Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   “Hey.”

   Red Robin didn’t flinch, but he wanted to. It was jarring to have the constant numbness cut clean through by a single word.

   Or, more accurately, the voice that said it.

   Red Hood landed on the roof nearby, all weight, no grace. (He was very capable of moving like a feather; Red Robin had witnessed this firsthand. What was the fun in that? Better to scare the shit out of your enemies.)

   Red didn’t have many shits left to give, but the footsteps treading towards him, each one like the heavy painful beating of his own heart, sent little shivers down his spine. (It had been three years since the Tower. Hood didn’t hate him anymore. Probably.)

   “What are you doing?” the mechanized voice growled, and Red suddenly remembered that he was balancing over a ten-story drop.

   He looked up from the empty street blow. (Better than a busy road, because if the public spotted one of their vigilantes splattering to the pavement, they would probably panic, no matter how little-known the vigilante in question.) Hood was standing a few yards away, well out of reaching distance. Red couldn’t read anything past the neutral chrome helmet, but he didn’t want to.

   “What,” Hood repeated slowly. “are you doing?”

   Red looked away, disinterested. The gray numbness had crept back in, all-encompassing. “I don’t know.”

   Hood moved closer; Red could feel it. He wondered if he should take a step forward. A step back. The decision would probably be made for him, one way or another, if he didn’t act soon.

   “You’ve wandered pretty far from the nest,” Hood spoke again, closer. That wasn’t the helmet this time… That was Jason’s voice. Quiet. Concerned. (A trick.)

   “You don’t have a grapple,” Hood was pointing out.

   Red glanced down at his belt. “I do, actually.”

   “Actually,” Hood shot back. “It’s not in your hand--- First red flag--- and it’s old; I can see the cracks from here.”

   Red huffed a sigh, looking back over the skyline. He had to fix it. One of many on the long list of tasks, growing by the hour, that he’d never catch up with…

   “It’s easy to grab damaged tools on a bad night, yeah?” Hood pressed on, annoyingly insistent. “If it jams or breaks on the job, it’s not your fault, right? It’s an occupational hazard.”

   Red felt an uncomfortable lump lodge in his throat. “Why do you care?”

   “I don’t. That would just be a shitty way to die after everything… else.”

   Red couldn’t help the bitter laugh that scraped at his throat. “After everything else? You mean getting kicked out of my own home? Rescuing Batman by the skin of my teeth with no backup? Or are you referring to the Tower?”

   The air itself seemed to flinch. “I apologized for that.”

   “You really need to move on, Hood.” Red looked down, shifting his weight. The balls of his feet pressed against the gravelly ledge. His cape floated gently behind him, helping to keep his balance. He wondered if it would slow his fall.

   “Kid,” Hood repeated urgently. “Tim.”

   Red’s weight faltered, catching with the barest jolt along his spine. He rocked back onto flat feet. “Names.”

   “Kid… listen.” Hood was closer now. “I know it hurts. I know you’re in a real shitty place right now.”

   Red stared down at the ground, willing himself to move. Why was it suddenly so hard to tip forward? He had a grapple. (And if it broke…)

   His chest hurt.

   “I know I’m probably the last person that should be doing this,” Hood continued quietly, stepping up to Red’s side. “and I don’t have anything to say that’ll make it better.”

   “An apology would be a good place to start,” Red found himself muttering.

   “I’m sorry.”

   It wasn’t cathartic. Red felt some measure of surprise, though, when he heard it. He hadn’t really expected an apology. (He hadn’t expected an answer at all.)

   “You’re gonna throw yourself off,” Hood told him. “and you’re gonna forget to pull out your damaged grapple. And I’m gonna jump after you, grab you around the waist on my way up, cause my grapple actually works. And it’s gonna hurt, and you’re gonna be pissed--- more than you already are--- and you might try again next time. And I’m just gonna have to keep following you. And as much fun as I would have busting your ribs every night, I get the feeling that that situation is not gonna work long-term.”

   Red’s eyes stung. “Why do you care?”

   “Alternatively,” Hood pressed on, ignoring Red’s repeated question like the veiled assumption it was. “we could make a deal.”

   Red finally looked up. Hood wasn’t wearing a domino. This was just… Jason. (And his eyes weren’t green.)

   The older vigilante scowled. “Give me ten years.”

   “… Ten?”

   “Ten.”

   Red heaved a sigh, trying to breathe around the crushing weight in his tight chest. “That’s a long time.”

   “It sure fucking is.” Hood tugged a glove off, offering his hand. “Give me ten years to help you out, make this right. We’ll check in yearly. If it doesn’t get better… If you can’t make it better… maybe we’ll reconsider the whole rooftop thing. Arrange a fight you can’t win. Make a day of it.”

   Red felt a scoff in the back of his throat. “I don’t wanna survive that long.” And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

   “Yeah, well, tough shit. You did it once; you can do it again.” Hood flexed his fingers, keeping his hand out. He didn’t step closer. (He could have.) “I’ll help this time.”

   Red stared down, considering. Ten years was… a long time. This deal benefited no one, really, besides Hood’s peace of mind. Still… There was nothing that said the deal couldn’t be renegotiated. There were always loopholes, if the gray came back; if he couldn’t do it.

   And he’d never made a deal with his Robin before.

   Tim reached out, grasping Jason’s hand, and sighed. “Okay… ten years.”

Chapter Text

   “Hey.”

   Tim jumped hard enough to knock over his coffee. Almost. Only quick reflexes saved the precious sustenance from tipping over the edge, and he cursed as it slopped onto his hand. Ouch.

   “Sorry,” Jason chuckled quietly, not sounding very sorry at all. He poked his head through Tim’s cracked window. “How’s the leg?”

   Tim set his coffee on a coaster, grabbing a hoodie from the back of his chair to mop up his hand. He gave Jason his best imitation of Batman’s glare. “You’re the reason it’s broken, asshole.”

   “Yeah,” Jason admitted sheepishly. He hauled himself through the window, which should have been far too small an opening for that much man, but somehow, it worked. “I’m--- Okay, I really didn’t mean to. It was--- It was your leg or your life.”

   “If you had chosen differently, it wouldn’t be hurting,” Tim bristled unhappily. He tilted the screen of his laptop, waving his hand. “Get outta here. You’re the worst.”

   Jason plopped down on his nearby beanbag, sighing. “You got any candy?”

   Tim lobbed a half-empty packet of Skittles at his brother’s head. Jason had enough goodwill not to dodge.

   “What do you want?” Tim asked grouchily when the silence filled with the solitary sound of munching.

   Jason tapped one boot against the leg of Tim’s chair. “It’s our anniversary, Timmers.”

   Tim made a face, turning to offer another glare. “Gross, which one? You shot me last year, is that it? Oh, no, maybe your first apology.”

   Jason emptied the rest of the candy into his mouth, crinkled up the bag, and threw it at Tim’s eye. He pouted when he missed. “Ass. You didn’t wanna live last year.”

   Tim leaned back in his chair, puffing a sigh. “I--- Oh. Oh.”

   “Yeah. Oh.”

