. Not awkward. Just heavy. Full.
Jason’s fingers twitch slightly, like he’s thinking about reaching out.
Then he sighs and stands. “We’ve got a radiator swap coming in. You want to help or keep monologuing like a lovesick intern?”
Tim grins. “Thought you said I was creepy.”
“Oh, you are. But you’re good with a wrench.”
Tim follows him inside, heart hammering, lips curving.
Later that afternoon, they’re hunched under the hood of a '98 Civic that’s falling apart in six directions, and Jason is mid-explanation about coolant flow when he turns slightly, reaches past Tim, and brushes grease off Tim’s cheek with his thumb.
Tim forgets how to breathe.
Jason blinks, clearly realising what he’s done.
The moment stretches. His hand lingers just a second too long.
Then he clears his throat and steps back.
“Face like a damn chalkboard,” he mutters.
Tim smiles, dazed. “You always this gentle?”
Jason’s ears turn faintly pink. “Shut up, Drake.”
Tim says, “Make me,” and then immediately regrets it, because Jason turns and looks at him with that crooked, dangerous smirk—and then goes back to work like nothing happened.
Tim barely survives the rest of the shift.
That night, Tim lays in bed staring at the ceiling, one hand over his eyes, heart pounding.
He’s in deep. Dangerously deep.
And he doesn’t want to stop.
Sunday starts the same way it always does.
Jason slips out of his apartment at 8:05 a.m. sharp—civilian clothes, no helmet, no weapons, no trace of the man who snaps bones and terrifies arms dealers. Just worn jeans, a navy hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, and a beat-up canvas bag slung over his shoulder.
Tim is four steps behind.
This time, he doesn’t bother with stealth. No surveillance gear, no silent tailing from rooftops. He just follows from across the street, hands shoved in his pockets, hood up against the wind, wondering what exactly he’s hoping to see.
He tells himself it’s just curiousity.
That’s a lie.
Jason walks for eight blocks, cutting through early-morning Gotham—quiet in the rare way that only exists on Sunday mornings before the chaos wakes up. And then he turns the corner, nods to a nurse at the security desk, and walks straight into Gotham General Children’s Hospital like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Tim stops dead on the sidewalk.
A kid in superhero pyjamas darts through the front doors chasing a bubble wand.
Jason catches the door before it swings shut.
And Tim, who has spent years cataloguing everything Jason Todd has done since coming back from the dead, suddenly realises there’s a whole life he’s missed.
Tim signs in at the front desk ten minutes later under a false name. The volunteer coordinator doesn’t bat an eye—just points him toward the long-term care wing and reminds him to sanitise his hands.
He walks quietly down the corridor, past murals of cartoon dragons and spaceships, until he hears it.
Jason’s voice.
Warm. Animated. Gentle.
Tim slows, peering around the doorway into the common room.
Jason is sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with a battered copy of Where the Wild Things Are open in his lap. Five or six kids are sprawled around him—some in wheelchairs, some curled up in blankets, one perched firmly in Jason’s lap. A girl in a bright yellow hijab is resting her head on his shoulder, giggling.
Tim doesn’t breathe.
Jason’s doing voices for the monsters. Terrible, grumbly ones. He growls and flails and snorts, all the kids shrieking with laughter. A little boy signs something frantically, and Jason replies without hesitation, perfectly fluid, fingers moving easily.
The girl in yellow signs too. Jason nods and signs back, making her beam.
“—and Max,” Jason says, “King of all wild things, was lonely. So he gave up being king, and sailed back over a year, and in and out of weeks, and through a day, and into the night…”
He closes the book slowly. The kids let out a collective awwwww.
Jason grins. “Same time next week, monsters.”
The kids swarm him. Hugs. High fives. Someone throws a crayon, and it hits him in the chest. Jason pretends to die. A toddler with a nasal cannula climbs onto his back. Jason lets her, no hesitation, like he was made to do this.
Tim stands frozen in the doorway like something sacred just smacked him in the heart.
A nurse walks by and spots him. “You here for him?”
Tim nods mutely.
“He’s a favourite,” she says warmly. “Never misses a Sunday. Reads to the littles, plays board games with the teens, sits with the chemo kids. Never asks for anything. Never tells anyone who he is, either.”
Tim swallows. “They don’t know?”
She shakes her head. “They know he’s Jay. That’s enough.”
