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Tim Drake realises he’s in love with Jason Todd at 3:12 a.m. on a rooftop in the Cauldron, kneeling beside him in the blood-slicked aftermath of a botched gun deal.
Jason is laughing.
There’s blood on his jacket—his or someone else’s, Tim hasn’t determined yet—but he’s leaning back against the roof ledge, boots kicked out in front of him, panting like he just ran a marathon. His helmet sits next to him, cracked slightly down the right cheek. One of his gloves is missing.
Tim’s heartbeat is still racing from the fight. From the noise. From the moment a bullet nearly carved a home between Jason’s ribs before Tim tackled him out of the way.
And Jason is laughing.
“Jesus,” he gasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Didn’t know you still had that in you, Bird Boy.”
Tim stares at him. Rain slicks his cowl. He can feel the bruise forming along his ribs, the sting of knuckles split open from punching a little too hard.
He says nothing. He just watches the curve of Jason’s mouth, the shine of blood at his temple, the too-loose way he leans his head back like he’s not afraid of anything anymore. Not even dying.
Something settles in Tim’s chest. Something he doesn’t have a word for.
Jason turns his head. Their eyes meet.
Tim realises—with a sick, sinking clarity—that he is so, so in love with this reckless, impossible, maddening man.
It doesn't scare him.
The realisation is just… data. Like anything else. An equation solved. A pattern completed.
And if he feels like he might throw up? That’s just adrenaline. Not emotion.
Emotion is unreliable. Emotion gets people killed.
So Tim does what he does best.
He makes a plan.
It starts with mapping out every interaction they’ve had in the past year—both mission-related and personal. He categorises Jason’s moods, his default reactions, his likely triggers. He watches their mission footage in reverse, tracking body language cues he missed in real time.
Then he builds a model. Predictive.
Jason Todd: volatile, emotionally guarded, prone to violence but responsive to consistency and reluctant praise. Craves control, craves connection, doesn’t trust either.
Solution: Earn proximity. Appear familiar but not intrusive. Engineer moments of vulnerability—but only ones Jason can walk away from. Create symmetry: shared nights, mutual danger, casual humour.
He schedules nothing. But he makes sure their patrol routes overlap. Just enough to be coincidence.
Just enough that Jason doesn’t question it—yet.
The first test is a stakeout in Park Row.
Tim’s not even on the case. It’s an Outlaws op. But he knows Jason likes the view from the old clocktower. So he gets there early. Brings extra coffee.
When Jason climbs through the open hatch, helmet under his arm, he frowns. “This is my sulk spot.”
“I rotated the schedule,” Tim says simply, sipping from his cup. “Didn’t realise you’d called dibs.”
Jason grunts, but he doesn’t leave. He sits. Takes the coffee.
They don’t talk much.
But Tim watches the tension bleed from Jason’s shoulders over the course of the hour. Watches how his hand relaxes around the cup. How he glances over once or twice, like he’s surprised Tim hasn’t filled the silence with some lecture.
Tim smiles, very quietly to himself.
He logs the result that night like a scientist.
Phase One: Establish comfort.
Result: Effective. Subject did not retreat. 4.5/5.
He lets it build slowly after that.
A message here. A joke over comms. A shared look during a brawl.
He starts wearing cologne that Jason once complimented at a gala. Not enough to be obvious—just enough to leave a trace when they pass each other.
Jason starts texting back faster.
Then, Jason starts initiating.
And that—that—is when Tim knows the plan is working.
He doesn’t think about how manipulative it is.
Not really.
Because it’s not about tricking Jason into anything. He’s not lying. Not faking. Every laugh, every touch, every long look is real.
He’s just giving them the right conditions.
Just… stacking the deck in his favour.
Jason is a wildfire. And Tim?
Tim’s the one who built the spark-proof match.
The first time he dreams about Jason, it’s vivid. Too much. Teeth and hands and heat and guilt. He wakes up gasping, sheets twisted, mouth bitten red.
He scrubs a hand over his face and mutters, “Get it together.”
This is still a mission. Still a calculated outcome. No emotion. No deviation.