   “I forgot.” Tim rubbed a hand over his face, abruptly exhausted. “Not much has changed.”

   “Bullshit. You’re not working a six-feet-under shift at WE anymore, are you? You’re not patrolling.”

   “That’s---” Tim threw the wadded trash back, insulted. “That’s your fault!!!”

   “Okay.” Jason held his hands up, the epitome of innocence. “Yeah, that’s my bad, but you’re alive, aren’t you?”

   Tim tossed his hands up, spinning his chair to face the open window. It was supposed to let in the fresh air, apparently. Cass had dropped by the Nest earlier to tidy up, and Tim hadn’t bothered to close down everything she’d left open. It was a little chilly as the sun set. The Million Dollar Question, obviously, was about the convenience of shutting the window versus simply grabbing a hoodie.

   The hoodie he’d used to mop up spilled coffee.

   Jason’s foot tapped against the foot of his chair with annoying repetition, but his voice gentled when he spoke. “Still don’t wanna live, huh?”

   “Existence isn’t all that,” Tim answered grumpily, spinning his drawing pen. “Why do you care?”

   “Stop asking that,” Jason complained wearily, flopping his head back to stare once more at the ceiling. “I thought we were cool.”

   Tim tapped his pen against his cheek, absent. Yeah, sure, Jason was in good form. He’d joined Red Robin’s patrols, and sometimes even the longer missions that required going dark. He left super encrypted messages in the server that inevitably said “Don’t 4get to eat” or “Go 2 sleep” whenever Tim managed to hack into them. He dropped by with groceries when Tim went too long stuck in his apartment, and crashed in the guest bedroom with loud complaints whenever he’d sustained a particularly nasty injury. He always said it was because he was avoiding the Batcave, but they both knew it was because he’d gotten lonely. Or maybe Tim had gotten lonely.

   “Yeah,” he finally answered, blinking the suspicious burning from his eyes. “we’re cool.”

   “So?”

   “So? What do you want me to say, Jason? Living is just… peachy.”

   “Look, I know you’re still… you’ve got this weird… solo thing going.” Jason sat up straighter, a strange solemnity to his tone. “Red Robin doesn’t really belong to any one team, and look, I get that it seems better that way, but teamwork really does make the dream work.”

   Tim scoffed at him. “Says the black sheep.”

   “I have a team,” was the immediate protest. “You should join us.”

   “Jason,” Tim groaned wearily. “No.”

   “You don’t even think about your answer before saying that, Timmers. Our resident genius is me. C’mon. We need someone with actual braincells.”

   “Bold of you to assume I have any.”

   “We need someone who’s good at pretending to have braincells.” Jason scooted closer, a sly grin on his otherwise serious face. “Our outfits are red, baby bird. You’ll fit right in.”

   “Okay, first of all, incorrect--- Kori wears purple.” Tim shook his pen. “Second of all, this is the fourth time you’ve asked, and the answer is no.”

   Jason threw himself back into the beanbag with a petulant scowl. “You just like being a martyr. Fine. See how far the lone wolf act gets you. I’ll be here when you inevitably run out of groceries. Again.”

   “Do you---” Tim glanced at the window, annoyed all of a sudden by the chill seeping into the apartment. It was truly dark out, now. “Do you live anywhere, or is this the only roof you’re able to get over your head?”

   “Money can’t buy everything, Timmers.”

   “ALSO incorrect.” Tim reached for the window. “Go hang out at your super secret HQ with your super great team, then, if they’re so awesome.”

   Abruptly, the chair’s weaker leg toppled, and Tim kicked out his weak leg with a yelp. Before he could land on the cast, Jason yanked the chair back, righting it.

   “Whoa,” he muttered breathlessly, heart hammering.

   Jason leaned over to pull the window shut, then rested a hand on Tim’s shoulder. It was heavy. Warm. “Just think about it. We’re only a year in, and there’s always room for one more.”

   “Yeah.” Tim stared at his laptop, trying to ignore the feeling of hope that sparked in his chest. “Just one more.”

Chapter Text

   “Hey. Stay with me, bud. Redwing. Tim. Fucking--- breathe.”

   Redwing’s chest jerked, and he rolled over, retching onto cold rock.

   “Thank God,” Hood’s voice muttered, shaky. Someone thumped his back. “Hang in there, buddy--- I got you. Breathe.”

   “Great---” Red coughed weakly, sitting back on his butt before dizziness could send him back down. “Great--- advice. I’ll just…”

   “You’ll shut the hell up is what you’ll do.” Hood crouched next to him, pressing two fingers against his carotid artery.

   “You scared him,” Arsenal’s voice called from the black cave behind them.

   Red batted weakly at his brother’s hand. “Did we do it?”

   “We blew up the damn ship, if that’s what you mean.” Hood sat next to him, leaning against the wet wall. “We’re kinda stuck, though. The explosion sent more toxic oil into the water than our weapons’ expert predicted; the only thing that saved us humans was this… this underwater cave in the shelf.”

   “And I lost my rebreather.” Red closed his eyes, attempting a laugh. It sounded more like a gargle, so he stopped, wincing. “Sorry.”

   “Do not be sorry,” Starfire gently scolded, sitting criss-cross in front of them. The only light in the cave came from her glowing hair, now soaking wet, and her green eyes. It would have been a nice ambiance, really, with the reflected water patterns coming from the cave’s entrance.

   Y’know. If they weren’t busy dying.

   “Nada,” Arsenal reported with a huff, crawling into the dim ring of light from the darkness beyond. “It only goes back for like ten feet. We’re officially stuck.”

   “No,” Redwing protested quickly. Another coughing fit pushed at his chest, and he leaned over his knees, trying to breathe. “You’re--- not stuck. Get---”

   “First of all,” Hood told him, grouchily thumping his back again. “I’m not leaving you, dumbass; it’s our anniversary. Second of all, the pirates are lookin’ for our bodies outside; if only some of us leave, they’ll come looking for the rest. You’d be cornered.”

   Red sat back against the wall, groaning. “If you don’t stop calling it that, the deal is off.”

   “Anniversary?” Arsenal plopped down at Hood’s left, grinning. “What’re we celebrating?”

   Hood shoved at his friend’s face, grunting. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

   “You have just turned twenty,” Starfire protested softly in a tone that made Redwing’s chest hurt. (More.) “You can not possibly give up to this.”

   “Yeah, she’s right,” Arsenal put in. He crossed his legs, making a show of settling into his seat. “Just kick it. They’ll go away if we wait it out. Then we can share rebreathers on our way to the surface.”

   Redwing felt a smile pull at his face. If only it were that simple. There was the toxic oil to account fore, however, on top of the pirates. “Do we have any signal?”

   “No.” Hood rested his arms on his knees. “I already tried to contact Bats against my better judgment. Nada. Still, we’ve been through worse. This is nothing.”

   “I guess.” Red knocked his head back against the wall, puffing a sigh. “Ow.”

   “What is it?” Starfire leaned forward, pressing a hand against Red’s chest. Oh. Had he been falling over? Her hand was warm.

