Chapter Text
The fries were lukewarm, and the strawberry milkshake was too sweet, but Bernard looked happy, so Tim didn’t say anything. He sat across from him in their usual booth at the corner of the diner, the one Bernard liked because it was just far enough from the jukebox to hear the music without having to yell over it. Bernard was talking, something about a professor at the university—Lang?—and how he’d given out an assignment with an impossible deadline. Tim tried to pay attention. He nodded at the right moments, gave little hums of sympathy or mild outrage, but none of it was sinking in.
Bernard had done everything right. He always did. Kind, generous, patient in the way that made people think perfect boyfriend, and for a while, that had been enough. More than enough. When things were still new, still forming into something delicate and full of possibility, Tim had felt like he was falling into something good, safe and stable. Bernard never pushed, never demanded. He kissed Tim’s hands and his forehead, pulled him close when he had nightmares, respected his body like it was made of something sacred. It should’ve been enough.
But it wasn’t.
Not anymore.
Tim smiled as Bernard leaned in to show him something on his phone—probably another meme from that weird student group chat Bernard was in—and tried to ignore how hollow the smile felt on his face. He loved Bernard. That wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that Bernard still kissed him like Tim was breakable. Still said things like when the time is right when they sat curled together on the couch, Bernard’s hand on Tim’s waist but never any lower. Tim didn’t need fireworks and pornographic intensity, but he needed something. He needed to feel like his boyfriend wanted him. Like maybe he wasn’t made of porcelain and distance and unspoken rules.
Instead, Bernard laughed at his own meme, the kind of warm, open laugh Tim had once found so endearing. He still did but it was not enough.
And then, something shifted, not in the room itself but deep beneath Tim’s skin—a subtle, bristling awareness that crawled up the back of his neck and settled between his shoulder blades like a mark.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t have to. That particular kind of stare had haunted him for years, lingering like phantom pain from an old wound, impossible to forget. There was heat now, prickling against his nape, quiet and searing in its familiarity. That smug, invasive presence that always arrived without warning and left a trail of irritation in its wake. It had been years, but Jason Todd still knew how to make every hair on Tim’s body stand on end.
When he finally looked over his shoulder, it was already too late.
Jason was walking toward their table, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, that crooked smirk already in place like he’d been rehearsing it. He looked broader than Tim remembered, bulkier through the chest and shoulders. The hoodie under the jacket was stained at the cuff, his boots scuffed, and the way he walked—loose, like he didn’t care what anyone thought—was infuriating.
“Well,” Jason said as he reached their table, voice already slanted toward mocking, “isn’t this adorable.”
Tim blinked once, slowly. “Of course. It had been before you showed up.”
Jason smiled like Tim had complimented him. “Missed you too, sweetheart.”
Bernard glanced between them, then back at Tim. His expression was puzzled, but not worried. He knew they had history, just not the kind he’d understand.
Jason leaned an elbow on the divider beside their booth and cocked his head. “Didn’t realize it was your date night. Sorry for interrupting all the passionate, milkshake-fueled eye-fucking.”
“Didn’t realize you were still stalking me,” Tim shot back. “Did you run out of petty crime and start lurking in diners like a creep?”
“You’d know a lot about lurking, wouldn’t you?” Jason said. “You’ve been shadowing me through Crime Alley like a stalker for weeks.”
“That’s called surveillance, Todd. You know, when someone tries to keep tabs on a violent criminal because he can’t stop getting his hands dirty.”
Jason’s smirk widened. “You keep tabs on all your violent criminals, or just the ones you fantasize about?”
Tim’s foot hit the floor hard as he stood. The table rattled. Bernard flinched.
“Tim,” Bernard said, calm and even. His hand came up to Tim’s elbow, a gentle pressure. “Sit down.”
Tim didn’t want to. His blood was hot under his skin, the inside of his chest buzzing with something that felt like rage but wasn’t just rage. He hated the way Jason looked at him—like he knew something about him. As though he had cracked Tim open years ago and was still poking around inside, just to see what would make him twitch. But Bernard’s voice was soft, firm, and Tim forced himself back down onto the vinyl seat.
Jason made a disappointed sound in the back of his throat. “That’s a shame. I thought you might finally grow a spine.”
“Funny,” Tim said, teeth clenched. “I was about to say the same to you.”
Jason laughed, short and amused. He didn’t stay. Just gave Tim one last look, something simmering just beneath it, then turned and headed toward the counter, like he actually planned to order something. He didn’t look back.