In the room, Jason’s laughing as a girl draws a crown on his forehead with a marker.
Tim thinks: Of course they love him.
How could they not?
Jason finds him after.
Of course he does.
Tim’s leaning against the brick wall behind the building, trying to act like he didn’t just watch him become a real-life hero without the armour.
Jason rounds the corner, bag over his shoulder, and raises one brow. “You seriously tailed me again?”
Tim doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy watching how the light hits Jason’s face. The marker crown is still faintly visible on his forehead.
Jason sighs. “You could’ve just asked.”
“I wanted to see it.”
Jason stares at him for a beat. “See what?”
You, Tim thinks. All of you. The you you don’t show anyone.
He says instead, “You’re good with them.”
Jason shrugs, awkward now. “They’re kids. They’re easy.”
“They’re sick.”
“Yeah. Which means they don’t have time for bullshit.”
Tim steps forward. “You do this every week?”
“Sometimes more. When there’s a need.”
“Why?”
Jason leans against the wall beside him. His voice is low. “Because when I was a kid in Gotham, nobody showed up like that. And because…” he trails off, looking toward the horizon. “Because it reminds me I’m still human.”
Tim swallows the ache in his chest. “You are.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
The silence between them hums.
After a while, Jason sighs. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Nope.”
Jason glances at him sidelong. “And you’re gonna keep showing up at the garage, too.”
Tim shrugs, smiling slightly. “I bring coffee.”
Jason huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I like seeing you happy.”
Jason turns toward him fully now.
And for the first time, there’s no wall behind his eyes. No sarcasm. No smirk.
Just quiet understanding.
“Yeah,” Jason says. “I noticed.”
It starts raining around midnight.
Tim doesn’t mean to be dramatic about it. But he finds himself on Jason’s fire escape anyway—hood up, water dripping off his sleeves, takeout bag in one hand, two coffees balanced precariously in the other.
He waits.
The lights are still on in Jason’s apartment. Shadows move past the curtains. There’s a faint thump of a drawer closing, the echo of boots against hardwood.
Then the window creaks open, and Jason pokes his head out, eyebrows already arched.
“You lost?” he asks.
Tim shrugs. “Hungry. Figured you might be too.”
Jason eyes the bag. “Is that bánh mì?”
“Bribery,” Tim says, holding it out. “Also, there’s a taro doughnut in here with your name on it.”
Jason hesitates. Then opens the window fully and climbs out onto the fire escape, squatting beside Tim like it’s nothing, like they’ve done this a hundred times.
They haven’t.
It feels like they should have.
Jason takes the bag and the coffee, sets them between them on the metal grate, and leans back against the brick wall.
“Do I even want to know what you were doing at the hospital today?”
“Watching,” Tim says quietly. “Not spying. Just…seeing.”
Jason chews slowly, thoughtfully. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
Tim nods. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Then, carefully: “Why?”
The rain falls softly around them. The kind of drizzle Gotham never bothers to notice. It paints the streets in watery neon, hums against the metal railing.
Tim says, “Because I think I knew a version of you once, and I wanted to know if that version was real.”
Jason doesn’t move.
Tim keeps going. “I thought you were all sharp edges. And fire. And damage. I liked that, by the way. I admired it. Still do.”
Jason looks away.
“But then I saw you under a car,” Tim says, voice quieter now, “and laughing with Ash, and helping a girl tie her shoe with one hand while holding a wrench in the other. I saw you reading to kids who adore you. Who light up when you walk in the room.”
Jason’s throat bobs. He doesn’t speak.
“And I realised,” Tim says, “that I don’t know half of you. And I want to.”
Jason stills.
The only sound is the rain hitting the fire escape.
Finally, Jason says, “You’re not supposed to want that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not the kind of guy you want.”
Tim blinks at him. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve met Bruce.”
Jason huffs. But it’s faint, fragile. “I’m serious, Tim.”
“So am I.”
Jason shakes his head. “You don’t get it. The kids—you saw me with them one day. You don’t know the nights I’ve had. You don’t know what I’ve done to people who’ve hurt them. You don’t—”
“I do,” Tim says. “I do, Jay. I know your file. I know your history. I know what you’ve done. I know what you haven’t said.”
Jason’s jaw tightens.
“And I still—” Tim cuts himself off. Swallows.
Jason turns slowly to face him, expression unreadable.
Tim lets out a shaky breath. “I still want to know you. Not the file. Not the myth. Not Red Hood. You.”