But his fingers drift to his phone.
And before he can stop himself, he’s sending a message.
[1:41 AM] Tim: You still awake?
The three dots appear instantly.
[1:41 AM] Jason: You always text this late, or is this a booty call?
Tim stares at the screen.
Then he smiles.
[1:42 AM] Tim: Depends. You interested?
Three dots. Then:
[1:42 AM] Jason: You’re a menace.
[1:42 AM] Jason: … yeah.
Tim sets the phone down. The room is quiet. The window is open just enough to let in the Gotham wind.
His pulse is unsteady.
His plan is working.
But he doesn’t feel victorious.
He feels terrified.
Because the truth is, if Jason ever finds out how long Tim’s been playing this game—
It won’t matter how well he planned it.
He’ll lose him.
And there’s no contingency for that.
Jason doesn’t consider himself paranoid.
Well—okay, maybe a little. You don’t come back from the dead without a healthy dose of suspicion and at least two exit strategies per room.
But this? This isn’t paranoia. It’s weird.
Tim Drake keeps showing up.
Not like a stalker. Not like some shadow slipping through the alleys—but casually. Strategically. Always just within range.
Jason starts to notice it in pieces. A slow itch he can’t scratch. Like how Tim’s always at the same diner on Thursday nights. How he’s already crouched on Jason’s favourite rooftop, nursing a thermos, like he’s just coincidentally had the same idea.
Or how he always seems to know where Jason’s going to be before Jason himself knows.
But every time Jason tries to call it out—Tim smiles like he doesn’t know what Jason’s talking about.
Which is infuriating.
Because if it were anyone else? Jason would assume surveillance. Malice. He’d tear apart their tech and make sure they never touched his territory again.
But this is Tim.
Which means… what? Trust?
He doesn’t trust easily. Not anymore. But Tim—
Tim gets under his skin like smoke. Not always visible, but you feel it in your lungs when you breathe.
The first time Jason catches Tim watching him from across the street, it’s two in the morning and raining.
Jason’s mid-stalk, tracking a guy selling weapons-grade explosives to a gang of wannabe arsonists, when he glances up—and there, three rooftops over, in the lee of a rusted-out billboard, is Tim.
Crouched. Silent. Holding a thermal scope.
Jason’s voice clicks on in the comms.
“You stalking me now?”
Tim doesn’t even flinch. “Just backing up your blind side.”
“You weren’t on this op.”
“Neither were you,” Tim says dryly. “Want the assist or not?”
Jason grits his teeth. “…Fine.”
They take the guy down in twelve minutes flat. Smooth. Surgical. Jason barely has to say a word—Tim knows where he’s going before he moves.
It’s unsettling.
It’s also… good.
Jason doesn’t say thank you, but when Tim hands him a protein bar after the takedown and mutters something about “low blood sugar after adrenaline,” Jason takes it without comment.
Still chewing an hour later, he glares up at his ceiling in the safehouse and mutters, “The hell are you doing, Drake?”
The signs keep stacking.
Tim drops a copy of A Clockwork Orange on his desk at one point—first edition, clean edges, a smug little note tucked inside: “You said this one always gets stolen.”
Jason stares at it for ten full minutes before gently closing the cover.
He did say that. Once. In a passing comment. Over two years ago. While drugged and bleeding.
How the hell did Tim remember?
More importantly, why the hell does it make his chest feel like it’s trying to cave in?
Jason pretends not to care. It’s easier that way.
So when they’re paired up again for a warehouse raid, he keeps his tone sharp and businesslike.
“You’re leading comms,” Tim says. “I’ll follow your pace.”
Jason squints at him. “Since when do you follow?”
Tim shrugs. “Since I started trusting you.”
That—that—hits low and dirty.
Jason nearly drops the grappling line.
He says nothing.
They move like fire and oxygen—complementary chaos. By the time they’ve swept the building and disarmed the rigged detonators, Jason’s shirt is torn, Tim’s bleeding from a cut on his forehead, and they’re both panting in the dark.
Jason slumps against a stack of crates. “You good?”
