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Jason Todd was an expert at hiding things.
Emotions. Reactions. History. The pain of dying. The ache of surviving. The goddamn mess of being back and breathing and never quite knowing what to do with his hands.
He wore detachment like a second skin, sarcasm like a weapon, and silence like armour. He was a mystery no one could solve unless he let them.
But apparently, apparently, all of that went to hell the second Tim Drake walked into a room.
Jason didn’t even realise it at first.
He was leaning back against the console in the Cave, arms folded, ignoring the intel report Bruce had handed out like he had better things to do (he always acted like that). There was a soft hum of background chatter—Steph teasing Damian, Dick trying to keep the peace, Alfred delivering tea.
And then—
Tim walked in.
Fresh from a mission in Blüdhaven, damp hair curling at the edges from the rain, black compression shirt clinging to his chest, expression sharp but tired. He was scrolling through something on his tablet, oblivious to the way the room shifted just slightly when he entered.
Jason’s heart did that thing. That quiet, traitorous skip.
He blinked. Swallowed.
And stared.
It was only for a second. Maybe two. But it was long enough for Cass—silent and ever-seeing—to tilt her head and watch him.
He forced himself to look away. Focus on the stupid intel packet. But it was already too late. The damage was done.
Jason noticed things. He couldn’t not notice things, especially when it came to Tim.
He noticed the slight tremble in Tim’s hands when he pushed himself too hard. The way his voice dropped when he was being careful, gentle. The precise edge of his smirk when he was about to say something sarcastic. The way he sometimes didn’t eat if he was distracted and forgot unless someone brought it to him.
Jason noticed the calluses on Tim’s fingers. The twitch in his jaw when he didn’t want to ask for help. The frown lines that were getting deeper. The new scar along his collarbone, barely visible unless you were looking.
Jason always looked.
And more than anything, Jason noticed Tim’s hair.
It was a ridiculous thing, a pointless detail. But every time Tim cut it—every time, no matter how subtle—Jason knew. He didn’t even mean to. It just… registered.
This time it was the sides. Barely cleaned up. Just enough of a trim to make it lie neater, to take the edge off the grown-out look he’d been sporting last week. The curls at his nape were a little shorter, the pieces over his ears more precise.
Jason stared, caught himself, and swore internally.
“You’re obvious,” Cass signed when no one else was looking.
He glared. “Am not.”
She smiled. Didn’t argue.
Tim was speaking to Bruce now, voice calm, analytical, and Jason—well, Jason had stopped hearing anything else.
It was getting worse.
He used to be able to fake disinterest. Used to be able to slip on a cocky grin and play it off like Tim was just another coworker in a cape. But lately?
Lately, Jason’s focus narrowed the second Tim was around. It was like gravity. Like need.
And no one had called him on it yet, but he knew the clock was ticking.
“—Jason?” Bruce said sharply.
Jason blinked. Realised the room had gone quiet.
Tim was watching him. So was Dick. Even Damian looked vaguely amused.
“Sorry,” Jason said, straightening. “Didn’t catch that.”
Bruce looked like he wanted to sigh through the floor. “We’re discussing recon for the Maroni case. Do you have input, or are you just here for decoration?”
Jason rolled his eyes. “I’ll run the East End sweep. Alone.”
Tim arched a brow. “You sure? Intel says they’re moving shipments out of Falcone’s old tunnels. Could use someone on your six.”
Jason’s chest clenched.
He wanted to say yes. God, he wanted it so badly it hurt. Tim on a mission meant quiet, efficient teamwork. Meant warm looks across rooftops, shared smirks over comms, and Jason letting his guard down in a way that should’ve scared him but didn’t.
But the last thing he needed was more time to stare at the curve of Tim’s mouth or the way his hair curled in the wind.
“I work better solo,” Jason said, tone clipped.
Tim didn’t react. Just nodded once, neutral and unreadable. But something flickered in his eyes.
Jason hated himself immediately.
Later, as the meeting broke up, Steph caught up to him at the elevator.
“So,” she said, nudging him with her elbow, “that was subtle.”
He frowned. “What was?”
“Oh, nothing. Just your entire face going gooey every time Tim opened his mouth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” She grinned. “We should start a betting pool. ‘How long until Todd cracks and kisses Tim?’”
Jason muttered something rude under his breath and jammed the elevator button harder than necessary.
She laughed all the way up the shaft.
Jason didn’t go home that night.
Instead, he found a rooftop halfway across town and sat in the rain, watching the skyline, letting the cold soak into his skin.
It was better this way, he told himself.
He couldn’t afford to let his walls down. Not really. Not again. Not even for Tim Drake, who made him feel safe and wanted and goddamn seen.
The thing was—Jason was good at hiding his feelings.
He just wasn’t good at hiding them from Tim.
And one of these days, that was going to be a problem.
Tim first notices the pattern when Jason stops making fun of him.