Jason doesn’t say anything.
Tim half-expects a punchline. A deflection. A sarcastic insult and a retreat through the window.
Instead, Jason just leans his head back against the brick, closes his eyes, and says softly, “You’re gonna break my heart.”
Tim laughs—quiet, disbelieving. “You’re already breaking mine.”
A long pause.
Then Jason tilts his head toward him and opens his eyes.
There’s something raw in his expression. Something vulnerable.
“No one ever showed up like this before,” he says.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Jason watches him.
Then—hesitantly, almost like he doesn’t trust himself—he reaches out. His fingers brush Tim’s, slow and uncertain.
Tim catches his hand.
Jason doesn’t pull away.
Neither of them says anything else. They just sit there in the rain, fingers tangled, the city spread out below them.
Jason's coffee goes cold. The taro donut gets soggy.
Neither of them cares.
Jason doesn’t invite him.
Not out loud.
But when Sunday rolls around again, he texts Tim at 7:58 a.m.
[Jay]: Leaving in 9. Bring coffee. You’re reading today.
Tim stares at the message for a full thirty seconds before bolting upright, shoving on jeans, and cursing as he trips over a cord on the way to his shoes.
He stops for coffee on the way. Extra cream for Jason. Black for himself. A pastry bag with mini doughnuts in case Jason tries to pretend he doesn’t eat sweets, even though Tim knows he does.
Jason meets him outside the hospital. Same hoodie. Same bag slung over his shoulder. But his mouth curves in a quiet smile when he sees Tim, and Tim feels it like an arrow.
“Morning,” Tim says, offering the cup.
Jason takes it. Their fingers brush. Neither of them comments on it.
“Don’t screw up storytime,” Jason says, nodding toward the building. “These kids have high standards.”
“What if I get heckled?”
Jason smirks. “You will.”
The long-term care floor is brighter than Tim remembers. Murals stretch over the walls—hand-painted constellations and climbing vines, cartoon dragons and astronauts. It doesn’t smell like bleach today. Just crayons and graham crackers.
The moment Jason steps into the common room, the kids explode.
“Jay!!”
They swarm him like a tiny stampede. He drops to one knee, catching one of the twins under the arms and spinning her in a circle. Another girl throws a toy car at him. A boy signs something excitedly—you came back you came back you came back!—and Jason signs back: always.
Tim stands in the doorway, stunned all over again.
He knew Jason was good with kids. He didn’t realise Jason was beloved.
A nurse sees him staring and laughs. “He’s a hero here. Don’t tell the tabloids.”
“I won’t,” Tim murmurs. “Promise.”
“Jay said someone new was coming. You’re Tim?”
He blinks. “Yeah.”
She nods. “The kids’ll like you. But you’re not getting out of reading.”
“I figured.”
“Pick a book. And get ready for sass.”
It’s The Gruffalo.
Jason hands it to him with a grin and a wink before plopping down among the kids with zero ceremony, legs stretched out, one kid already sitting on his foot like a toadstool.
Tim clears his throat. “Okay, uh…this one’s about a mouse. Who lies a lot.”
“Like you,” one kid offers.
Jason snorts. “Told you.”
Tim glares at him and opens the book.
It’s surprisingly easy. The kids heckle, interrupt, and demand voices—Tim does his best—and Jason backs him up with occasional sound effects and increasingly dramatic gasps.
They laugh. A lot.
Halfway through, Jason pulls the smallest girl onto his lap and lets her “help” turn the pages. She leans her head on his chest like it’s the safest place in the world.
Tim has to look away for a second.
When the book ends, the kids cheer. One of the twins throws a crayon and hits Tim in the neck.
Jason beams like a proud stage mom.
“You did good, Replacement,” he murmurs, bumping Tim’s shoulder.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Of course I am. You’re finally seeing the good part.”
Tim doesn’t ask what the good part is. He already knows.
Later, after snacks and board games and a surprisingly heated round of Uno where a six-year-old declared herself “Queen of Draw Fours,” Tim follows Jason into the hallway while the kids are distracted with colouring books.
“They love you,” Tim says softly.
Jason shrugs. “They love anyone who sticks around.”
“Yeah, but you know them.”
Jason leans back against the wall, expression fond. “Yeah. I do.”