Bernard waited a moment, then shifted toward Tim, his hand brushing Tim’s forearm. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” Tim muttered.
“I know he gets under your skin. You don’t have to let him.”
Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. What was he supposed to say? He doesn’t just get under my skin. It’s like he is already there. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.
Bernard hesitated, then leaned in. His lips brushed Tim’s. A soft, chaste kiss. The kind of kiss that said you’re safe here, not I want you. Tim kissed back, but it felt like standing behind glass.
When he opened his eyes again, Jason was seated at the counter with a cup of coffee cradled in one hand, watching him with a kind of measured calm that made Tim’s stomach twist.
He wasn’t staring. He wasn’t scowling. Just watching—quiet, deliberate, and far too aware.
Tim’s breath caught before he could stop it, a hitch he barely managed to swallow down. Jason didn’t blink. He took a slow sip from his cup, lips curling around the rim in a way that felt purposeful, as if he knew exactly how it would land. As if he wanted Tim to feel it sink low, like heat pooling beneath his ribs.
And Tim did.
He turned back to Bernard with a tight, practiced smile. “Tell me more about Professor Lang.”
Bernard brightened immediately, sliding back into the rhythm of conversation as though nothing had shifted, as though the air between them hadn’t turned electric.
But Tim could still feel it—buzzing under his skin, sharp-edged and warm.
Jason didn’t look away. Not once.
It was supposed to be a quick recon.
Warehouse district. Dock 27. Midnight drop. Tim had triangulated the signal two nights ago from a cop’s burner phone and matched it against a shipment log that shouldn’t have existed. Something was coming in—likely weapons, possibly drugs—and he wanted eyes on it before the players scattered again.
Red Robin crouched low on the roof of an abandoned shipping office, half-shrouded in rusted siding and shadows, a compact digital monocular pressed to his eye. The dock below was crawling with movement—two unmarked trucks backed against the loading platform, half a dozen men pacing between them, sharp voices cutting through the night in quick, clipped bursts of Czech. Bratva, without a doubt.
The crates were stenciled as frozen fish stock, which might have passed for clever a decade ago, but now read as lazy. Tim almost rolled his eyes, the urge tempered only by the fact that he needed to keep them open.
He hadn’t even moved to drop in yet when he heard boots hit the rooftop behind him.
He didn’t need to look. The air had shifted, heavy and charged. That sense of someone walking into your personal space like they didn’t recognize it as yours at all.
“Hope you’re not planning to take credit for this whole bust,” Jason said, walking up to him like they were on a morning jog instead of crouched above armed smugglers.
Tim sighed. “Of course it’s you.”
“Always is, sweetheart.”
Red Hood holstered his gun casually, the kind of movement that said he didn’t see any of this as a real threat—not the smugglers, not the drop, and definitely not Tim. His jacket was open, the red bat on his chest bold and unbothered. His helmet hung from his hand, glinting under the streetlamp behind them.
“You’re messing with my lead,” Tim said. “I’ve been tracking this since Tuesday.”
“Cool. I’ve been tracking it since last week. Looks like we’re both a little late to the party.”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “I’m not dropping this.”
Jason grinned. “Neither am I.”
Tim looked back at the dock, teeth clenched. “You’re going to blow the whole op if you just drop in shooting.”
“I don’t always shoot,” Jason said. “Sometimes I punch first. You know, variety.”
Tim exhaled through his nose, annoyed. “Fine. We go in together.”
Jason tilted his head like a curious dog. “We?”
“You know, teamwork? We work the case. Together. You don’t get to claim credit after making a mess, and I don’t get to complain about your existence every five minutes.”
“I feel like you’ll still complain.”
Tim gave him a flat look. “Probably.”
Jason just smirked. “Alright. Let’s go, Red.”
They dropped in like thunder.
Tim moved fast, landing on the roof of the truck and knocking out two guys with the crack of his bo staff before they even saw him coming. Jason hit the ground in a blur of red and black, his shots going wide and loud—but non-lethal, Tim noticed. Rubber rounds and stun pellets. Tactical brutality without a body count. They made eye contact mid-fight, just for a moment, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Different styles, same tempo.
Tim went low, sweeping the legs of a brute twice his size while Jason distracted him with a fist to the chest. Then Jason whirled and took down another with the butt of his gun, grinning like he was having fun, and Tim hated that it made something in him jolt.
They worked too well together. It was annoying.