That sounds dramatic. Maybe it is dramatic. But Jason had always had a specific tone when it came to Tim—part teasing, part antagonistic, part you’re-too-smart-for-your-own-good, Drake.
And then, somewhere along the line… it just stopped.
Tim didn't register it at first. He was always focused during debriefs, especially with the League resurfacing and Gotham’s underworld rearranging its hierarchy every other week. But after the third time Jason let a snarky comment go unsaid—after the fourth time, he actually agreed with one of Tim’s strategy plans without sarcastic commentary—Tim’s brain did a double-take.
It was subtle. But Tim’s whole life was subtlety.
He started watching.
And what he saw? Confused the hell out of him.
Jason wasn’t distant, exactly. But he wasn’t biting anymore. He wasn’t brushing Tim off or rolling his eyes or calling him replacement under his breath. He was quiet. Steady. Weirdly attentive.
And when Tim caught him looking?
The look was never mocking.
It was something else entirely.
It got worse when they started patrolling together again.
Bruce insisted on rotating pairs after a string of high-risk weapons raids. Tim ended up assigned to Jason for three nights in a row, and if he hadn’t been paying attention before, he definitely was now.
Jason was… different with him.
He always had Tim’s back. Not just physically, but intuitively. He shifted to match Tim’s pacing during pursuit. He angled his body to keep Tim covered while watching doors. He anticipated questions before Tim asked them, flicking through weapons caches or intel feeds without needing prompting.
The trust wasn’t new.
The way Jason looked at him was.
Once, they took down three smugglers in a warehouse by the docks. Jason handled two with clean, brutal efficiency, but paused before landing the final punch. He glanced over his shoulder, not to check for backup. Not to warn. Just to see if Tim was watching.
And when Tim met his eyes across the warehouse, something soft flickered there.
It was gone in a second.
But Tim had seen it.
The next day, Dick corners him in the manor gym.
“Alright, Timbo,” he says, stretching his shoulders. “I gotta ask.”
“Ask what?”
“Are you and Jason a thing?”
Tim nearly drops the kettlebell.
“What?! No. No, of course not.”
Dick raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. So you haven’t noticed the way he looks at you like you personally invented oxygen?”
Tim stares.
Dick grins. “You have noticed.”
“I—I don’t—he doesn’t look at me like that.”
Dick hums. “Okay. Sure.”
Tim glares at him, heart hammering too fast.
Because the thing is—if Dick’s noticed, maybe others have. And if others have… maybe Jason’s not hiding it as well as he thinks.
Or maybe Tim just hasn’t let himself believe it.
The real breaking point, though, comes a few nights later.
They’re on recon again. Just the two of them, tucked into the shadowed scaffolding of a half-finished building, watching a gang meeting unfold below.
The target is late. The wait stretches longer than expected. Jason lounges like he was born for rooftops, legs dangling, gun holstered but ready.
Tim doesn’t know what makes him say it.
“Did you notice I got a haircut?”
Jason doesn’t look up.
“You trimmed the sides,” he says. “Cleaned up your neckline. Shorter behind the ears, too.”
Tim blinks.
Jason finally glances at him, mouth curling in that small, too-honest way.
“I always notice.”
The words land like thunder in Tim’s chest.
Jason turns back to the street before Tim can speak. His shoulders are stiff. Like he hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.
Tim watches him in the dark, pulse racing.
A pattern emerges.
A feeling deepens.
And Tim Drake starts to wonder—what if?
The night starts quiet.
Too quiet, in Jason’s opinion. He doesn’t trust quiet. Not in Gotham.
He and Tim are on stakeout duty in the Narrows, holed up in a condemned building across from an old club that’s recently become a trafficking front. The op is simple on paper: observe, gather intel, don’t engage unless necessary.
Naturally, it all goes to hell by hour three.
It’s the flicker of movement at the alley door that sets Jason on edge. The guard rotation is off. The trucks are arriving early. Something’s wrong.
He leans toward the comm. “Drake. Company.”
“I see it,” Tim replies, calm but sharp. “They’re moving fast. Faster than last time.”
They split up without needing to speak—Jason heading to the lower floors, Tim scaling the opposite roof for line of sight.
Jason hits the ground just in time to intercept two smugglers pulling crates from the truck. He takes them down fast—nonlethal, clean, efficient. He’s halfway through securing them when the blast rips through the air like thunder.
A shockwave. Close.
Too close.
“Red Robin—report,” Jason snaps, comm already active.
Nothing.
“Red?”
Silence.
Jason’s gut drops.
He doesn’t think. Just moves.
He finds Tim in the rubble of the second building—the rooftop he’d been watching from now half-collapsed, rebar speared through the concrete like broken ribs.
“Tim!” Jason’s voice is a roar, raw and too loud. He’s already tearing through debris. “Tim—”
Then—movement.
A coughing noise, shallow and painful, and Tim’s hand pushing weakly against a slab of concrete.
Jason gets to him in seconds, lifting chunks of wall like they weigh nothing, heart in his throat. Tim is bruised, cut across the temple, but conscious. Barely.