“You remember all their names. You know who likes space stories and who gets sleepy after applesauce. You even remembered Lexie can’t handle loud noises, so you turned off the toy siren before she came in.”
Jason shifts, a little uncomfortable now. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is.”
Tim steps closer.
Jason watches him, guarded but not pulling away.
“You could’ve picked anything,” Tim says. “You could’ve disappeared. Vanished. Stayed angry forever. But you didn’t.”
Jason’s voice is low. “Didn’t mean to be anyone’s hero.”
“You are anyway.”
Jason exhales, slow and shaky. “They don’t see the blood.”
“They see what matters.”
Silence stretches between them. Then Jason says, almost too softly to hear:
“I like when you see it, too.”
Tim’s heart trips over itself.
“I do,” he whispers. “I see all of it. And I still want more.”
Jason’s hand brushes his, hesitant.
Tim laces their fingers together without hesitation.
Jason doesn’t let go.
Tim’s there the next morning before Jason even unlocks the garage.
Jason finds him leaning against the side of the building, hood up, nursing two coffees.
“You’re early,” Jason says, key in hand.
“You’re welcome,” Tim replies, holding out the second cup. “One cream, two sugar.”
Jason takes it, bumping their knuckles as he does. “This is a bribe.”
“Obviously.”
Jason unlocks the door and steps inside. “What’s it for?”
Tim follows, kicking the door shut behind them. “You. Letting me stay.”
Jason glances back at him over his shoulder. “Didn’t say you could.”
“You haven’t said I couldn’t, either.”
Jason grunts. “Dangerous logic.”
Tim grins and sets down the doughnuts he brought. “Let me help with something greasy, and I’ll consider us even.”
Jason mutters something about pushy sidekicks but doesn't protest when Tim slips on a spare pair of gloves.
They’re elbow-deep in a Frankenstein of a 1967 Impala when things start to shift.
The car belongs to a retired GCPD officer—keeps breaking down in the same six ways, and Jason mutters about fixing this thing “more often than I sleep.” But he’s focused. Comfortable. Grease on his jaw, sun catching in his eyelashes, sleeves rolled and sweat gathering at his collar.
Tim hands him a wrench without being asked.
“You’re getting good at this,” Jason says, surprised.
Tim shrugs. “I watch you.”
Jason pauses.
Tim pretends to be invested in a bolt.
“You mean that in a stalker way or a domestic way?” Jason finally says.
“Yes.”
Jason laughs. Full and bright and unguarded.
Tim’s heart does something stupid in his chest.
Later, during a break, they sit on the hood of an old Crown Vic in the back lot with cold sodas and sun on their backs.
Tim stretches, arm brushing Jason’s, and says, “You like this place.”
Jason nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Jason stares across the lot. “Because I get to fix things here. With my hands. On my terms.”
Tim watches him.
Jason doesn’t look at him when he adds, “I spent so long destroying things. Being something people were afraid of. This—” He gestures vaguely at the garage. “This gives me something real.”
“You’re not just what you were trained to be, Jason.”
Jason huffs. “Don’t get philosophical with me now.”
“I mean it.”
Jason finally looks at him. “You always mean it.”
“And you always pretend you don’t hear me.”
Jason’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “I hear you, Tim.”
It’s not just an admission. It’s a shift.
Tim looks down at their hands—close but not touching.
“You could hold my hand,” he says lightly.
Jason blinks. “That a request?”
“It’s a suggestion. With consequences if ignored.”
Jason chuckles and nudges their knuckles together. His fingers twitch—then slide into Tim’s.
They sit like that for a while.
Quiet. Tangled.
The radio plays some old Springsteen song from inside the shop. Someone honks on the main road. The engine they were working on ticks as it cools.
Jason squeezes Tim’s hand once and says, “I didn’t think I’d get this again.”
Tim leans into him, shoulder to shoulder. “What?”
“A second chance.”
Tim smiles, soft and sure. “Good thing I’m bad at letting things go.”
It starts with a question Tim doesn’t mean to ask.
They’re sprawled on the garage roof after hours, watching the skyline bleed orange and lavender across the Gotham smog. There’s an oil-stained blanket between them, a half-eaten sandwich between them, and Jason’s booted feet crossed at the ankle, relaxed in a way Tim rarely sees.
The city sounds distant here—muted sirens, humming streetlights, someone arguing with a cab driver two blocks over. The garage below is silent. It feels like their own little world.