   Red swayed dizzily. “Hurts.”

   Hood cursed something Arabic, pulling Red back with one arm around his waist. “Where?”

   “Everywhere.” Red tried suppressing the shivers. “Chest.”

   “You just drowned,” Arsenal muttered sympathetically. “so that tracks.”

   Red tried to flip him off. The world was kinda spinning, so his aim was off.

   Hood patted his shoulder, one arm still around his side. “A for effort, kiddo. We’ll get you outta here.”

   “I’m not a… toddler…” Red tried to shrug the arm off to no avail, huffing. “I’m fine. Just get out---”

   “Damn,” Arsenal muttered derisively. “Do all of you have the survival instincts of a wet paper bag, or is it just the angsty middle children?”

   “Yeah, yeah, keep digging.” Hood’s side-hug tightened. “Reckless only child.”

   Starfire cocked her head. Her hair was beginning to dry, poofing up to its regular glowy volume. It was a little mesmerizing, actually. “What are middle children?”

   “There’s a behavioral pattern to birth order,” Arsenal explained cheerfully. “Middle children are… shall we say…”

   “I feel like we’ve had this conversation,” Hood tried to interrupt. “Wasn’t it when---”

   “--- problematic,” Arsenal finished tactfully. “or extremely overlooked.”

   “I’m only child,” Red muttered against Hood’s soaked shoulder. “So’re you.”

   “Legally, we are adopted middle children,” Hood admitted sourly. “Which has nothing to do with---”

   “I am not an only child,” Starfire put in happily.

   “Kori…” Arsenal leaned forward, grinning. “You are the most polite middle child I have ever had the fortune to meet. These idiots however---”

   Red lost track of the scuffle for a moment. He heard a shout. It could have been Arsenal getting wedgied. Hard to say, really.

   “We’ll get a cake,” Hood’s voice said, distant. “Kori’s great with frosting--- She can pipe something cool across the top. ‘Congrats, you survived another adventure with the Outlaws.’”

   “Mph,” Red muttered intelligently. He pried his eyes open. “How long was I…?”

   “Just a few seconds.” Hood’s fingers pressed against his neck, staying there. He sounded casual. His body-language said otherwise.

   “Drowning’ll take a lot outta you,” Arsenal pointed out. (Helpfully.) He crouched by the entrance, peering through the murky water like he’d be able to see down the long tunnel to the open ocean. “You think they’re gone?”

  “I will check.” Starfire got up.

   “No, you’re our only source of light.” Arsenal shucked his bow, dropping into the water. “And, coincidentally, rather noticeable in all this gloom. Be right back.”

   Starfire settled back down, and Hood knocked his head back against the wall. Red stared at the soft orange glow on the wet rock, counting the seconds. It was… sort of nice. Sure, they were practically fighting for their lives, trapped hundreds of feet below the surface, but---

   The water exploded, and Arsenal clambered back into the cave, panting excitedly. “They’ve changed their direction; let’s go!!!”

Chapter Text

   “Hey.”

   Tim surged awake, a knife leaving his hand before his eyes had even opened. The yelp had him pausing with the second knife, blinking confusedly in the half-lit gloom of the Batcave.

   The intruder raised his hands, eyes wide. “Holy shit Tim.”

   “Sorry.” Tim dropped the knife back to the Bat-Computer’s console, sighing. “Nightmare. Sorry.”

   “You almost got my eye,” Jason griped under his breath, but his body-language relaxed as he approached, leaning against the back of the chair. “What are you working on? Did you fall asleep? Seriously? This is the most uncomfortable chair---”

   “I’m just finishing up.” Tim closed a few tabs, sitting straighter in said uncomfortable chair. He opted to ignore the second question. “Today is admin work.”

   “How long have you been down here? You should---”

   “I don’t know, Jason, okay?” Tim snapped before he could think better of it. He took a deep breath, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I don’t know. I’m just… working. Can I help you?”

   “Tim.” A gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

   The computer screen blurred in front of him. Tim clenched his hands on the keyboard, trying to blink his vision back to normal. “It’s not a big deal.”

   “Except I made it a big deal,” Jason argued quietly, unbearably soft. “and then I wasn’t here. And I’m sorry.”

   Tim swiped his hand across his eyes, throat thick. “It’s really no big deal, Jay. I mean, I decorated the Nest, and I got your favorite drink, and Roy’s, cause it’s safer to get drunk at home than in a shady bar, right? And I invited Dick--- I know you guys are weird, right now, but--- he was there. And, y’know, complications happen. I get it.”

   The hand tightened on Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose telling you that said complications involved getting trafficked halfway across Asia with alien moon people in order to take down the leader of the ring would make it hurt any less.”

   “No.” Tim heaved another sigh, finally shutting down the computer. “It doesn’t. I really do get it, though. It’s just an age. Not a big deal.”

   “Better late than never, right?” Jason helped him out of the chair, one hand on his elbow, one on his back. “I’m here now, and so’s Roy. I heard Dick got benched with an ankle injury. Let’s wake him up.”

   Tim blinked blearily, trying to make out Jason’s face in the near-darkness. “Right… now?”

   “Yeah, why not? You’re still twenty-fuckin’-one, and I’m guessing those drinks haven’t gone anywhere. Besides, you could use the sleep.”

   “I thought we were gonna get drunk.”

   “We are. You’ve never gotten drunk; you’ll be a lightweight. Sleep like a baby.”

   “Hardy har har.” Tim shoved Jason’s shoulder on his way to the elevator. “We’ll see about that. You sure you wanna do it now? It’s, like, two… three…”

   “It’s three twenty-five, and yes, I’m sure.” Jason shoved his shoulder back, hopping towards the stairs. “It’s not just your birthday we’re celebrating--- race you!!!”

   Tim stared after him as the doors closed, bewildered. Only when they opened into Bruce’s study did he connect the dots. “Oh. The stupid anniversary.”

   “Damn… straight.” Jason leaned over, panting. “I won.”

   Tim rolled his eyes, closing the bookcase behind him. “Yes, Jay; the mechanism hasn’t gotten any faster since the last time you raced it.”

   “So? Win’s a win.” Jason picked up a marker, making a tic under his name on the paper stuck to the bulletin board. There were a few other things up there--- Damian’s last note from school about graduating early from high-school, a handwritten thank-you from Lucius, even a drawing that Tim suspected was one of his. And the stupid racing scoreboard, of course. Jason was first with Damian in close second. Neither of them had ever had any chill. Ever.

   Jason’s steps softened as they crept through the nearly dark hallways. It may have kept them from waking Alfred, but Damian’s door was open, and he poked his head out with a scowl when they passed. “Quiet. Grayson is sleeping.”

   “No, I’m not,” Dick called grumpily from the next room over.

   “Why?” Tim couldn’t help asking, watching with some amusement as Jason marched in, turned the light on, and yanked the blanket on the bed to dump Dick on the floor.

   “Don’t feel like it.” Dick flipped up with one foot, a grin spreading across his face. “Little Wing!!!”