“You idiot,” Jason breathes, crouching beside him. “You’re such a goddamn idiot—why didn’t you say something—”
Tim blinks up at him, dazed. “You’re yelling.”
Jason laughs. It’s broken and bitter. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. You scared the shit out of me.”
He presses a hand to Tim’s shoulder to ground them both. He doesn’t notice he’s still touching him until Tim looks down at the contact.
“You okay?” Jason asks, voice lower now. Bare, unguarded.
Tim studies him like he’s never seen him before.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I think so.”
Jason lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. He brushes a bit of plaster from Tim’s hair, fingers trembling more than they should be.
“You’ve got blood on your face,” he murmurs.
“You always say that,” Tim replies, trying for dry humour. It mostly works.
Jason huffs. “You’ve always got blood on your face.”
There’s a pause.
Then, softer:
“You can’t do that to me again, alright?”
Tim looks up, startled.
Jason isn’t hiding it anymore. Not his voice. Not his expression. Not the way his hand lingers on Tim’s jaw.
Not the way his heart is showing, like an open wound.
Tim swallows. “Jay—”
A second explosion interrupts them—distant, unrelated, but loud enough to jolt them both back into motion.
Backup arrives a minute later.
Jason doesn’t say anything else.
But he doesn’t leave Tim’s side for the rest of the night.
Back at the Cave, after med scans and mission reports and Bruce’s lecture, Jason slips away.
He needs air. Space. Silence. Distance.
Tim finds him anyway.
He doesn’t say anything—just walks up to where Jason’s leaning against the balustrade above the armoury, and stands beside him.
Jason doesn’t look at him. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
Jason nods.
They stand in silence for a long time.
And then, like he’s pulling it from his chest with his bare hands, Jason says, “You scared me.”
Tim turns to him slowly.
Jason’s eyes are on the floor. His hands curl into fists.
“You could’ve died. And I wouldn’t’ve even had time to say—” He stops. Shakes his head. “It’s not the kind of thing I’m good at, okay?”
Tim’s voice is soft. “I think you’re better at it than you think.”
Jason finally looks at him.
Tim doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. Just sees him—completely, quietly, without pressure.
Jason looks away first.
Because there are things he wants to say. Needs to say.
He just doesn’t know how to say them yet.
So for now, he lets Tim stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, steady and warm.
And he doesn’t move away.
It starts with a broken boiler at Jason’s safehouse.
“Three days,” Roy says, backing toward the door like it might bite him. “Three days without hot water, and you haven’t burned this place down? I’m calling the Batcave. This is an emergency.”
“Roy, don’t you—”
He does. Of course he does.
Which is how Jason ends up back at Wayne Manor, glaring at the thermostat Alfred insists on keeping at greenhouse levels and trying not to stab anything during family dinner.
Bruce is gone for a conference. Steph and Cass are crashing for a week. Dick has claimed the upstairs guest suite like he owns the place. Damian’s scowling at everyone from his perch at the far end of the table.
And Tim—Tim is here too.
Quiet. Calm. Unreasonably pretty in a threadbare Gotham U hoodie, sleeves pushed up, neck exposed. Jason catches himself staring twice before dessert.
He’s losing his edge. Fast.
“Guest rooms are full,” Alfred informs him that night with a pointed look. “Might I suggest the east wing den?”
Jason grunts. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“I would strongly advise against that.” Alfred’s expression doesn’t change. “Master Tim already claimed it.”
“What?”
“Something about proximity to the router.”
Jason barely manages not to groan.
So he takes the den—familiar, dusty, full of old books and even older memories. He sits on the bed and breathes in silence. It still smells faintly like sandalwood and something sharper—Tim’s cologne, maybe. Of course it does.
He lies down. Stares at the ceiling.
Tells himself not to think about the sound of Tim’s laugh echoing down the hall.
Fails.
The next morning, Jason wanders into the kitchen and nearly walks into Tim.
He’s barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, mug in hand. He looks tired and unfairly soft, like something out of a half-forgotten dream.
Jason’s brain completely short-circuits.
“…Coffee?” Tim offers.
Jason just nods, mute.
Tim pours for him without comment. Passes over the mug. Their fingers brush. Jason feels it everywhere.
Tim doesn’t say anything, but his eyes linger a second too long.
Jason spends the rest of the morning pretending not to memorise the shape of his hands on the keyboard.
It keeps happening.
Quiet domestic moments Jason isn’t prepared for.
Tim curled in a reading chair with his glasses on, flipping through intel like it’s poetry. Tim humming in the hallway, off-key but content. Tim asleep on the couch during movie night, hood pulled over his head, knees tucked under himself like he’s trying to disappear.
Jason watches from the armchair, pretending not to notice. But he does notice. Every damn thing.
He notices when Tim forgets to eat until someone reminds him. Notices when he rubs at the same spot on his wrist, like something hurts. Notices the haircut again, freshened at the nape, just enough to expose more skin.
