Archive of Our Own

Tim is pretty sure that Babs has a complicated system for keeping up with everyone’s online activity. Once he was hanging out with her (complaining on her couch while she saved Gotham through her computer) and he heard a long sequence of pings that apparently meant that Steph had posted on her twitter.

“What’s the point of that?” Asked Tim, privately thinking there was no real point and Babs was just nosy.

“It’s useful sometimes,” she said, while slurping her ramen. “But mostly I’m just nosy.”

“Do you have a special thingy for me? Can I request one?”

“Yes. And you could, but it won't beat Limp Biszkit.”

Tim left before he could find out if she was kidding. At the time he thought, idly, that maybe he should have something similar. Not sound, obviously, at the rate that Dick posted on his Instagram he’d go insane. But maybe a coded notification to his work phone? He could even whip up some kind of filter. He followed everyone on everything anyway, so it’s not like he needed to see their online activity on an hour-to-hour basis. He’s not that insane. But if Nightwing was playing COD when he should be going through the case files he got assigned, that would be helpful to know.

That night Steph and Cass showed up with two bottles of wine and a complicated board game, respectively, and his brainstorming didn’t survive to see the sunrise.

Or at least that’s what he thought.

So it’s 3 am and he’s laying on the floor in the Nest, eating cold sausage pizza and trying to finish the first chapter of Dune (he’s trying to get into reading. Like, reading that doesn't involve a screen and a horrifying Gotham crime), when the sound of the words Son of a gun, trigger some kind of PTSD response in him.

It’s like the room (and the trajectory of a slice going into his mouth) freezes. He looks up at his setup, at the blinking red dot that heralds perdition. While You’re so vain keeps playing in his echo-y intelligence room, Tim slowly walks towards it.

See, the thing is that Tim has been trying to let go of some of his more problematic habits. Regarding Jason Todd. It’s hard, because Tim likes living his life the way he lives his life. No one has ever managed to stop him from doing the things that he wants to do, and he rarely changes his mind, he only changes course. But somehow, for the last six or so months, Jason and him have become something close to friends.

It happened while Tim wasn’t looking. Suddenly, seeing Red Hood jump into a fight on his side was a relief, instead of another problem. After, they could get something wonderfully unhealthy to eat and talk shit about each other, or the rest of the bats, or anything at all. Tim started letting Jason know when Bruce was entering another one of his grand guilt trip tours, so he could make himself scarce, and Jason would let him know when a big shipment of Orsis T-5000s was heading straight for Tim’s territory, asking only that Tim save a couple for him, please and thank you. Jason sends him shitty memes sometimes, the kind that are only funny because of how deeply unfunny they are, and the idea of Jason choosing that particular 2015 meme format to send (to Tim no less!) brightens his day every time. Tim sends him funny photos he takes during patrol, mostly. The biggest rat to ever live. A sign that reads ‘Bats fuck off!’, with a little cartoon of a bat getting strangled. Once, notably, a shot of Jason himself taken from the back, while he was out on his civvies, buying something in the corner store.

A month ago there was a magic user wreaking havoc on the financial district, and it got dire enough that Bruce agreed to call in Red Hood for backup. Jason entered the Cave like he owned the place, with a smirk and his hands in his pockets, and sprawled down in the seat next to Tim like it was normal. He kept shooting Tim little side glances during Bruce’s power point presentation, getting progressively more mocking with each transition effect of the slides. Like he didn’t use to snarl and swipe at Tim whenever he got the chance. Like they were some kind of—Unit. Like they had inside jokes and a shared disdain for waiting when they could be doing, and a shared love for the huge fuck-off burgers they make at Julia’s, 77th, and little moments when Jason will look at him too long and give him a wicked smile, and shove him lightly, not hard enough to actually push him away.

Jason is mean, stubborn, incredibly arrogant and even more competent. He’s handsome and principled, and he’s taken to leaning against the wall with one arm, looming over Tim, and calling him Baby. Tim likes him so terribly that sometimes he’s sure Jason can taste it in the air.

So. The stalking and the sleuthing had to stop.

There is simply too much to lose. Tim can tell when a friendship has found its natural balance—When the limits have been tested and the roles have been assigned. This is not that. Tim has this exhilarating, terrifying suspicion that him and are Jason are still going down the slide together, finding their footing, and it’ll probably end up fucked anyway, but it’s not going to be Tim fucking it. No way.

So the digital surveillance alert is somewhat of a bummer. Maybe he is fucking it by sitting down and opening the link that reads ‘IP 1332.1768.1.1 - X - Jay Peters - Attached 03:36’. But, you know. The satisfaction brought the cat back.

It’s a google form.

Tim scrolls through it, then double checks the IP address, and the code he apparently wrote while drunk. It’s all correct. This was posted to a twitter account created today, from Jason Todd’s phone. Tim opens the link again, and wonders if he’s going insane.

Question 1
Name

Question 2
Do you have a cat or a dog please share

Question 3
Are you really really smart?

Question 4
Do you like msking out

Question 5
Are you wiling to never evee evert meet my family djahgja

Question 6
Lets get hitched i’m a fuckup piece of shit but u loveyou love me back

The kicker is that they’re all open questions. Mind whirling, and without taking his eyes off the last question, Tim calls Jason. He answers on the fourth ring.

“Birdie! Birdie, baby,” the man who answers says. It’s slurred and low. Ah. “I was calling you–”

“You weren’t,” Tim says absently, scrolling back up and reading from the top. “Are you very intoxicated, Jay?”

“You’re–” a short, loud laugh. “Yes, detective, I’m hammered.”