Tim looks at the stars—faint, scattered, barely visible behind haze—and says, without thinking, “Do you ever miss it?”
Jason blinks at him. “Miss what?”
“Being Robin.”
Jason doesn’t answer immediately.
Tim hears the moment it shifts—Jason’s breath hitching, something in him going still.
The silence stretches.
Then Jason says, “You first.”
Tim hesitates. “Yeah. I miss it.”
Jason turns his head, watching him.
“I miss being certain,” Tim says softly. “I was so sure back then. Of the mission. Of my place in it. I wasn’t happy, but I was…clear.”
Jason hums. “That’s the trap.”
“What is?”
“That kind of certainty. It feels like safety, but it’s just a cage with better PR.”
Tim’s quiet. He doesn’t disagree.
Jason tips his head back to look at the sky again. “I miss some of it. I miss the rush. The way it felt to matter. To mean something.”
“You still do.”
Jason lets out a low breath. “Not like that.”
Tim shifts closer. “What part do you miss most?”
Jason’s voice is low. “The hope.”
Tim turns his head, startled.
“I used to believe we could save everything,” Jason says. “Even Gotham. Even me.”
Tim is silent. Then: “You did.”
Jason looks at him. “You’re not saying that just to be nice?”
“I’m saying that because it’s true.”
Jason laughs under his breath, bitter and soft. “You always did try to make sense of impossible things.”
“I’m still trying with you.”
Jason stills.
“I know I’m not what you expected,” Tim continues. “I know I was never your Robin. But I looked up to you, Jason. I still do.”
Jason doesn’t speak.
“You were this myth. This legend I couldn’t touch. And then you came back and I realised you weren’t a ghost. You were real. Angry. Messy. Brilliant.”
Jason exhales slowly. “I wasn’t ready for how much you saw.”
“I saw everything,” Tim whispers. “And I still wanted more.”
Jason looks at him then. Really looks.
There’s no helmet between them. No weapons. No need for silence or smirks.
Just Jason.
And Tim.
And the yawning distance between grief and something like love.
Jason shifts, sitting up straighter. “Tim.”
Tim leans in, close enough to feel Jason’s breath. “Yeah?”
“I’m—terrified,” Jason admits.
“Me too.”
Jason’s hand finds Tim’s again. Slower this time. Certain.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Tim murmurs. “Not to me.”
Jason hesitates.
Then he leans in, and this time, there’s no hesitation. No smoke. No fire. Just soft lips, a shaky inhale, and Tim’s fingers curling in his hoodie like he’s anchoring them both.
The kiss is slow. Quiet. Something built, not stolen. Something earned.
When they part, Jason’s eyes are wide and unreadable.
Tim smiles, breathless. “You okay?”
Jason swallows. “Yeah. Just…didn’t think that would feel like home.”
Tim brushes a thumb along his cheek. “It is home.”
Jason leans into the touch.
And for the first time in a long time, he believes it.
Jason doesn't answer Tim's text that morning.
Which—okay, that happens sometimes. He disappears, ghosts the group chat, radio silence until he storms in mid-fight with a crowbar and a bad attitude. But this silence is different. This one has weight.
Tim checks the hospital volunteer logs. Jason never signed in.
Something in Tim’s gut goes cold.
He’s already grabbing his jacket when the alert hits his phone: a pediatric ICU lockdown at Gotham General. No outside access. Patient crisis. Security sweep in effect.
Jason’s name doesn’t appear anywhere, but Tim’s already halfway to the hospital.
The lobby is chaos.
Families are gathered in corners, nurses on phones, a child is crying near the front entrance. Tim ducks past security with fake credentials and a practised smile, slips into the staff stairwell, and heads straight for the long-term care floor.
The moment he steps into the hallway, he knows.
Jason’s here.
The air is heavy—charged. A nurse brushes past, whispering to a colleague, “—he wouldn’t leave. Said she wouldn’t wake up alone.”
Room 12B.
Lexie.
Tim’s heart sinks.
He finds Jason in a chair beside the hospital bed.
Lexie lies curled beneath a mass of blankets, IVs taped gently to her hand, oxygen tube nestled beneath her nose. Her little crown is sitting on the bedside table, smudged and glittery.
Jason’s hoodie is damp from sweat or rain or both. His hands are clasped, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the heart monitor like he can will it to beat more steadily.
He doesn’t turn when Tim enters.
Tim steps quietly beside him. “Jay.”