He notices everything.
And he’s drowning in it.
Cass corners him on the back patio with a cup of tea.
“You should tell him,” she says.
Jason doesn’t look up. “No, I shouldn’t.”
She tilts her head. “You love him.”
He exhales. “Yeah. I do.”
She studies him for a beat. Then signs: You show it too much to hide it now.
Jason gives a hollow laugh. “I know.”
Cass squeezes his arm and walks away.
That night, Jason walks past the living room and sees Tim curled up under a throw blanket, glasses slipping down his nose, half-asleep with a book open on his chest.
Jason stops.
Watches him breathe.
He wants so many things he’ll never say out loud. To touch. To stay. To be the one Tim reaches for first. To matter.
He watches the soft rise and fall of Tim’s chest, the faint flutter of his lashes.
Then he walks away before he can make a mistake.
Tim opens his eyes when the floor creaks. Stares at the empty doorway. Fingers curling in the blanket Jason tucked over him the night before.
The pages of his book are smudged from where he’s held it too long.
He doesn’t say a word.
But something’s starting to click.
Gotham never sleeps.
Jason likes that about it. The constant motion. The sound. The way the city breathes through its own scars.
It’s late—just past 3AM—when he ends up on the rooftop above the old Monarch Theatre. Patrol’s over. The comms are quiet. He should go back to the Manor.
But instead, he stays.
He’s not surprised when Tim shows up twenty minutes later.
Jason doesn’t turn when he hears the soft scrape of boots on stone.
“You always come up here when something’s bothering you,” Tim says gently.
Jason exhales through his nose. “Thought you’d be asleep.”
Tim shrugs. “Was. Then I realised I’d never seen you sit still that long without brooding. Figured something was wrong.”
Jason huffs a quiet laugh. “So I’m too still now?”
“Terrifyingly so.”
Tim steps closer. His shoulders are loose, easy. But Jason knows how hard he’s working to look relaxed. Tim is nothing if not calculated when it counts.
“So,” Tim says, sitting beside him, “you gonna talk, or should I just narrate the brooding?”
Jason snorts. Doesn’t answer.
They sit in silence for a while.
Below them, Gotham flickers—windows, headlights, the pulse of the city under moonlight. It’s peaceful in a way Jason rarely lets himself feel.
“I noticed,” Tim says suddenly.
Jason glances sideways. “Noticed what?”
Tim’s voice is soft. Careful. “You’ve been… different. Around me.”
Jason doesn’t move. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.”
Jason looks away.
Tim leans back on his hands, eyes on the sky. “You used to glare at me every time I offered advice. Now you back me up before I finish speaking.”
Jason shrugs. “Maybe I’ve matured.”
“You also bring me coffee without asking. And you noticed I got a haircut before I did.”
Jason winces. “That obvious, huh?”
Tim turns to look at him. “Not to most people.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Because what the hell is he supposed to say? Yeah, Tim, I’ve been in love with you for months. I watch you like it’s breathing. I catalogue every twitch of your mouth, every tilt of your head, every new scar and haircut like it’s a map I’m trying to memorise before it disappears.
Instead, he says, “I didn’t mean for you to notice.”
Tim watches him, quiet. Thoughtful.
“Why not?”
Jason’s jaw tightens. “Because it doesn’t change anything.”
Tim leans forward slightly. “Doesn’t it?”
And suddenly Jason is looking at him—really looking—and Tim is close, too close, and Jason’s brain is screaming with all the things he can’t say.
“It’s not a good idea,” Jason says finally. Rough. Honest.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t do soft. Or normal. I don’t know how to be good for someone like you.”
Tim frowns. “You already are.”
Jason freezes.
And Tim’s voice drops, quiet but firm. “You think I haven’t noticed how gentle you are with me?”
Jason laughs, bitter. “Gentle? I almost took a guy’s head off when he shoved you last week.”
“Yeah. And then you didn’t yell. You checked my pulse before you even checked if the guy got away.”
Jason can’t breathe.
“You act like you’re rough around the edges, Jason,” Tim says. “But you don’t fool me. Not anymore.”
Jason meets his eyes, heart in his throat.
There’s so much he wants to say. So much he can’t.
So instead, he says, “You make it hard to stay guarded.”
Tim’s voice softens. “Good.”
Jason’s fingers twitch.
But he doesn’t close the distance.
And Tim doesn’t push.
They sit there, side by side, a breath apart, the tension between them thick as fog.
Eventually, Tim sighs.
“I’m not going to ask for something you’re not ready to give,” he says. “But I’m here. When you are.”
Jason swallows hard. Nods.
And Tim leans his head lightly against Jason’s shoulder.
It’s not a kiss.
It’s not a confession.
But it’s everything Jason didn’t know he needed.
Jason’s made a career out of surviving things he doesn’t understand.
The streets. The Pit. Coming back. Bruce. Himself.
But this? This is new territory.