By the time the last guy hit the concrete, groaning and unconscious, Tim was flushed, his chest heaving behind his suit. He crouched beside one of the crates, popping the lock and flipping it open. Guns. Military-grade. Packed tight.
“Got enough to bury five city blocks,” he muttered.
Jason walked up behind him and leaned over his shoulder. Too close.
“Nice,” he said. “Kinda makes you wonder why this stuff keeps slipping past customs, huh?”
Tim turned, and their faces were a little too near. Jason’s smirk hovered just inches away, and the heat of his body rolled off him like a furnace. Tim stepped back.
“I’m taking the intel,” he said. “We’ve got names on the boxes.”
“I’ll take the guns,” Jason replied. “Can’t have them back in circulation.”
Tim hesitated. “I could report this.”
“You could,” Jason said. “But you won’t.”
Tim hated how certain he sounded. Like he knew Tim better than he had any right to.
“I’m not in the business of cleaning up your messes,” Tim snapped, but it was weak even to his own ears. Jason had helped him with this.
“And yet, here you are,” Jason said.
Tim did not bother to respond and started walking. Jason followed, of course. They regrouped on the roof, out of sight again, perched like crows above the wreckage.
“You fight clean,” Jason said after a beat.
Tim gave him a sideways look. “You expected me to suck?”
Jason shrugged, stretching his arms behind his head. “You’re smarter than the others. More precise. Always were.”
Tim didn’t respond. That heat was back. Not the adrenaline. Not exactly. It was the way Jason looked at him—never just at his face, but into it, as if he was studying a map with secret routes only he could read.
“Why do you keep doing this?” Tim asked, keeping his voice steady. “Showing up. Getting in my way.”
“Maybe I like working with you,” Jason said, teeth flashing. “You get angry. It’s cute.”
Tim scoffed. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re flustered.”
“I’m not.”
Jason took a step closer. This time, Tim didn’t move back.
“You’re pink in the face, Red. Either you’re embarrassed, or you’re turned on.”
Tim didn’t answer. His heart was hammering, but he refused to give Jason the satisfaction of reacting.
Jason leaned in slightly, like he was about to say something else, something worse—but then he just stepped past Tim, heading toward the fire escape.
“Night’s over,” he said. “See you around.”
Tim stood there a second longer than he meant to, watching Jason vanish into the Gotham dark. Flushed, burning.
The Batcave was quiet when Tim arrived—too quiet. Which usually meant either Bruce was in a brooding mood or Dick was about to pounce from a rafter. Tonight, it turned out to be both.
Tim walked into the space, boots tapping lightly against stone, and barely made it halfway across the floor before Dick’s voice echoed from above.
“Timmy!”
Tim startled slightly. “Jesus—Dick, can we not do the haunted mansion entrance every time I come home?”
Dick flipped down from the upper level like a gymnast showing off, landing with a practiced thud beside him. “Nope. It's part of the charm. Also, you look weirdly pink. Everything okay?”
“I just got back from cracking the Bratva smuggling op,” Tim said quickly, voice a little too stiff. “Figured Bruce would want the debrief before the report goes into the system.”
Dick gave him a skeptical look but didn’t press. Bruce, as if summoned, walked in from the medbay entrance, arms crossed, cloak sweeping around his boots.
“You found the weapons shipment,” Bruce said. Not a question. Bruce rarely asked—he just knew.
Tim nodded and handed over a small encrypted drive. “Cross-referenced the manifests, tracked the warehouse from one of Montoya’s flagged leads. Dock 27, two trucks, fifteen crates—mostly Eastern European gear. High-grade.”
Bruce took the drive, already scanning through the preliminary data on his tablet. “Casualties?”
“None. Well. A few dislocated shoulders.”
“Good. You went in alone?”
Tim hesitated. His silence was brief, but Bruce noticed. He looked up, brow furrowed just slightly.
“No,” Tim said. “Red Hood was already there. Apparently he’d been tracking it too. We... teamed up.”
Dick’s eyebrows shot up.
“You and Jason?” He stepped closer, trying not to grin.
“It was just practical,” Tim muttered. “We had the same target. It didn’t make sense to work at cross-purposes.”
“I guess,” Dick said slowly, drawing it out, clearly amused. “Still, not exactly your usual partner. Thought you hated him.”
“I do,” Tim said, rolling his eyes. “But we got the job done.”
“You’re blushing,” Dick said gleefully.
“I’m not,” Tim said, blushing harder.
Bruce glanced up again, this time with something almost like suspicion. “Did he interfere with the evidence?”