   “Yeah, yeah, welcome back an’ whatever.” Jason shoved Dick’s face away when he got too close, but Tim could tell he’d made an effort to be gentle this time. “Get dressed; we’re getting shitfaced.”

   “What--- oh. Yeah, just let me---” Dick fumbled around his ruined bed for a shirt. “The Nest?”

   “Yeah… the decorations are still up. It’s vital that we celebrate right this minute, apparently.” Tim kicked self-consciously at a pile of clothes. “… You’re a slob.”

   “I’m injured,” Dick corrected as he shoved on some boots, hobbling dramatically. “Look at me. I can barely walk.”

   “C’mon.” Jason slung Dick’s arm over his shoulder, gruff.

   “He’s faking,” Tim protested as he followed them out.

   “He is not faking,” Damian snapped at them, throwing a schoolbook at Jason’s chest. “Put him back.”

   “Okay, first of all, rude.” Jason bent over, slinging their yelping older brother over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “Second of all, this doesn’t concern you, brat--- It’s elderly only.”

   Bruce stepped into the doorway of the lighted kitchen, blinking. “What’s going on?”

   “Okay, I take it back.” Jason made a face, marching past. “Middle-aged-elderly only.”

   “I’m not that old,” Dick mourned in a slightly muffled voice.

   Tim slid after them, wincing at Bruce. “We’re celebrating my birthday, I guess. Sorry about the kidnapping.”

  “I’m not being kidnapped!!!” Dick called from the front hallway.

   “Yes you are!!!” Damian slung back, looking like a pissed cat beneath his bedhead.

   “Okay,” Bruce answered in bewilderment. “Have… fun.”

   “Oh, don’t worry,” Jason shouted smugly. “we will.”

Chapter Text

   “Hey” the text read.

   Tim blinked at it, lowering the brightness of his screen. The time stamp stared back at him, mocking--- twelve oh-one AM. It was almost eleven at night now. Tim had seen the text when it came in, had accidentally marked it as read before resolving to wait. Surely there was more to it than a flat “Hey”. There wasn’t even any punctuation. Surely…

   Tim had gone to work with Lucius at five, taken a short lunch at one, attended two press conferences at three and three-thirty, then, at nine, had gotten off just to head straight to his new ratty HQ on the outskirts of the Narrows, where he’d written up two reports for his files before spending an hour on a three-month-old piece of casework. He’d grabbed food on the way home. A hot dog, because chili dogs reminded him too much---

   Still--- nothing. No followup text. No elaboration. No “How are you” or “I’m sorry I ghosted Gotham” or “Good job keeping my territory intact while I was off blowing steam”. Not even a “Hey, I’m sorry for hitting you that one time when the Pit got the better of me. And that other time during training when you told me to stop.”

   Nothing but a simple “Hey”.

   Tim shucked his messenger bag in the front hallway of his still-empty penthouse apartment, and then his jacket. He had to pause for a minute, mustering up the willpower to bend over, pick up said items, and put them on hooks. Then, deciding it wasn’t worth it, he just moved on into the kitchen. His pre-filled water bottle greeted him next to the sink, so he grabbed it on his way through. (He didn’t like hesitating in here. This was possibly the emptiest room of all. At least the other spaces had moving boxes still stacked against the walls.)

   Tim phlumped down into his worn futon, huffing a sigh. There was a good view from up here. Obviously. Y’know, if one cared to look.

   He nursed his water bottle, peering down at his screen. He should answer, probably. Jason hadn’t texted in… hell, six months, probably. A long enough time that some of the anger had faded away, replaced by an aching emptiness.

   No one had understood quite like Jason did.

   “That doesn’t sound like abuse, exactly,” Kon’s voice played in his head. “I guess… I dunno. Sometimes there’s this… fire… inside. This restless impulse to--- throw hands. To make someone hurt like they hurt you. It’s like whatever happened to you, it made you too strong. And sometimes it just… leaks out. And you wish you could take it back.”

   “That’s definitely abuse,” Steph’s worried voice overlapped. She’d been much less… chill… when Tim had asked her advice. “If someone is hitting you when you don’t deserve it, Tim, that’s… Okay, maybe he didn’t mean, it, but…”

   Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. Jason had shit to go through, to heal from. They’d all been forced, through many years of crime-fighting, of heartbreak, to become good at coping. At pressing everything down. Everyone had a limit, though, and Tim supposed that dying, being raised from the dead, being trained by assassins and thrown into a pool of evil green Kool-Aid probably counted, in some universe, as a pretty hard limit. To some people.

   “What are you doing, Jason?” he muttered, fingers hovering over the keys. He wasn’t an idiot--- He knew the past few months hadn’t been personal. (It still hurt. It still scared him, sometimes, to think of those glowing green eyes. To wonder that, if Roy hadn’t been there the third time---)

   Typing bubbles popped up on Jason’s side of the screen, and Tim’s focus instantly sharpened. He watched for what felt like two minutes before the bubbles faded away. Returned a minute later. Faded. Disappeared.

   Tim waited fifteen minutes before finally tapping out a message, then staring it down. “Hey”, it said; just a confirmation of life, right? “What do you want” sounded too forward, and “I miss you” was definitely true, but definitely off the table on account of feels-factor. Still… Sending “Hey” sounded almost just as offensive as it had been to receive it.

   His phone pinged as he hesitated, and he blinked at the message at the bottom of the screen. “I can see you typing”, it read.

   A snort pushed from Tim’s throat, and he shook his head, sending the offensive “Hey”.

   “Happy anniversary” the responding text pinged, almost immediate.

   Tim stared at it, wheels turning. When it hit him like a sack of bricks, he thumped his head back into the futon, groaning. Okay, of course, of course. It all made sense now.

   He raised his phone, texting above his head. “I see how it is. No hello for my birthday, but for the stupid anniversary, here u are.” A little harsh, maybe, but… Jason knew his texting voice. Probably.

   “Srry” pinged back. The bubbles floated for almost a full minute before stopping. Then, “I’m sorry”.

   Tim hesitated for a minute, rubbing the edge of his phone with his thumb. This… This was already huge. Five minutes without fighting, without ghosting. From either of them. Maybe… Maybe he should. Try.

   So maybe he hadn’t hit Jason, not physically, but it took two to tango.

   Slowly, he typed out “Me too” before sending it. Then, faster, “I miss you”.

   The answer was almost immediate, this time. Like Jason had just been waiting, or maybe needed the push. “Cn we start ovr?”

      Tim took a deep shuddering breath. That was the question, now, was it? Jason could have died, probably, and Tim would never have known. Or, at least, not for a long time. What was the point of a cold shoulder if you were breaking your silence just to check in on whether someone was still living?

   And… and yet…

   Tim stared at the earlier texts. “Hey”. “Happy anniversary”.

   Tim kept forgetting. Jason never did.

   … “Yea.”

Chapter Text

   “Hey.”

   Tim huffed in annoyance, rolling over. It cost supreme effort. Worse, it didn’t get him away from the intruder’s irritating voice.

   “Timbo,” said voice murmured, and a strong hand gripped his shoulder, rolling him back over.