This is Tim sitting beside him on a rooftop, head against his shoulder, and Jason’s entire body going still because he doesn’t know how to move without wrecking something. This is the warmth of Tim’s hoodie pressed against his side, and the clean, sharp smell of his shampoo, and the gentle weight of trust settling on Jason’s chest like a stone.
And Jason doesn’t know what to do with that.
Because here’s the truth:
He’s never been in a relationship before.
Not a real one. Not the kind where you feel safe enough to fall asleep next to someone. Not the kind where you care so much it burns a hole through your armour. He’s had flings. One-night stands. Tangled hookups that never lasted more than a night or a fight.
But Tim?
Tim is terrifying.
Because Jason feels everything all at once—want, awe, protectiveness, something bigger than he’s ever let himself believe he could have—and there’s nowhere left to put it. No training manual. No exit plan.
Just Tim. Quiet and kind and sharp-eyed and close.
And the knowledge that if Jason lets this happen, there’s no going back.
So, naturally, he avoids him for a week.
It’s pathetic.
Jason knows it’s pathetic. But what else is he supposed to do? He can’t think straight around Tim anymore. Can’t trust himself not to give it all away. He’s never had this before, this aching sweetness, and it’s making him reckless.
He goes out on longer patrols. Answers comms late. Dodges shared missions. Starts sleeping in one of his backup safehouses again, just to put space between them.
None of it works.
Because it doesn’t stop anything.
Jason still thinks about Tim in the quiet moments, still catches himself smiling when he sees a meme Tim would laugh at, still notices when Tim cuts his hair—again—just a little shorter over his ears.
He’s getting worse at hiding it.
He gets caught staring four times during a stakeout with Dick. Dick doesn’t say anything. Just smiles like he’s watching a slow-motion train crash.
“Can you not?” Jason mutters after the fourth look.
Dick grins. “Can I not what, Jaybird?”
Jason flips him off.
Three nights later, Jason’s watching the monitors in the Cave when Tim walks in, wiping his hands on a rag from the training ring. He’s flushed, hair damp from a shower, wearing soft cotton and low socks like he lives here—and he kind of does.
Jason tries to look away.
Fails.
Tim looks up and catches him mid-stare.
Jason doesn’t recover fast enough.
There’s a long pause before Tim arches a brow. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Jason says, too fast. “Fine. You just—you cut your hair again.”
Tim blinks.
Jason wants to scream.
“You always notice that,” Tim says.
Jason shrugs. “It’s a good haircut.”
Tim steps closer. “You’re avoiding me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
Jason swallows. “Look, I’m just—figuring some things out. It’s not you.”
“It feels like me.”
Jason finally meets his eyes, and it hurts. Because Tim looks uncertain, like he thinks maybe he crossed a line—and all Jason wants to do is reach out and say, No. It’s not you. It’s me. I don’t know how to love people, but I think I could learn, if it’s you.
But that’s not what he says.
Instead, he mumbles, “I’ve never done this before.”
Tim tilts his head. “Done what?”
Jason gestures vaguely. “This. Feelings. Wanting someone. Not knowing how to handle it.”
There’s a silence.
Then, quietly, Tim asks, “You mean… me?”
Jason sighs. “Yeah. You.”
Tim’s face softens. He steps close enough that Jason can smell his soap.
“You’re allowed to not know what you’re doing,” Tim says. “You’re also allowed to want things.”
Jason looks at him. Really looks.
And he can’t stop the truth from spilling out.
“I admire you,” he says. “All the time. And I hate how obvious it is, but I don’t know how to not admire you.”
Tim’s breath catches.
Jason shakes his head, frustrated. “It’s like—I see you walk into a room and my brain just blanks. You say something smart and I want to listen for hours. You cut your hair, and I notice. I always notice. You do this little thing with your mouth when you’re trying not to smile, and it kills me.”
He laughs, soft and bitter. “I used to be good at hiding stuff. I’m not anymore.”
Tim doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, very gently, he says, “Good.”
Jason blinks. “What?”
“I want to see it,” Tim says. “All of it. You don’t have to hide from me.”
Jason stares at him. At his eyes, his mouth, the slight flush on his cheeks.
And for the first time in a long time, Jason thinks maybe this won’t ruin him after all.
Jason doesn’t do jealousy.
He’s never had anything to be jealous about—not when it comes to relationships. He’s had partners, sure. One-time things. People who liked his rough edges or thought it was hot that he could disarm a thug with a crowbar and a glare.
But none of it ever lasted long enough to make him care.
None of it was Tim.
And now?
Now jealousy feels like a burning knife under his ribs.
The mission is supposed to be a quick meet-and-scan—Tim and Jason playing lookout while a CI named Eliza spills her guts about a new weapons drop in the Narrows. She's slick. Greasy with charm. Flirts like it’s her job.
And she sets her sights on Tim immediately.
Jason can tell the second she spots him.
He’s leaning against the alley wall, arms crossed, trying not to look too much like backup when she sashays up to Tim and tilts her head, all lashes and heat.