Tim presses a gloved hand to his temple. “Fine. Head wounds always bleed too much.”
Jason eyes the streak of blood running down Tim’s cheek. His jaw tightens.
He doesn’t touch him. But his hand flexes like it wants to.
Back at the bikes, Tim hands him a bottle of water. Jason takes it with a grunt, expecting silence.
Instead, Tim says, “I was scared, you know.”
Jason raises an eyebrow. “Of what? You’re the one with a death wish.”
Tim leans against the wall, something quiet in his expression. “I thought you got caught in the blast. There was a second I couldn’t see you. And I thought—” He cuts himself off. “Never mind.”
Jason stares at him.
He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this Tim—the one who says real things, who looks at him like he means them.
The one who cares.
He hates it.
He likes it.
He hates how much he likes it.
Later, lying in bed with the lights off and the window cracked open to let in Gotham’s smoke-and-rain flavoured air, Jason keeps replaying the mission.
Tim’s hands. The line of blood at his jaw. The stupid first edition book. The texts. The stakeouts. The fact that Jason’s started wearing cologne again because he wants to smell good when they run into each other.
He’s being ridiculous.
Tim’s just being… Tim.
Right?
Still.
Jason reaches for his phone.
He types: You always this involved with your coworkers?
Deletes it. Types: What game are you playing?
Deletes that too.
In the end, he sends nothing.
Just stares at the screen.
And wonders what it is about Tim Drake that makes him feel like he’s ten steps behind in a game he didn’t even know they were playing.
Tim is tired.
Bone-deep. Behind-the-eyes. The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix, because it lives in the space between heartbeats—chronic, quiet, and always watching.
He doesn’t let it show, usually.
But tonight? He’s letting it show on purpose.
He drags himself up the fire escape to Jason’s favourite roof—again—and drops onto the ledge like gravity just got a little stronger.
Jason’s already there. No helmet. No mask. Just the leather jacket, a busted knuckle, and an unlit cigarette hanging lazily between two fingers.
He glances over. Eyes narrow. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Tim mutters, slumping next to him. “You’re radiant as always.”
Jason snorts. “What, no quip about blood pressure or situational ethics?”
Tim leans his head back against the brick. Closes his eyes.
Silence stretches out between them.
And that’s the point. Tim is letting the silence breathe.
This—this right here—is Step 3 in the plan.
Phase Three: Tactical vulnerability.
Controlled exposure to emotional exhaustion to build reciprocal trust.
He knows Jason. Knows he responds best when he thinks he’s choosing to care. When someone doesn’t ask for comfort but leaves a door unlocked in case he wants to come inside.
So Tim says nothing. Just sits there, shivering a little in the wind, face pale and jaw tight like he’s holding something back.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jason fidget. Then sigh.
Then finally say, “Alright, what happened?”
Tim blinks at him, eyes wide and half-open. “Nothing.”
Jason groans. “God, you’re so full of shit.”
Tim shrugs. Lets his shoulders slump deeper.
Jason studies him. Then tosses the cigarette off the ledge and mutters, “You haven’t slept.”
“Not much.”
“You eat?”
“…Define eat.”
Jason curses under his breath, pulls a protein bar from his pocket, and smacks it into Tim’s hand.
Tim bites back a smile. “You carry snacks for me now?”
“I carry snacks so you don’t pass out mid-fight and leave me with cleanup.”
“Uh-huh.”
They fall quiet again.
Then Tim says softly, “You don’t have to keep checking on me.”
Jason glances at him sharply.
“You’re not a project,” Tim adds. “You’re allowed to walk away.”
Jason’s whole body tenses, like a wire pulled too tight.
Checkmate, Tim thinks.
Jason says nothing. Just breathes. Then, carefully—so carefully—says, “You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a bomb, Drake.”
Tim turns his head.
And there it is: the look. Raw. Honest. Defensive. Jason looks at him like he’s trying not to admit how much that matters.
Tim swallows.
You’re not the only one with pressure points, he wants to say.
Instead, he looks away and mumbles, “Same.”