His voice is very dangerous. It makes Tim feel terrible, tender things. It makes him wonder if Jason has Ibuprofen and Gatorade, if there’s anyone else in the world who gets to know this. If there’s anyone else vying for the chance to coax him into bed, scratch his head until he falls asleep.

Jason is still talking “Roy’s left, he has a date tomorrow I think. So it’s just me.”

“Just you, huh,” Tim says, still thinking too hard.

“Yeah—” mutters Jason, his voice taking a weird edge. “Just me.”

They’re silent for a few seconds. Tim wonders how much he’s fucking it right now, just by not hanging up.

‘‘You can—’’ says Jason, just when Tim has decided it’d be best to just go to sleep.

‘‘Really really smart, huh?’’ Tim says. It’s like an out of body experience. Tim wonders if this is a cursed day, or a dream.

Three seconds pass, by Tim’s count. Then, ‘‘Fuck,’’ Tim hurries to clarify.

‘‘I’m not making fun,’’ Tim says, even though he is, a little. ‘‘I just—I saw it and I thought… Well. I called. Not to be an asshole, but, you know. You would call too, if it was me.’’

You obviously wouldn’t think so by looking at him, but Jason’s sensitive. One overly mean joke can hide and fester in his mind for days, until he has enough and asks Tim, point blank, what he meant by that, generally with a scowl and crossed arms. He reads into things, like the people around him—Tim, Dick, Bruce—have some kind of coded language they use just to show how much they don’t want him around.

It took ages for Tim to figure it out, the soft, pink reality under the cool leather jacket and the vicious grin, and when he did, he thought it was a matter of circumventing the issue. Like, maybe if Tim timed his jokes better, reduced the Bruce - Jason interactions even more, avoided Jason when he was sleep deprived and more prone to speak without thinking, then Jason wouldn’t feel that way anymore. But all that initial, careful maneuvering just made it worse.

Hindsight is 20-20. Jason doesn’t need to be handled. But he does apparently need to be told the truth.

The truth, for Tim, is harder. But for all you could say about Jason Todd, and Tim sure can say a lot, no one in their right mind would think he’s not worth it.

Jason snorts. It sounds concerningly wet.

‘‘Birdie, if it was you, I wouldn’t just call,’’ he says. He doesn’t add what he would do. But Tim has some ideas. ‘‘Can you forget this happened?’’ It sounds muffled, like he has his hands over his face, or he’s trying to suffocate himself against the couch. Tim suddenly wants to see him so badly that it almost feels like he deserves to. Like it’s his right. Tim decides against pushing, and chooses an alternative approach.

‘‘I think you should delete it,’’ Tim says, getting up and stretching. He walks to the civilian side of the Nest.

‘‘You think you call the shots now?’’ Jason says. It sounds fond, amused. Tim smiles, and grabs one of the overnight bags he keeps in his closet. They’re mostly for last minute undercover jobs. Not tonight.

‘‘Little ol’ me? Making decisions for the Red Hood? Banish the thought.’’

‘‘That’s better.’’

‘‘But I’m just saying. It’s kind of pointless having it up.’’

‘‘Oh, you think I’ll get no answers? I have game, you know—’’ Jason definitely doesn’t, but Tim has no patience to get into that right now.

‘‘Of course you will,’’ says Tim, hitting the -3 button on the elevator over and over, like it’ll make it go faster. ‘‘You’re gorgeous and you’re a good person. Clever, and funny.’’

Silence. Tim decides to keep going, since he’s gotten this far.

‘‘Husband material, or whatever. I don’t really like that term, but, you know. You are.’’

Hoarse, Jason says: ‘‘Sounds like it was a good idea, then.’’

‘‘No, no. Jason, come on. We both know I’ll delete every single response that isn’t mine. Save us both the trouble.’’

Tim gets into his car, closes the door. For some reason, he’s grinning, and his chest feels like he’s been running for ages. It’s fantastic. Jason gives him a sharp, loud laugh through the phone. It’s the best thing Tim has ever heard.

‘‘You’re not kidding, are you?’’ Jason asks. He doesn’t even wait for an answer. ‘‘Jesus, fuck, I was so sure you didn’t.’’

‘‘I do! Of course I do!’’ Tim should not drive while talking on the phone. He also should not dress up in kevlar and get into physical altercations 5 nights out of 7.

‘‘I’d given up. Shit, you suck. I felt like an idiot!’’

‘‘You were not exactly clear, either, Jay,’’ Tim says, just to keep arguing. It’s always so much fun.

‘‘Not clear? Baby, come on, I was all over you. Not clear? Did you want me to take off my pants—’’

‘‘Stop right there. I’m driving. Don’t,’’ Tim laughs, elated. ‘‘Don’t distract me.’’

‘‘You’re—Oh.’’

‘‘Yeah, oh.’’

It’s silent again. Tim hears Jason’s breathing and thinks, with some disbelief, that there’s a non zero chance he’ll get to feel that breathing on his skin tonight.

‘‘I was so sure you didn’t,’’ says Jason again. ‘‘I was so sure.’’

‘‘I’ll be there in less than ten minutes,’’ Tim says. Feeling light and strangely peaceful, Tim tells Jason about the future. ‘‘I’m gonna get there and peel you off the couch. Get you into something more comfortable to sleep. I’ll only look a little. You are welcome to look however much you want’’ A snort. ‘‘We’ll get into bed and I’ll let you be the big spoon. But don’t get used to it. You can make me breakfast tomorrow. And then you can distract me, if you still want.’’

Tim drives a little faster. It all goes mostly according to plan.