“Well, hello, pretty boy,” she purrs. “You the one they warned me about?”
Jason watches, jaw clenching.
Tim smiles politely, unfazed. “Depends who ‘they’ is.”
“Mm. You don’t look dangerous.”
Jason wants to laugh. Or punch something.
Eliza steps closer, lowering her voice like they’re the only two people in the alley. “You got a name, sweetheart?”
Jason pushes off the wall before he can stop himself.
“I wouldn’t waste your time,” he says flatly. “He’s taken.”
Tim’s head snaps toward him. “Jason—”
“Is he?” Eliza asks, eyebrows raised.
Jason doesn’t blink. “Yeah. He is.”
Tim stares. Eliza snorts and rolls her eyes.
“Whatever,” she mutters, handing over the flash drive. “I got what you wanted. Maybe next time I’ll bring candy for your bodyguard.”
She stalks off, heels clicking.
Jason doesn’t move. Neither does Tim.
There’s a long, long silence.
“You wanna run that back?” Tim says finally, voice even.
Jason doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t like the way she was looking at you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Jason breathes through his nose. “She was flirting.”
Tim folds his arms. “And?”
“I didn’t like it,” Jason says again. “I don’t like it when other people flirt with you.”
Tim blinks. “You don’t?”
Jason finally meets his eyes. “No. Because I want to.”
Tim’s mouth opens. Closes.
“I’ve been trying not to,” Jason mutters. “But I do.”
Tim stares at him like he’s trying to decipher a code.
And Jason, who is so good at hiding—who’s survived on secrets and silence—just stands there, letting it show.
All of it.
The want. The fear. The ache.
Tim steps forward.
Slow. Measured. Careful in a way that makes Jason’s chest hurt.
“You don’t have to try not to,” Tim says quietly. “Not anymore.”
Jason swallows hard.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits.
“I do,” Tim replies. “So let me show you.”
Jason looks at him for a long, long moment.
And then, finally, lets himself hope.
The frag grenade rolls out of nowhere.
Tim spots it a second too late.
They're clearing a tunnel near Finger Street—Jason ahead, Tim behind—when the motion sensor gets tripped. It’s a trap. A good one. The kind meant to wound, not kill. Tim’s already diving when he yells, “Jason—!”
The blast comes with heat and fury. Smoke. Concrete dust. Screaming metal.
Jason doesn’t hear anything after that.
He’s on his knees before the smoke clears, hands shaking as he tears through debris. His ears are ringing. His chest is too tight. All he can hear is the blood in his throat and the buzz of no comm response.
Tim is curled against the wall, half-buried in broken piping. His suit’s torn, blood slicking his arm and temple, and for a horrible second Jason thinks he’s—
“Tim,” Jason chokes, crawling over rubble. “Tim. Answer me—”
Tim groans faintly. Shifts.
Jason’s breath hits like a gut punch.
He grabs Tim’s face, too rough, too desperate. “You’re okay. You’re—fuck, you’re okay—”
Tim’s eyes blink open, hazy. “…Jay?”
“I’m here,” Jason says, voice breaking. “I’m here, you’re okay—don’t move yet—”
He’s checking for fractures, blood, signs of internal damage before he even realises his hands are shaking. Tim just watches him, dazed and soft.
“You’re crying,” Tim murmurs, almost surprised.
Jason freezes. “What?”
Tim reaches up, brushing fingers across Jason’s cheek.
And yeah—his face is wet. He hadn’t noticed. He doesn’t care.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Jason says, low and cracked.
“I’m fine,” Tim whispers.
“You could’ve died.”
“I didn’t.”
Jason clenches his jaw, trying to breathe around the storm in his chest. “I can’t lose you, okay? You don’t get to disappear on me. Not like that. Not again.”
Tim just keeps looking at him like he’s never seen him before.
Then: “You’re not hiding anymore.”
Jason laughs, short and bitter. “Couldn’t if I tried.”
There’s blood on Tim’s lip. Dust in his lashes. He’s scraped up and wincing—but his fingers are still resting on Jason’s jaw, gentle and steady.
“Hey,” Tim says, quiet. “Come here.”
Jason hesitates—just for a second.
Then leans down and rests his forehead against Tim’s.
His whole body shakes.
Tim threads their fingers together, grounding him.
“You’re allowed to care,” Tim whispers. “Even if it hurts.”
Jason exhales, and it sounds like surrender.
Because yeah. This is it. The moment it stops being quiet longing and starts being real. Messy. Raw. Terrifying.
But Tim is here. Alive. Holding him like he means it.
And Jason finally lets the weight drop from his chest.
Later, when backup arrives and Tim’s stretchered out and Bruce is barking orders in Jason’s ear, no one dares question why Jason stays at Tim’s side the entire time.
No one questions the way he holds Tim’s hand through the ride to the medbay.
No one questions the way Tim leans into it, smiling faintly even through the pain.
And no one, especially not Tim, misses the way Jason never stops looking at him.