Later, when they split up for the night, Tim gets a message he didn’t expect.
[11:48 PM] Jason: You’re not a project either. You’re…
[11:48 PM] Jason: Someone I look for now.
Tim stares at his phone.
Then exhales like it hurts.
He doesn’t reply.
Just taps the screen off and presses it to his chest.
Jason, meanwhile, is spiralling.
He paces the safehouse like a man trying to outwalk his thoughts.
“Someone I look for?” he mutters, horrified. “Who says shit like that?”
He glares at his phone. Throws it onto the couch. Then picks it back up thirty seconds later and rereads the text again, like maybe it’ll self-destruct and take his shame with it.
He can’t stop seeing the way Tim looked on that rooftop—too pale, too tired, too damn breakable.
And that moment, after the silence, when Tim said, You don’t have to keep checking on me—like Jason’s care was something Tim expected to be taken away.
Jason doesn’t know how to do this.
He’s good at damage. Good at exits. Not at this quiet, lingering kind of closeness that creeps in like fog and settles behind your ribs.
He wishes Tim would just ask him to stay. That would make this easier.
But Tim never does.
He just leaves the door open.
And Jason keeps walking through it like a goddamn fool.
He’s curled up on the couch with a book he’s not reading. His phone lights up:
[9:17 PM] Jason: You up?
Tim doesn’t even hesitate.
[9:18 PM] Tim: Always.
Tim Drake wasn’t born a mastermind.
He became one.
Out of necessity. Out of hunger. Out of silence.
He doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t watching. His earliest memory isn’t a birthday or a bedtime story. It’s standing in the hallway outside his parents’ office door, listening for the click of a lock, the change in tone that meant they were done talking about him.
They rarely said his name.
He learned quickly that attention was earned, not given. That love wasn’t unconditional—it was transactional, and the conditions were never clearly defined.
So he stopped waiting to be chosen.
And started making himself necessary.
He figured out how to decode adult conversations by the time he was seven.
Knew how to disappear into a room by eight. Knew how to take photographs that mattered—things the police missed, things no one was supposed to see—by ten.
But nothing changed until Jason Todd died.
Tim watched from the outside as the world shifted.
As Batman unravelled.
As the void left behind by the second Robin became a wound Gotham didn’t know how to name.
Tim didn’t want to be Robin.
He just wanted to help.
He thought—if he could just fix it, if he could restore balance, maybe someone would finally look at him and see someone worth choosing.
He was wrong.
Bruce took him in, sure. But it was never quite the same. Tim was too quiet. Too polished. Too useful to be seen as anything else.
He was family—but in the way a really good assistant becomes family. Necessary. Trusted. Not quite loved.
So Tim adapted.
He made himself invaluable. As Robin. As Red Robin. As the strategist, the one with answers when everyone else was bleeding out.
He kept secrets. Played long games. Solved other people’s grief because his own didn’t matter.
Love became a theory. Affection, a luxury. Control, the only reliable constant.
Then Jason came back.
And everything broke.
Because Jason Todd was supposed to stay dead. He was a shadow Tim could never match, a cautionary tale about loving too loud.
But when he returned, he wasn’t a ghost.
He was fire. Loud. Brutal. Honest in ways that felt like violence—because no one else ever said what they meant. He was angry and impossible and beautiful.
And he looked at Tim like he saw him. Not as an asset. Not as a Wayne satellite.
But as something sharp. Something dangerous. Something real.
Even when they fought, it felt equal.
Jason never flinched from the parts of Tim that scared others—the coldness, the obsessive logic, the moments where Tim’s morality bent under pressure. He called Tim out, sure. But he respected him for it.
And Tim—Tim fell in love the way people fall into traps.
One wrong step, and everything collapsed.
It wasn’t a good time. Jason hated him, sometimes. Or said he did. They screamed at each other over comms. Bled together. Broke ribs and protocol and probably the Batcomputer once.
But underneath it?
There was something aching in Jason’s gaze. Something that looked like understanding.
Tim didn’t need to be perfect around him.
