Chapter Text
The ad had been simple. Plain text, printed with care on soft-cream cardstock, posted in a local caregiver agency’s bulletin.
> “Live-in carer required for young adult male with chronic illness. Must be able to cook balanced meals, assist with mobility, and provide companionship. No prior experience necessary. Room and board included. Salary generous. Background irrelevant. Contact: Timothy Drake, Drake Manor.”
Jason Todd saw the ad between jobs—legal and otherwise. The Red Hood had a trail of bodies to his name, some cold, some fresh. He wasn’t looking for salvation, just… breath. A break. He needed a job, something clean. This was clean enough.
He called the number. The voice that answered was smooth but tired. Youth threaded with weariness.
---
Drake Manor was quiet. Gated, but not in a showy way. Ivy curled over redbrick walls. A line of oaks flanked the winding driveway, yellow leaves tumbling like discarded thoughts.
Jason didn’t wear the helmet. Didn’t bring guns. Just a duffel and a decent jacket. The front door opened before he could knock.
And then he saw him.
Timothy Drake.
Wheelchair-bound. Thin—wiry-thin, like someone who hadn't seen real nutrition or sunlight in years. Dark hair, longer than Jason expected, unruly, and falling into tired eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Pale skin with a blue undertone. But the eyes—damn, the eyes. Something about them.
Jason didn’t believe in love at first sight. He’d taken too many bullets for that. But this? This was different.
Tim blinked slowly at the broad-shouldered man on his doorstep. “You’re early.”
Jason cracked a lopsided grin. “You’re quiet.”
Tim gestured inside. “Come in. Doors are hard to answer when you’re in a chair.”
Jason stepped in. “Jason Todd.”
Tim nodded once. “Timothy Drake. Most people call me Tim. I don’t care what you call me. Just cook things I can eat and don’t leave unless you say goodbye.”
“I can do that,” Jason said, dropping his bag by the coat rack. He scanned the foyer—marble floors, but scuffed. Not museum-clean. Lived-in. “You live here alone?”
“Yeah. alma retired, and the old carer… he’s in hospice now. Knew my mom. Loved her more than he should have.”
Jason followed as Tim wheeled into the hall. The chair was electric, quiet, efficient. On the stairs—an industrial stair climber buzzed to life and lifted him, slow and steady, to the second floor.
Jason kept pace, not speaking.
“You can have the guest wing or sleep in the spare room next to mine,” Tim said at the top. “Makes it easier if I need help at night.”
“You okay with someone staying that close?” Jason asked, genuinely.
Tim glanced at him. “I’ve been alone for most of my life. But I don’t like silence at night. You snore?”
“Only after whiskey and bad sex,” Jason quipped.
Tim didn’t laugh, but a corner of his mouth twitched. “No alcohol in the house. I don’t care if you have sex, just… keep it quiet. The walls aren’t thick.”
Jason nodded slowly. “Noted.”
They moved into a large living space—bookshelves full, a wide TV screen, a reading nook covered in blankets. It didn’t feel sterile. It felt his.
“You’re not what I expected,” Jason said finally.
Tim looked up from adjusting the hand control on his chair. “Because I didn’t ask for credentials? Or because I’m not foaming at the mouth from loneliness?”
“Because you’re... direct. Most people would’ve asked if I had a record.”
Tim’s fingers paused. “Do you?”
Jason shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Tim rolled away toward the kitchen. “I don’t care. You cook?”
Jason blinked. “Yeah. Pretty damn well, actually.”
“Good,” Tim said, his voice quieter now. “Breakfast is 8 a.m., lunch at 1 p.m., dinner before 7 p.m. Nothing fried. I don’t eat red meat. I have some… texture issues. I’ll write them down. I can eat on my own. Don’t try to feed me unless I ask.”
Jason followed into the kitchen—gorgeous, modern, clean. “Got it. You allergic to anything?”
“Peanuts, shellfish. And idiots.”
Jason smirked. “Guess I’ll skip the shrimp and play it smart.”
Tim didn’t smile back, but his tone softened. “You’re not what I expected either.”
Jason looked at him—really looked. The weakness in his limbs was visible now. His left hand trembled when he tried to pour water from a jug. Jason stepped forward without thinking and took it.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
Tim’s shoulders tightened—but he let go.
“ALD,” he said after a beat. “Adult-onset. Myelin’s basically gone. Everything’s harder now. Muscles don’t listen. Words get lost sometimes. I used to be good with computers. Not anymore.”
“I know what ALD is,” Jason said, quietly.
Tim blinked at him, surprised. “You do?”
Jason nodded. “I read. And I’ve seen enough bad ends to know how bodies fall apart.”
Tim looked at him for a long time. “Why did you answer the ad, Jason?”
Jason leaned back against the counter. “Because I needed something different. Something quiet. You don’t ask questions. And you’re not afraid of people like me.”
Tim wheeled away. “I’m afraid of dying alone and choking on my own spit. That takes up most of my fear quota.”
Jason followed him with his eyes. “You're not going to die alone, Tim.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
---
Later that night, Jason stayed in the room next to Tim’s. The bed was soft. Too soft. He wasn’t used to comfort. Gotham’s nights screamed outside, but in the Manor… it was quiet.
Tim’s voice crackled through the baby monitor on the nightstand. “Jason?”
Jason was up in a heartbeat. “Yeah?”
“I’m cold. Can you help me with the blanket? My hand… it won’t…”
Jason was there in two steps. Tim’s room was dim. He was curled half-under the covers, shivering slightly.
Jason tucked him in gently.
“Thank you,” Tim said, breath fogging in the air.
Jason paused. Then sat on the edge of the bed. “You good?”
Tim nodded. “Just… don’t leave, okay?”
Jason looked down at the fragile body wrapped in blankets. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he meant it. For the first time in years, Jason Todd felt the pull of something real. Not pity. Not charity. Just quiet, undeniable gravity.