Wayne Manor is quieter than usual.
Bruce is off-world with the League. Damian’s at school. Steph and Cass are lying low after a riot in Bristol. For once, no alarms are blaring, no weapons discharging, no emergency calls demanding blood and adrenaline.
It’s just Jason and Tim.
And the silence between them.
Tim’s recovering in the guest room, propped up against a mountain of pillows with his laptop open, IV stand beside him, and a stack of crime scene notes he refuses to put down.
Jason stands in the doorway, watching.
“Alfred said bed rest,” Jason says dryly.
Tim doesn’t look up. “Alfred says a lot of things. So do you.”
Jason crosses his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been hovering.”
Jason scowls. “Not hovering. Observing.”
Tim finally meets his gaze. “You watched me sleep for three hours last night.”
Jason clears his throat. “That’s called monitoring your vitals.”
“You brought me soup. Twice.”
“It was good soup.”
Tim smiles, quiet and crookedly. “It was.”
Jason’s chest tightens.
There’s a long pause. The kind filled with all the words they’ve been dancing around.
“Come in or don’t,” Tim says gently. “But don’t lurk.”
Jason walks in and sits on the edge of the bed, palms on his knees like he doesn’t trust them not to do something stupid.
Tim watches him for a moment. Then says, “You scared me too, you know.”
Jason blinks. “What?”
“In the alley,” Tim says. “You didn’t even hesitate. You were halfway through the fire and glass before the smoke cleared.”
Jason shrugs. “Didn’t think. Just ran.”
“Exactly,” Tim says. “And that scared me.”
Jason swallows. “Because I could’ve gotten hurt?”
“Because you didn’t care if you did.”
Jason goes still.
Tim closes his laptop. Sets it aside. His voice is soft but steady.
“You didn’t even look at the debris. You just heard me go quiet and lost it.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Because it’s true. Because of course it’s true.
Because Jason would burn Gotham to the ground if it meant getting Tim out safe.
“I didn’t know,” Tim says quietly, “if it was just instinct. Or if it was… something else.”
Jason lets out a breath like a punch.
“It’s not just instinct,” he says.
Tim nods. “I figured.”
Jason shifts, like his skin’s too tight. “I’m not good at this. You know that.”
“You’re trying,” Tim says. “That counts.”
Jason looks at him. Really looks. “Why haven’t you run yet?”
Tim blinks. “Run?”
“From me. From this.” Jason gestures between them. “I’m not exactly low-risk, Drake.”
Tim’s gaze softens. “You’re not a risk.”
Jason laughs, hollow. “You sure about that?”
Tim reaches out. Takes his hand. Holds it.
Jason’s breath catches.
“I don’t want perfect,” Tim says. “I want real. And you? You’ve never been anything but.”
Jason doesn’t speak.
Because if he opens his mouth now, it might all spill out. The late nights thinking about Tim’s smile. The way he can’t focus when Tim’s nearby. The constant, gnawing need to protect him, hold him, be his.
He’s not ready for a confession.
But he’s closer than he’s ever been.
So he squeezes Tim’s hand. Lets himself stay there, fingertips brushing knuckles, heart pounding like it’s never learned restraint.
And when Tim leans his head gently on Jason’s shoulder, Jason closes his eyes.
Lets it happen.
Lets it be.
By some quiet miracle, the Manor is still empty.
Tim’s been cleared for light activity. Jason’s pretending not to hover. And the sunlight coming through the windows makes everything feel gentler than it should, like the world is holding its breath.
They're in the kitchen now, late morning, the whole place smelling like coffee and cinnamon. Jason’s making toast like it’s a mission—shoulders tense, brow furrowed, scowling when the first slice burns.
“You know you’re allowed to let the toaster do the work, right?” Tim says from the table, smiling over his mug.
Jason glares. “It betrayed me.”
Tim huffs a laugh. “It’s a toaster.”
“Exactly. Untrustworthy.”
Tim sips his coffee, watching Jason fumble another slice into the toaster like it personally wronged him. He’s not sure when this became a routine—Jason making breakfast, Tim sitting nearby, the silence between them soft instead of strained—but he’s not complaining.
And Jason, for all his brooding, is… relaxed. Or at least trying to be.
Until Tim says, “You’re cute when you’re domestic.”
Jason chokes on air.
His ears go pink. Then red. Then helmet red.
He turns slowly. “Take that back.”
“Not a chance.”
Jason tries to scowl, but it’s weak, tugged at the edges by embarrassment and something warmer. He ducks his head, pretending to focus on buttering the toast.
“God,” he mutters. “Why do you say stuff like that?”
“Because it’s true.” Tim leans forward, grinning. “Also because it makes you blush.”
Jason’s ears go redder, if possible. “I do not blush.”
“You’re almost matching your armour.”
“Drake—”
Tim stands, crosses the space between them, and plucks a piece of toast from Jason’s hand before he can argue.
He takes a bite, chewing slowly, and says, “You don’t have to say it, you know.”