Didn’t need to smile through exhaustion or quote obscure case law to feel worthy. He could snap, and Jason would still be there, arms crossed, scowling, saying, “Finally. You feel that? Good. It means you’re alive.”
And that was it.
That was the beginning of the end.
Tim never expected Jason to love him back.
He just wanted to be close enough to feel it. To trace the edges of something warm and real, even if he never got to hold it.
But when Jason started looking at him like maybe—maybe—he could?
That’s when Tim started to plan.
Not because he didn’t trust Jason. But because he didn’t trust himself.
Because if Jason ever walked away, Tim needed to know he had done everything to stop it.
Even if it meant scheming.
Even if it meant playing the long game.
Even if it meant breaking his own heart just to see if Jason would catch the pieces.
Jason Todd made him believe he was worth choosing.
And Tim Drake was never going to leave that to chance.
Jason stares at the screen for a full minute.
Then another.
Then he curses under his breath, throws on a hoodie, and grabs his helmet—but doesn’t bother with the rest of the suit. He’s not going on patrol.
He’s going to Tim.
Tim leaves the window open.
He always does.
It’s ridiculous, really. Jason’s climbed into dozens of apartments, infiltrated hideouts with tighter security than the GCPD. And yet somehow, the act of slipping into this window—the one with the stupid potted plant and the faint coffee smell—is the only one that makes him feel like an intruder.
Tim is barefoot. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. There's a half-eaten protein bar on the coffee table and four open case files stacked on the floor. He looks exhausted.
He also looks at Jason like he’s been waiting for him.
“Hey,” Tim says, soft.
Jason clears his throat. “You said you were up.”
Tim nods. “Always.”
Jason steps inside, closes the window behind him. The air between them is quiet. Full of things they haven’t said for weeks. Maybe years.
“You okay?” Tim asks.
Jason shrugs. “Didn’t feel like being alone.”
The corner of Tim’s mouth twitches up. “Me neither.”
They don’t talk much at first.
Jason throws himself onto the couch with a grunt. Tim leans on the back of a chair, arms crossed, like he’s deciding whether to come closer or not.
It’s comfortable. Which is the problem.
Jason’s been doing this—this—for weeks now. Showing up at Tim’s place post-mission. Or mid-meltdown. Or for no reason at all. And Tim never turns him away.
Worse, Tim always seems… ready.
Prepared, almost.
Not in the way that freaks Jason out—just… steady. Anchored. Like he knew Jason would need him eventually, and set out the emotional equivalent of clean sheets and a nightlight.
Jason doesn’t know what to do with that.
No one’s ever made space for him before.
“You ever sleep?” Jason asks eventually, glancing at the files.
Tim shrugs. “Not well.”
Jason kicks at the edge of a report. “You’re gonna burn out.”
“You sound like Bruce.”
Jason grimaces. “Rude.”
That makes Tim smile, which makes Jason relax, which is definitely dangerous.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Tim’s voice is quiet. “Tonight or in general?”
Jason chuckles. “Both.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever get that feeling like you’re on a moving train, and you don’t remember getting on, but now it’s going too fast to jump?”
Tim hesitates.
Then walks around the chair and sits next to him.
Close.
Not too close. But close enough that Jason notices how small Tim is when he’s not armoured. How his knee is just barely brushing Jason’s.
“I think,” Tim says, “you might be overthinking something that’s actually very simple.”
Jason snorts. “There’s no such thing as simple. Not in this city.”
Tim shrugs. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”
Jason turns to look at him.
Tim’s eyes are steady. Calm. Like the ocean right before it drowns you.
Jason feels the breath catch in his chest.
And suddenly he’s very, very aware that Tim is warm, and soft, and right here.
And staring at him like maybe—just maybe—he’s not going to move first.
So Jason does.
The kiss is instinct. No logic. No hesitation. Just a split-second spark and a tilt forward and—
Tim’s breath hitches, and then he’s kissing back like he knew this would happen.
Like he wanted it to.
Like he’s been waiting, patiently, quietly, for Jason to finally get it.
Jason’s brain short-circuits.