“No,” Tim said, fidgeting with the hem of his cape. “He played by the rules. More or less.”
“Huh,” Dick said, still watching him. “So you’re saying you and Jason had a nice, civil evening together. Didn’t argue once.”
“We argued plenty,” Tim snapped. “He’s still a dick.”
“He’s the dick? You’ve been on his ass for months.”
“I have not,” Tim protested.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You flagged two of his safe houses in your last intel report.”
“That’s surveillance,” Tim said firmly. “It’s not like I’ve been tracking him obsessively.”
Dick gave him a look.
“I haven’t,” Tim insisted, ears burning.
Bruce, mercifully, didn’t pursue it further. “You need rest. Debrief complete. I’ll handle the cleanup with Gordon.”
Tim nodded, already backing toward the exit. “Great. Thanks. I’ll upload the video logs later.”
Dick waved as Tim turned. “Say hi to Bernard for me. And maybe drink some water before bed? Your face is still red.”
Tim gave him the finger over his shoulder as he disappeared up the stairs.
It was almost 4AM by the time he made it home.
The apartment was dark when he slipped in through the balcony door. A faint hum from the fridge, the low whirr of the AC, and the city murmuring beyond the windows. He left his gear in the hallway closet—the reinforced one Bernard pretended not to know about—and padded toward the bathroom without turning on the lights.
The shower steamed up instantly. Tim stood under the water until his muscles unwound from the tension he hadn’t realized he was still holding. Bruises bloomed faintly along his side from a badly-timed dodge earlier in the night. Jason had barked something snide about his footwork, and Tim had snarked back about Jason’s trigger discipline.
When he stepped out, towel around his waist, the bedroom was still quiet. Bernard lay curled on his side, blankets tangled around his legs, one hand reaching out across the empty half of the bed like he’d fallen asleep mid-conversation. His glasses sat folded on the nightstand beside a water bottle and a dimmed lamp. The sight made something twist in Tim’s chest. Guilt, maybe. Or affection. Both.
He dried off, pulled on soft cotton boxers and a shirt from Bernard’s drawer—tighter around the shoulders than his own—and slipped under the covers as quietly as he could. But Bernard stirred anyway.
“Mmm,” Bernard mumbled, already burrowing closer. “You home.”
Tim pressed a kiss to the back of Bernard’s hand as it curled around his waist. “Yeah. Case wrapped. You were right—it was Bratva.”
“Mm’course I was,” Bernard said, slurring the words with sleep. He nuzzled against Tim’s shoulder, breath warm against his neck. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Tim whispered. “Just tired.”
Bernard made a small, pleased sound and held him tighter. His palm was warm against Tim’s stomach, fingers spreading just enough to make Tim aware of every point of contact. It should’ve been comforting. It was, in a way. Familiar. Steady.
And yet—
Behind closed eyes, Tim saw another hand, gloved and holding a gun. Bracing beside his head while a low voice in his ear said, You’re flustered.
Jason had looked at him like a man who knew. Not just what Tim was thinking, but what he wanted. What he hadn’t even said out loud.
Tim breathed in through his nose, slow and shallow. Tried to focus on the warmth of the body behind him, the safety of it. Bernard loved him. That was real. That mattered.
But the last thing Tim saw before sleep took him was a flash of red.
And Jason’s eyes.
Still watching him.
Tim crouched low on the rooftop, scope trained on the warehouse across the street, its side entrance yawning open like a lazy secret. At least ten men this time—more than he’d counted last week, and far more than he wanted to face alone. He barely shifted when boots landed beside him, louder than necessary. Jason didn’t bother with stealth, never had.
“Well,” Jason said, stepping into his periphery, voice already curling into something smug, “look who’s out past curfew.”
Tim didn’t look up. “Didn’t think you were still following this lead.”
“Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to follow it alone.” Jason crouched beside him, too close. A moment passed in relative silence before he added, with studied nonchalance, “How’s Bernard?”
That earned a glance, sharp and unimpressed. “We’re not doing this.”
Jason smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just asking. He seems… safe. Real adventurous, too. Bet he has strong opinions on printer ink.”
“He treats me well.”
“I’m sure he does,” Jason said, without even bothering to sound sincere.
Below, someone shouted—a few more bodies moved into the warehouse, weapons barely hidden under jackets. The drop was starting. Without another word, they rose and moved, dropping from the rooftop into the alley below.