Jason doesn’t look up. His voice is raw. “She seized last night. Didn’t wake up.”
Tim’s breath catches. “They think she’ll recover?”
“They’re not sure.”
Silence.
Tim kneels beside the chair, gently places a hand on Jason’s knee. “You didn’t tell anyone.”
Jason shrugs. “What was I gonna say? ‘Hey, one of the only people who looks at me like I’m not a monster might die today’?”
“You’re not a monster.”
Jason still doesn’t look at him. “Tim—”
“You’re not.”
Jason's jaw clenches. “You don’t know what I did. What I’ve done.”
“I don’t care.”
Jason finally turns toward him. “You should.”
Tim stares at him—really stares. Sees the fear in his eyes, the grief clamped tight in his shoulders, the way his hands are trembling just slightly.
“I care about you,” Tim says. “All of you. Even the parts you think no one should see.”
Jason shakes his head, too fast. “I can’t lose her.”
“You won’t,” Tim whispers. “But even if—if something happens—you don’t have to go through it alone.”
Jason’s voice cracks. “I don’t know how to do that.”
Tim cups his face, thumb brushing the stubble along his cheek. “You don’t have to know. Just let me stay.”
Jason closes his eyes.
And leans into the touch.
Hours pass.
They sit together in silence, Lexie’s monitor a steady rhythm in the background.
At some point, Jason dozes off, head on Tim’s shoulder, hand still holding Lexie’s. Tim watches over them both, heart aching with something too big to name.
When Lexie finally stirs—small, quiet, blinking blearily—Jason jerks upright, breath catching.
“Jay?” she croaks.
Jason leans over her immediately, voice breaking. “Hey, princess. I’m here. I’m right here.”
She lifts a weak hand and signs: Scary dream. But I came back.
Jason laughs, soft and shaking. “You always do.”
Lexie’s eyes drift toward Tim. She signs slowly: Your boyfriend?
Jason snorts, eyes still wet. “Maybe.”
Tim grins, brushing a thumb over the back of Jason’s hand.
Lexie signs: He’s cute. Keep him.
Jason looks at Tim and says, with all the certainty in the world: “I plan to.”
When the Batfamily finds out, it’s not even Tim’s fault.
Blame Alfred.
Because Alfred, after weeks of Tim “working odd hours” and Jason “suspiciously showing up clean-shaven for dinner,” invites them both to the same Sunday meal with carefully arched brows and two too many place settings.
Dick’s the first to catch on.
He doesn’t say anything when Jason drops a kiss on the top of Tim’s head in the hallway. He just pauses with a plate of steamed vegetables halfway to the table, slowly rotates like an old security turret, and says:
“Okay. I knew something was going on, but I thought it was emotional repression, not domestic cohabitation.”
Tim chokes. Jason drops his forehead against Tim’s shoulder with a long, martyred sigh.
Cass simply signs, Finally, and hugs Tim from behind.
Damian says, “I suspected. Drake has been smiling like an idiot.”
Steph yells, “CALLED IT!” from three rooms over.
Bruce, unblinking, looks between them and says, “You’re happy?”
Jason freezes. Tim watches him closely.
Jason’s voice is quieter than usual. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Bruce nods. “Good.”
And then takes a sip of tea like it didn’t just shake the foundation of their entire dynamic.
After dinner, Jason lingers in the garden.
Tim finds him seated on the low wall behind the greenhouse, backlit by fireflies, arms resting on his knees.
“You okay?” Tim asks, settling beside him.
Jason nods. “It’s just weird. Letting it be real.”
Tim brushes their knees together. “It is real.”
Jason glances at him. “Feels like I’m stealing it. Like I don’t get to keep things like this.”
Tim reaches over and gently takes his hand. “You do now.”
Jason looks at their joined hands. At Tim. At the future hanging in the humid Gotham air like a storm waiting to break.
“I didn’t think I could have both,” he says. “The blood and the softness. The fire and the…light.”
“You’re allowed to be more than one thing, Jason.”
Jason’s voice is low. “That’s what you always saw. Isn’t it?”
Tim smiles. “Yeah. It is.”
Jason presses their foreheads together. “Thank you for seeing it. For seeing me.”
“Always,” Tim whispers.
They sit like that, fingers intertwined, heartbeats steady.
Not broken. Not hiding.
Just Jason.
And Tim.
More than one thing.
More than enough.