   Tim bared his teeth, batting through hazy vision in hopes of actually hitting something. “Go’way.”

   “There he is.” A bare hand pressed against his forehead. “You’re burning up--- How long have you been here?”

   “Mph.” Tim leaned into the touch. It was pleasantly cool. “Since… bust…”

   “The kryptonite bust?” The thumb, which had been rubbing at Tim’s frown lines, stilled. “You--- baby bird. That was three weeks ago.”

   “I know.” Tim sighed loudly, trying to turn over again. His body felt so heavy. “M… tryna get bet’r.”

   “Yeah, well, you’re failing. Shit, this place is a dump--- You could have called someone, Tim, dammit. A tiny apartment only five blocks away from the edge of Gotham isn’t gonna very conducive to recovery. What do you have? Flu? Pneumonia?”

   “Cold.”

   “Yeah, no, this is not that. It may have started as--- but you don’t have a spleen. God damn it.”

   Tim just hummed. The voice sounded angry. Maybe it would go away if he stopped responding.

   “Can we move him?” someone else muttered.

   “I don’t want to, but… we should. There’s puke in the toilet, nothing in the fridge, and these sheets are…”

   “Jason Todd everybody, the germophobe.”

   “Shut up Harper. How did you get here?”

   “I sure as hell didn’t drive a minivan. You want me to call Kori? ETA five minutes, another three to your safehouse on Fifth.”

   “Yeah--- do that. Hey.” The hand stroked through Tim’s grimy hair, bringing blissful pressure with it. “When was the last time you drank any fluids, kiddo?”

   Tim leaned into the touch, greedy. “Uhm… last… night…?”

   “Did you take any after you threw up?”

   “A bit?”

   “Damn.”

   Tim frowned when the hand left, trying to breathe around the pain in his chest. Some part of him felt guilty for this. The larger part, though, wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be guilty about.

   Strong arms suddenly picked him up, and Tim gasped as warmth suddenly shot through him. His head thunked onto a shoulder that radiated heat.

   “I have him,” someone’s voice murmured over his head, smooth. “I will see you there.”

   Something sus happened with the gravity, and then wind began whipping past. It was cold, so Tim nuzzled closer to the warmth carrying his body, tense.

   “You have greatly worried us, Tim,” the smooth voice spoke. It sounded relieved. “I am happy that you yet live. Jason was beginning to skip rest times, and food.”

   Tim hummed into her shoulder. He didn’t really have an answer for that. Guilt whispered through his aching chest, though, so maybe he should apologize.

   Gravity stopped being weird a few minutes later, and Tim blinked. He was in another apartment. This one was noticeably warmer, and hey, look at that--- lighting. Furniture. Someone lived here, obviously.

   The warm arms set him down, and his vision swam. The next time his brain started working, he was holding onto the edge of a tub whilst wriggling into swim trunks. What the hell? Why was he--- This was freezing.

   Someone knocked on the closed door. “Are you done, Tim?”

   Tim glanced down at his shivering frame, making a face. “Yea.”

   He didn’t hear the door open, but someone gently grasped his shoulders, helping him into the bathtub. He sucked in a breath as sharp warmth hit him, making his toes tingle.

   “I know,” someone soothed, and something about that tone…

   “It’s okay, kid,” a younger voice soothed. “Just grab my hand; I’ll haul you up. No, leave the--- Okay, you’ve got your camera, now grab on.”

   Tim sighed as the warmth covered his entire body, pulling him down.

   “Oh no you don’t.” The hands pulled him back up, propping him against cold porcelain. Tim’s whine of protest did nothing, but it didn’t matter a second later when the hands began massaging soap through his hair.

   “How is it, Timbo?” the kind voice asked, distant. “Good?”

   “Mmm… yea. ‘s good.”

   “Good. I’m going to rinse now. Keep your eyes shut.”

   Tim allowed himself to drift, humming happily when the massage continued. It felt so good. So… clean. He barely noticed when a rough washcloth wiped down his chest, arms, and back, or when a softer cloth rubbed at his face, erasing his dried tears.

   “Hang onto me,” the voice eventually told him, and Tim did, blinking blearily as he was dried off. A bundle of clothes was thrust into his arms, and someone sat him down on the cold toilet lid. “You get dressed; I’ll be right outside, okay?”

   Tim nodded numbly. The hands left, and the door shut. He wriggled out of the swim trunks. The new clothes were better. Soft. Big.Too big for him, actually, but he couldn’t figure out---

   “I got it.” Larger hands batted his away, tying the sweatpants tight, then guiding his right arm through the hoodie, because Tim had gotten confused halfway through that part. Then they guided him out of the bathroom, sitting him down on a much nicer bed. “You’re gonna eat until you can see the bottom of this bowl, alright?”

   Tim focused very hard on handling the spoon. It was soup. Warm. Yummy. Someone else held the bowl, but that was fine. He didn’t have much dignity left, anyway.

   “Good,” when the food finally disappeared. “Here, now this.”

   Tim took the water bottle in shaky hands, grumpily drinking half before flopping backwards. He landed among cushy dust-free sheets. Mmm. Nice.

   Someone laid down next to him, tucking the blankets in before hugging him close. Tim buried his nose into the borrowed hoodie, breath catching, because it smelled just like--- “Jay?”

   “I’ve got you.” A large hand rubbed circles into his back, and a chin pressed gently into his hair. “…Happy anniversary. Sleep.”

   Exhausted, but finally safe, Tim did.

Chapter Text

   “Hey,” Tim whispered absently, adjusting the lens of his camera. “Stop… moving.”

   The subject--- a type of large iridescent beetle--- did not stop moving. He was on a mission, it seemed, to get as far from Tim as possible.

   Which… okay… fair. Tim hadn’t come to this park at the crack of dawn to practice his photography skills, however, just for some irritating bug to ruin it. So he shuffled closer, adjusting the lens again until the subtly shiny colors were once more in focus. Click.

   The beetle scuttled off under some leaves. Tim huffed a sigh, glancing up at a rustling noise to see---

   “Hi,” Jason greeted quietly, grinning as he approached. “I thought I’d find you here.”

   Tim sat back on his heels, giving his brother a once-over. Scruffy morning stubble, windswept hair, and a simple t-shirt beneath his leather jacket. Not to mention the bedhead. It was a ridiculously domestic look, and Tim couldn’t help an answering grin. “I thought you were still in Cuba.”

   “Yeah, well, some things must end early. Even therapist-appointed vacations.” Jason sank down to the dew-soaked grass at Tim’s side, holding out a flat black box. “Plus… y’know… happy anniversary.”

   Tim huffed a laugh, sitting criss-cross. “You flew back early looking like a badger dragged out of his den before spring for this? I hate you.”

   “Aw, don’t be like that.” Jason shoved at Tim’s shoulder. “Everyone looks like this at six-fuckin’-AM ‘cept you, creep. What time to you get up to look this put together? Four? Three?”

   “Five,” Tim huffed back, taking the proffered box. “Early birds are always so freakishly happy. I got curious.”

   “You even had time to shave your little baby hairs.”