The fight was quick, messy, and badly timed. Too many men. Too many blades. Tim took one across the thigh—deep, bright, blooming pain—and Jason grabbed him before he could go down. They escaped out the side, half-running, half-dragging each other until they reached the rusted spine of a fire escape and climbed.
They stumbled onto the rooftop half-shoved, half-dragged by each other. The door slammed behind them, locking the noise of the alley and the sirens below into the streets where it belonged, but the tension between them didn’t ease for a second. Tim’s leg throbbed with every step, a warm trickle of blood running down his calf and soaking into the cuff of his suit. Jason wasn’t doing much better—there was a gash torn through the meat of his shoulder, blood wet and dark through the tear in his jacket.
“Real smooth back there,” Jason said, tearing off his helmet and letting it clatter against the rooftop. “Nice of you to alert the entire fucking gang before we even got to the intel.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Tim snapped, limping forward, not bothering to take off his own cowl. “You’re the one who burst through the window.”
“I got results.”
“You got stabbed.”
“You’re bleeding too.”
“Yeah, because I had to cover you.”
Jason scoffed, one hand braced on the side of his neck like he was trying to keep his temper inside his skin. “You think that was cover? You looked like you were having a performance review in the middle of a firefight.”
“I was making tactical decisions.”
“You were floundering.”
Tim took a sharp step forward despite the pain in his leg. “Say that again.”
“You were—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish. Tim shoved him, both hands flat against Jason’s chest, and Jason stumbled back half a step before grabbing Tim’s wrists and yanking him forward. They collided again, not with fists, but sheer body weight and breath and the smell of blood and gunpowder and sweat.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Tim spat, face inches away from Jason’s.
Jason’s grip on his wrists tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to hold him in place. “You don’t get to talk about assholes when you’re the one flouncing into a raid without backup.”
“I had backup,” Tim said. “Unfortunately, it was you.”
“You little—” Jason shoved back and Tim hit the wall behind him with a dull thud. Pain jolted up his side, but he didn’t make a sound, just glared, face hot, breathing sharp.
Jason leaned in, crowding him, one hand braced beside Tim’s head now, the other still on his wrist. “You always run your mouth like this? Or just with me?”
“You’re the only one who deserves it.”
Jason’s eyes flared. He leaned in closer, chest almost pressed to Tim’s now, voice low and rough. “You always get this flushed when you’re angry, or is that just for me too?”
Tim didn’t answer.
Jason’s gaze dropped, flicked to his mouth, then back up again like a dare.
And Tim—stupid, reckless—tugged Jason down by the collar and kissed him like he was trying to knock the air out of his lungs.
The first second was all teeth and fury. Jason pushed in hard, kissing like a shove, and Tim gave back everything just as sharp. Their mouths collided, clashed. Tim bit his lip on purpose and Jason grabbed him tighter. They kissed like they were still fighting, like this was just another way to draw blood.
But something changed.
Slowly, like a tide rolling in too fast to stop, it shifted. The angle softened. Their mouths moved slower, then deeper. Jason’s hands went still, then one of them curled into the back of Tim’s neck, thumb brushing up under his cowl to the bare skin beneath. Tim's breath hitched. His fingers fisted in Jason’s jacket, tugging him closer, closer, until there was no space between them at all.
It shouldn’t feel like this. Tim had been kissed before—sweetly, chastely, with care and intention. He’d never been kissed like this. Never been kissed like someone wanted to consume him.
Jason kissed like he meant it. Not like a gentleman, not like Bernard with his soft touches and hesitations—but like a man starved, like he’d waited years to get his hands on Tim and now that he had them, he wasn’t letting go.
Tim whined against his mouth, just a soft, broken thing, and Jason dragged him in tighter in answer. Their teeth clicked. Breath tangled. Tongues slicked together. Tim was half-panting, legs weak from blood loss and something darker and heavier curling low in his belly.
When he finally wrenched himself back, it was like breaking the surface of water after being held under. Jason looked dazed—wild-eyed, breathing hard, lips kiss-bruised.
Tim didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His pulse was a thunderstorm in his throat.
Jason said nothing either, just stared at him with that same animal hunger, like Tim was the only thing he could see. Like he was waiting for permission to pounce again.
Tim felt his heart stutter hard. He didn’t want to know what he would say if Jason reached for him again.
So he didn’t give him the chance.
He grappled up to the next rooftop without another word, not looking back. The wind hit his face sharp, dried the blood on his leg in sticky streaks. His lips were burning, spit-slick and bitten.
He didn’t stop until the city swallowed him whole.
And even then, Jason’s mouth was still on him.