Jason freezes. “Say what?”
Tim looks at him. “The words. I already know.”
Jason swallows hard.
Because Tim does know.
And he’s right—Jason hasn’t said it. Not out loud. But he’s shown it. In the way he watches Tim breathe. In the way he hovers after missions. In every cup of coffee, every quiet moment, every half-formed sentence that ends with a touch instead of a phrase.
Tim’s seen it all. And he’s never asked Jason to be more than he can be.
“You really know?” Jason asks, voice low, almost afraid.
Tim nods. “You tell me every time you look at me.”
Jason’s ears are on fire now.
Tim leans in, close enough to steal the warmth from Jason’s chest, and says, softer, “But when you’re ready to say it—I’ll be here.”
Jason doesn’t speak.
He just leans forward, forehead touching Tim’s, and breathes him in.
It’s not a kiss. Not yet.
But it will be.
And when it happens, it won’t be the end of something. It’ll be the beginning.
Because Jason is still learning how to speak love.
But Tim? Tim already understands his language.
Jason Todd is not nervous.
He’s not.
He’s faced down assassins, monsters, and billionaires with a smile and a loaded clip. He’s stared into the eyes of death more times than he can count. He’s literally died, for god’s sake.
But tonight?
Tonight, he’s sweating through his shir,t trying to confess his love to Tim Drake.
Because this isn’t a battlefield. This isn’t strategy. This is Tim—the most infuriatingly brilliant, infuriatingly kind, infuriatingly his person Jason has ever known.
And Jason’s finally going to say it.
With words.
Like a grown-up.
Probably.
He plans it weeks in advance.
It has to be perfect. Or—well, not perfect, but very Tim.
So he takes him to the Gotham Planetarium after hours, pulls a few strings with Babs to get it rented out, and somehow convinces Alfred to pack a picnic basket full of fancy sandwiches and tea Tim likes but never buys for himself.
There are blankets. Star projections. Quiet music. A seating chart in Jason’s head that’s been revised fourteen times.
And still—still—Jason is sweating through his shirt by the time Tim walks in.
Tim stops in the centre of the dome, eyebrows lifting as he looks around.
“You planned all this?” he asks, amused and soft.
Jason shrugs, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “I mean. Yeah.”
Tim steps closer, eyes shining in the glow of Saturn and Jupiter moving across the ceiling.
“You remembered I love this place.”
Jason fidgets. “You said it once. I just—filed it away.”
Tim smiles, and Jason blushes immediately, almost matching Mars as it arcs overhead.
Tim doesn’t say anything about the colour flooding his face, but Jason sees it in his smirk.
They sit. Eat. Talk.
And Jason tries—he really tries—to say it.
But the words get stuck.
They hover behind his teeth every time Tim laughs or shifts close. Every time he pushes his hair behind his ear or tilts his head or smiles like he’s happy just being there with Jason.
Jason gets halfway there more than once:
“You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you—”
“I think you should know something, and it’s kind of, uh—”
“I care about you. Like, really—like, more than—ugh.”
And every time, Tim just waits. Patient. Open. Not pushing.
Jason wants to die.
Up in the rafters, on silent comms:
Steph: “This is painful. He’s glitching.”
Dick: “He’s blushing. Again. I think I can see it from here.”
Damian: “Todd is malfunctioning like a cheap drone.”
Cass: He’s in love. Let him be brave.
Bruce (deadpan): “Should we intervene?”
Alfred: “Absolutely not.”
Back under the stars, Tim sets his tea aside.
“You don’t have to say it tonight,” he says gently. “I already know.”
Jason stares at him. Jaw clenched. Heart pounding.
“No,” he says. “I want to.”
Tim’s expression softens.
Jason swallows, eyes fixed on Tim’s knees.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “I’m not smooth. I’m not… good with feelings. But I’ve been trying. For you.”
Tim doesn’t speak. Just waits.
“And I need you to know,” Jason says, voice shaking, “that I’m not just here because it’s easy. I’m not doing this because I’m scared to be alone. I’m here because I choose you. Over and over again. Every damn day.”
He looks up.
And then—finally—he says it.
“I love you.”
Tim’s eyes shine.
And without missing a beat, he leans forward, presses their foreheads together, and whispers, “I love you too.”
Jason blushes so hard it’s visible from orbit.
Up in the rafters:
Steph (quietly): “Okay, I’m crying.”
Dick (teary): “I’m proud of him.”
Damian: “Gross.”
Cass (smiling): Worth the wait.
Bruce (gruff, soft): “He did good.”
Down on the floor, Jason finally exhales.
Tim kisses his cheek—just once—and grins.
“You really blushed like eight times tonight,” he says.
Jason groans. “Don’t remind me.”
Tim laces their fingers together.
“You can say it again later,” he says, voice warm. “Whenever you want.”
And Jason smiles. Not because he’s ready for forever, not because he’s figured it all out—
—but because for the first time in his life, he wants to.
With Tim.