   Tim rubbed his smooth chin, absent, then glanced at Jason’s. “Can’t say the same for you, obviously.”

   “Ass. At least I can grow one.” Jason shoved his shoulder again lightly. “C’mon, open it.”

   “You never got me a present before,” Tim protested as he untied the white bow. “Is this because of the leg?”

   Jason glanced down at Tim’s right leg--- Still in a flexible brace--- and grimaced. “No, but maybe it should be.”

   Tim paused his unwrapping, glancing up. “I was joking.”

   Jason looked away with a grunt.

   “Jay.” Tim slapped his brother’s knee, worried now. “I was joking. It wasn’t your fault.”

   “Yes.” Jason finally made eye-contact, faint green snapping in his irises. “It was.”

   Tim glared the idiot down. “You saved my life. We were crashing; no one ever knows how to drive a fuckin’ alien spaceship. If you’d hesitated even a fraction of a second, that shrapnel would have---”

   “Shhhhhhh,” Jason suddenly interrupted, flicking a finger to Tim’s lips. (The finger trembled.) “No need for specifics.”

   Tim gently pushed Jason’s hand down. “I’m here. I’m okay. That’s your fault, not the stupid leg injury.”

   “I can’t seem to stop saving your life at the cost of your legs,” Jason muttered ruefully, but there was a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth. “You… do look good, though.”

   “I feel good.” Tim glanced up at the filtered sunlight, catching sight of his beetle a few yards away. It was crossing the old bike path. Good for you, buddy. “Steph an’ I, we talked. Being on my back for so long gave me… I dunno… a new perspective. Just cause I can’t patrol right now, or maybe ever again, doesn’t mean my usefulness is up.”

   Jason scoffed under his breath. “Usefulness---”

   Tim shrugged one shoulder. “That was another thing. Maybe I don’t have to be ‘useful’, either. Maybe I can just… do this. Photography competitions and weekends with Dick and nature walks with Damian.”

   Jason glanced up, smiling in a surprised sort of way. “Every time I leave the country, baby bird, you change.”

   Tim made a face before the conversation could get any sappier. “Listen, it still sucks to get out of a chair. D’you know how hard it is to stand up?”

   Jason rubbed his face, groaning. “Just open the damn gift, Tim.”

   Tim obligingly pulled the lid off of the box. Inside was a piece of paper, a contract, it looked like. A fancy pen was nestled beneath it.

   Tim peered at the words. “I, Tim Drake-Wayne, do hereby relinquish all rights to yeet myself--- to the below signed, Jason Peter Wayne---” He glanced up, incredulous. “Jay. Seriously?”

   Jason gave him an unrepentant grin. “You’re a man of your word, Timbo. I’ve never seen anyone that takes paperwork more seriously.”

   “I’ve lasted this long,” Tim protested weakly, laughter bubbling in his chest. “There are only three years left, dumbass. This is so--- You’re so extra.”

   “I never claimed to be otherwise.” Jason tapped the paper. “Read the fine print before signing. I hear that’s important.”

   Tim bent back over the paper, studious. He tried not to get emotional as he read through it. Smirked instead as he clicked the pen, signing his name next to Jason’s. “Sap.”

   “I’m invested in you staying alive,” Jason protested pompously, reaching over to take a picture with his phone. “There. Now, if you do any dangerous yeeting before age twenty-eight, I get to sue you.”

   Tim closed the box to keep the paper safe--- He was totally gonna frame it in his new R&D office at WE--- and smirked. “What would you take if you won?”

   “Collateral.” Jason shrugged casually, pocketing his phone. “Your fancy-ass car. Your new motorcycle, maybe.”

   Tim gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

   “I’ve dared much worse.” Jason stood up, dusting himself off, and offered a hand. “C’mon, Mr. early bird. B is riding my ass about getting you home for a late birthday trip.”

   “That was Alfred’s idea,” Tim protested automatically, but he took the hand, allowing his brother to pull him up as carefully as if he were a newborn. “I’m guessing you rode your bike.”

   “Obviously.” Jason stuck his hands in his pockets, ambling down the trail. “I’ll let you wear the helmet if you act nice.”

Chapter Text

   “Hey,” a quiet voice greeted.

   Tim didn’t bother looking up. He’d learned to expect this by the seventh year. Now, on the eighth, it was due once more. Admittedly, though, he hadn’t expected Jason to follow him into a cemetery.

   The older man stopped a few feet to Tim’s right, shoving his hands into his pockets. He was silent as he stared at the gravestone in front of them.

   “Janet Elizabeth Drake,” Tim finally read aloud, tone flat. “Shining Entrepreneur, Beloved Wife.”

   Jason didn’t say anything. A moment later, rain began to pit-patter from the grumpy sky overhead. Because of course it did.

   Tim bent down, removing the dead flowers from the vase, then replacing them with a fresh bouquet of white daffodils. “These were her favorites. She grew a prize bush in our greenhouse, and she always got so upset when I went inside without permission. Dad installed a lock on the door.”

   Jason finally spoke, and there was something indescribably soft about his voice. “Why did you keep going in?”

   Tim shrugged one shoulder, standing up. “I dunno. Maybe for attention. I was little.” He paused thoughtfully, eyes on the date. “She loved me, y’know. I don’t think Jack did, much, but Mom…”

   Jason shifted his weight. “She wasn’t very good at it.”

   “No.” Tim reached out, resting a hand on the tombstone’s ledge. “Some people weren’t meant to have children. Still… she tried.”

   “No doubt.” Jason’s hand rested on the nape of his neck, heavy and grounding. “What are you doing here?”

   Tim shrugged again, halfhearted. “I missed my usual visit this year. I figured today was… fitting. Maybe she’d be proud of me, y’know? For making it this long.” A smile pulled at his lips. “Or maybe she would have just told me to straighten my collar.”

   “She would’ve had a point. Your collar fuckin’ sucks.” Jason’s hand tightened, gently steering Tim around. “You want a hug?”

   “I’m gonna get one anyway, aren’t I,” Tim returned dryly, voice muffled as he was shoved against a broad shoulder.

   “Maybe.” Jason squeezed him tight, easing out the tension in Tim’s spine with the persistent pressure of a linebacker. “Hugging skills are courtesy of Dickiebird.”

   “Mhm.” Tim allowed himself to be squished, pressing his forehead into the crook of Jason’s neck. It was safe here, which was honestly a cheesy thought, but a true one. No one was ever able to diffuse all of his tension quite like Jason. “How’s the team?”

   “Good. Kori is busy getting Roy to take a fuckin’ nap, but y’know.”

   “Being benched is really getting under his skin, huh?”

   “He won’t stop building little arrows that turn into infiltration spider bots.” Jason’s voice edged with desperation. “He says that’s your fault, by the way, so I’m here to blackmail you into blackmailing him to knock it the hell off.”

   Tim chuckled soundlessly, letting Jason hold up his weight. “You’re scared of spiders, Jason?”

   “Aren’t we all?”

   Tim suppressed a shiver. “Point. What’re you doing here? Don’t you have, like, a huge issue with graveyards?”

   “Eh.” Jason finally pulled away, jerking his head towards the entrance. “I thought I’d visit a few friends, see the sights, ask what’s changed. Y’know, being dead an’ all.”

   Tim smirked as he followed, picking his way carefully around the rows of burial sites while Jason just made a straight beeline for the gate. “You can talk to ghosts, now?”

   “I always could.” Jason glanced back, wiggling his eyebrows. More of his hair had turned white, Tim noticed, in the two months of too-busy-to-meet-up-ness. “You’re like the best detective on the planet, Timbo; please don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out.”

   Tim made a thinking face, shoving his cold hands into his pockets as the rainfall picked up speed. “What, you mean the fact that my brother can so totally communicate with the dead? Yeah, of course I picked that up. Obviously. Please don’t tell me you brought your bike.”

   “Oh, even better.” Jason gestured broadly as they finally emerged onto the road. “I stole Bruce’s GT1 Strassenversion.”

   Tim eyed the silver car with the beginnings of trepidation. “That’s a race car, Jason. You’re gonna get pulled over. What’ll you tell them when they ask for your license?”

   “Uh, that being raised from the dead gives you unlimited driving rights? And it’s not a race model; this one’s safe for the streets, Timmy.” Jason opened the passenger door, gesturing grandly. “Besides, they gotta catch me first.”

   Tim scraped his soles against the grass before gingerly getting in. “Dick pulled you over just last week.”

   Jason made a face as he got into the driver’s side, turning the car on, then cranking up the heat. “He told you about that?”

   “He told me that you had three patrol cars after you before he managed to corner you, yeah.”

   “Killjoy. My brakes were broken.”

   “What’s Bruce’s wrecked Porsche have to say about that? Now you’re driving a faster model?” Tim buckled up. “Why are you even allowed in the manor anymore? Thief.”

   Jason grinned broadly, gripping the steering wheel. “Stealing hearts since nineteen eighty-three.”

   “Wrong on all counts.” Tim braced a hand against the low ceiling, making his best version of a pout. It was probably adorable, too, considering he’d put on some healthy weight whilst limping around on one half-working leg. (Sunken cheeks tended to throw off one’s look.) “Please don’t pass ten above.”

   “Twenty.”

   “Fifteen.”

   “Deal.” Jason grinned widely as they eased back onto the road, making a show of his best attempt at the speed-limit.

   Tim relaxed as their speed increased gradually instead of all at once. “Where are we going?”

   “I dunno. Where do you wanna go?” Jason patted his pocket. “I’ve got a couple thousand bucks to spend today, my treat.”

   Tim smiled in amusement. “You don’t have to spend a bunch of money, Jay. Lunch at Batburger is fine.”

   Jason gave him a glare. “Sucks to suck. Now pick somewhere to blow all this cash.”

Chapter Text

   “Hey,” Tim protested hotly, raising his bag of Spicy Hot Cheetos as far above his head as he could make it. “Hands off the snacks, dude. Get your own.”

   “He ran out,” Kon called from the couch, mouth full of marshmallows. He tipped his head back to give Tim a grin that stretched the scar across his mouth. “You need to threaten him with bodily harm to fend him off; that's what I do.”

   “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Tim reluctantly muttered, still fending off the tall lanky speedster at his side with an elbow to the ribs. Bart had him in height, but he was remarkably ticklish, and it was this fact that Tim used to his advantage. He aimed for Bart’s raised armpit, and the younger vigilante hissed, zooming out of sight.

   “No powers on movie night!!!” Cassie yelled from the kitchen. She heaved a sigh, approaching the conversation pit with a tray of steaming drinks. “I’m sorry, Tim. He’s been ornery all week. Late nights with Flash’s kids, apparently.”

   Tim imagined a couple eight-year-olds speeding around like the owned the place, wincing. “I don’t mind. Honestly. After my experience, it’s better to be stuck without powers. Use ‘em all you want; I won’t get jealous.”

   “Here here,” Kon enthused with, still, a full mouth, this time of popcorn. “Powers royally suck. What are we watching?”

   “Nothing with drowning, please,” Cassie sighed mournfully, taking a seat at the foot of the couch with her veggie fries.

   Tim glanced at Kon, wrongfooted, and the half-asleep half Kryptonian shrugged. Carefully, Tim ventured, “Bad mission this week?” as he filled his water bottle in the kitchen sink.

   Cassie made a grimace. “Bad enough that not everyone could be saved.”

   “No coffee,” Kon called sharply.

   Tim turned around to flip Kon off, because it was only water, he wasn’t drinking caffeine this late at night, but he made the mistake of lowering his Cheetos to do it, and with a whoosh, they were gone.

   His water bottle started overflowing.

   Tim cursed under his breath, a string of French expletives that were far more satisfying than English. He closed the cap before drying his hand. (So much for the chips.) “I’m sorry, Cassie.”

   “It’s okay.” She smiled bravely as Tim walked back in. “It happens, right?”

   “It happens,” Kon reassured gently, mouth finally not-full.

   “It does.” Tim sat on the couch behind Cassie, settling criss-cross before pulling her golden waist-length hair into his lap. She handed him the hairbrush over her shoulder. “I wish it didn’t.”

   “There’s always retirement,” Bart put in cheerfully, zooming back in, dropping two bags of Cheetos by Tim’s side, then taking a seat in the middle of the floor with an armful of his own snacks. “You could take a load off, like Tim here.”

   “He has a reason,” Cassie pointed out delicately.

   “I still help,” Tim retorted mildly, running the brush through Cassie’s hair in slow methodical strokes. “You would have been lost in the dark on that recon mission last month if I hadn’t jumped in to help.”

   “Hey,” Kon spoke up. “Why don’t you brush my hair, Tim?”

   Tim gave his friend a flat look as Bart doubled over in laughter. “Maybe, Kon, if you grew your hair out past a fuckin’ crew cut---”

   “Language,” Jason’s voice called happily.

   “FUCKING HECK---” Bart yelped loudly, sending his open M&Ms flying with the force of his jump.

   Kon stood up, bristling. “What are you doing here?”

   Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not a good time, Jay.”

   “Not a good time? It’s your anniversary, baby bird.” Jason strode into the room with a grin, jacket half-bloody, boots muddy. He raised a reassuring hand when Tim opened his mouth to ask. “It’s not mine.”

   “What do you want?” Cassie asked warily, sitting straight.

   “Guys, he’s chill.” Tim slid off the couch, walking over to give his brother a rough hug. “But c’mon man, seriously? The Tower?”

   “Yeah, why are you here, speaking of which?” Jason squeezed Tim a little harder than strictly necessary, tone too casual to be casual. “Aren’t you too old to play with the kids?”

   “Raven’s still here,” Cassie protested in the background. “and she’s, like, seventy-hundred or something.”

   Tim pulled away, but when Jason moved to grip the back of his neck, he allowed it. (Grounding himself or me?) “Every once in a while, the place clears out for a mandatory alumni visit. We get the run of the place for twenty-four hours.”

   “Yeah?” Jason quirked a half-smile. “I’m---”

   “Technically allowed then, yeah,” Tim realized at the same time, smirking. “You finally admit how old you’re getting?”

   Jason tossed his half-white hair, scoffing. “I will forever look this handsome, kid. I got you something.”

   Tim took the bloody package very gingerly. “What is it, someone’s head?”

   “Which anniversary are we talking about?” Kon asked suspiciously.

   “We didn’t miss his Robin one,” Cassie put in hurriedly. “Right? Right.”

   Tim gave Jason a warning look, but he was completely ignored as the older man said loudly, “What, you haven’t told your best friends?”

   “You’re my best friend.” Tim shoved his side, scowling. “Cut it out.”

   “He almost yeeted himself off a building, a while back,” Jason informed the others, merciless. “We celebrate the Day He Didn’t the same time every year. Which, why are you still surprised to see me, come to think of it---”

   “What?!” Cassie & Bart exclaimed in unison. Kon didn’t say anything beyond a wince. He didn’t need further context--- He & Tim had shared more dark secrets than they’d ever wanted to, once, both bleeding out on a mission seven years ago & thousands of miles away.

   Tim glared at Jason. “See what you did? They’ll be super overprotective now.”

   “That’s a bad thing?” Jason cuffed the back of his head, gentle. “Open your present.”

   Tim tore at the brown wrapping paper, trying to ignore everything else. He stared blankly at the jar of spleen that emerged, shocked. “No fucking way.”

Chapter Text

   “Hey.”

   Jason blinked at the ceiling, then squeezed his eyes shut with a heartfelt groan. Yeah, that sucked. No more light for a while. No thank you.

   Someone gripped his hand. Hard. “Can you hear me?”

   “No,” Jason grumped quietly, but he squeezed the smaller hand back. Tim, his half-dead brain supplied.

   “Oh my God.” Something plopped onto the edge of the bed, and Tim’s usually level voice gave out. “Oh my God.”

   Jason tried once more to open his eyes. It only partially succeeded. “The fuck is wrong?”

   Tim stayed sitting with his face planted into the sheets of Jason’s--- cot? He waved his hand in a lazy circle, as if trying to come up with the words. Or maybe coaxing Jason’s.

   Oh. Oh fuckin’ shit.

   “Yeah,” Tim’s muffled voice spoke, as if reading Jason’s mind.

   “I died,” Jason croaked out, floored. “Flatlined.”

   “Scarecrow’s new toxin had some… unexpected side effects.” Tim still hadn’t let go of Jason’s hand. “I got to you as fast as I could. I don’t know how long you… weren’t breathing… by the time I…”

   “You performed CPR,” Jason realized with growing horror. That explained the distant but persistent pain in his chest. “Broke some ribs?”

   “I’m too small,” Tim muttered absently, still muffled. He sounded desperate. Pleading. “I didn’t weigh enough. I tried.”

   “You kept my heart going,” Jason clarified numbly. “All one-hundred eighty-five pounds of you.”

   Tim finally looked up, glaring, but angry tears were streaking his face. He hadn’t shaved, which was probably the most jarring part. Jason had always thought the kid had a “baby face”, but here he was, five-o-clock shadow & bloodshot eyes.

   Jay reached up, breath hitching. “I’m sorry.”

   Tim slapped his hand away, but he couldn’t seem to let go after that. His eyes flashed. “Every time I give you orders on a mission, every fucking time, you---”

   “Just cause you’re the Second of the Outlaws---” Jason broke off for a minute, coughing. “--- doesn’t mean you’ve stopped--- being my younger brother.”

   “God forbid you follow orders from someone with a little less experience,” Tim snapped at him, holding out a water bottle with a pink straw. “That’s really ageist, but I can’t say I’m not used to it. Drink.”

   Jason did so. He was probably too high to properly argue his point. Especially since, from nine out of ten angles, he was the one in the wrong. Still, that’s not what this was about, was it? Once he could speak, he muttered hoarsely, “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

   Tim set the water down, avoiding Jason’s eyes again. “Don’t apologize to me. You’re the one who almost---”

   “I wasn’t there,” Jason told him, harsh. “Tim. Look at me.”

   Tim looked up, barely, like a puppy that had just been kicked.

   Jason raised his hand again, and this time, Tim allowed him to touch his face. Jason cupped his brother’s cheek, stroking at the last of the tears. “I wasn’t awake. I was gone. Yeah, dying sucks, and my ribs hurt like hell, but besides that? I wasn’t there. I don’t remember. You’re the one who’s gonna walk away with nightmares, not me.”

   Tim’s expression crumbled, and he leaned over, pressing his face to Jason’s shoulder. His shoulders shook, but he didn’t make any noise.

   Jason rubbed his back, gentle. “I’ve got you.”

   “Stop comforting me,” Tim moaned miserably, sniffling. “This is so fucked up.”

   “Yeah,” Jason agreed quietly, because there was unfortunately nothing he could do about that part. “I’m still here, though, right? You saved me, you got there in time. And in a dumb heavy suit built to protect your leg, too.”

   Tim turned his head sideways, still resting against Jason’s shoulder. His hair was greasy, and it had gotten long again. Jason carded gentle fingers through it, hoping that the catch-all trick for traumatic flashbacks would work to soothe.

   It did. Tim’s breathing leveled out as he whispered, “Happy anniversary you asshole.”

   Jason frowned for a minute. When it hit him, he almost bolted up. Tim’s weight on his shoulder stopped him. “How did I forget?! It’s your tenth year, Timmy!!! You’re twenty-fucking--- nine?”

   “Eight.” Tim finally sat up, but he kept one hand on Jason’s shoulder to discourage movement. With the other, he wiped his teary face, then reached back to his seat, pulling up a fancy scroll with a flourish. “My ten-year contract has been fulfilled. It’s your turn, and karma’s a bitch.”

   Jason squinted at the paper for a minute before giving up. “I lost my ability to read with my second death, apparently. I’m guessing it’s another contract?”

   “This,” Tim said firmly, shaking the scroll in Jason’s face. “is a contract forbidding you from pulling any more death-defying stunts unless you are certain that the end-result will be you defying death. Additionally, you will be forbidden from entering any Class Ten fights without backup at least on the way, and you will need to report any injuries to me first if they range Level Three or above.”

   Jason stared at him, incredulous. “You’re shitting me.”

   “I thought you’d say that.” Tim tapped the paper. “That’s why I took the liberty of including benefits in the fine print. I just finished getting certified; I will be your official massage therapist for free for the duration of this contract, and for every completed year, you will receive a full upgrade to the Hood suit with fitting of all the newest gadgets from R&D, tailored to your tastes, of course.”

   Jason reeled for a moment, trying to process. Okay, having Tim’s services, beck an’ call? For FREE? Tim was a wicked good masseuse. “Tempting. How long is the contract?”

   Tim’s eyes glinted. “Ten fuckin’ years. Think you can handle that, partner?”

   Jason stared at Tim’s face, at the dried tear-tracks and the dark circles and the fiery light of brotherly love that Tim would never admit was there under these circumstances, and he sighed. “It’s doable. Let’s talk about those massages.”