Because Tim kisses like he fights—focused, efficient, deliberate. Like he’s memorised this in advance and is just walking through the steps. Which should be weird, but it’s not. It’s hot.
Too hot.
Jason groans softly into his mouth, one hand slipping under the edge of Tim’s hoodie, fingers brushing skin.
Tim gasps. Pulls him closer.
Jason presses him back into the cushions, chest-to-chest, heart pounding like a riot in his ribcage.
He’s not thinking.
He’s finally not thinking.
When they break apart, breathless, Tim doesn’t say anything. Just looks at him.
Jason grins a little. “That was…”
“Yeah,” Tim says, voice hoarse. “It was.”
Jason shifts, awkward all of a sudden. “So… was that okay?”
Tim smiles. “You’re asking now?”
“I’m new to this part,” Jason mutters. “Sue me.”
Tim nudges his thigh. “It was okay. More than okay.”
Jason settles back, legs still touching Tim’s.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’ve been wanting to do that since… I don’t know. Before.”
Tim glances at him. “Before what?”
Jason shrugs. “Before I realised why I kept showing up here.”
Tim’s throat moves like he’s swallowing something thick.
But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t press.
Jason, oblivious, just leans back with a satisfied sigh.
“You know, I really thought you’d make the first move,” he says.
Tim huffs out a tiny laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “So did I.”
Jason’s first thought when he wakes up is Shit. I slept.
He’s on Tim’s couch. Still in his hoodie. Feet shoved awkwardly under a throw blanket with a cartoon robin on it—go figure.
Tim is asleep next to him, slouched sideways with his head tucked into Jason’s shoulder like it belongs there. His breath is soft. His hand is curled in Jason’s hoodie like he never let go.
Jason stares at the ceiling. Then at Tim. Then back at the ceiling.
This was not supposed to happen.
Not the kissing, not the staying, definitely not the waking up wrapped around each other like something permanent.
He should leave.
He should definitely leave.
But instead, he shifts slightly so Tim doesn’t wake up, stares at the way morning light hits Tim’s eyelashes, and thinks I’m screwed.
Tim wakes up exactly seventeen minutes later.
Jason knows, because he counts them.
Tim blinks slowly. Then freezes.
Jason stiffens, preparing for regret.
Instead, Tim just mumbles, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to… y’know. Latch.”
Jason huffs out a breath. “You always cuddle like a sleep-deprived barnacle, or is that just for me?”
Tim smiles, slow and a little smug. “Just you.”
Jason feels something bright and unmanageable bloom in his chest.
He buries it quickly. “Figures.”
They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
Then Tim says, carefully, “You okay?”
Jason frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I kissed you. You stayed.”
Jason shrugs. “Yeah. I wanted to.”
Tim hesitates. “You sure it wasn’t just… heat-of-the-moment? Post-mission adrenaline? You don’t have to—”
Jason cuts him off. “Don’t do that.”
Tim blinks. “Do what?”
“Push me away before I can flinch. I’m not flinching.”
Tim swallows hard.
Jason reaches over and touches his wrist. “Let me decide if this is real.”
“It is real,” Tim says before he can stop himself.
Too fast. Too sharp.
Jason watches him.
Tim backpedals. “I mean… I want it to be. I’m not trying to mess with you.”
“You’re not,” Jason says softly. “If anything, I’m the one who’s—”
But he doesn’t finish the sentence.
He doesn’t know how.
Later, Jason walks home with his hood up and his heart doing that annoying stutter-thing again.
He can’t stop thinking about the way Tim smiled into the kiss. The way he touched Jason like he’d mapped every inch of him before ever laying a hand.
Jason tells himself he’s just not used to being wanted.
He tells himself it’s fine.
He tells himself it’s not that deep.
He lies.
Meanwhile, Tim is having a meltdown.
He stares at his reflection in the mirror and whispers, “What the hell are you doing?”
This wasn’t supposed to go this fast. The plan was for gradual escalation—months of controlled contact, earned affection, gentle emotional progression. Not… kissing-on-the-couch and sleeping-in-his-hoodie fast.
Jason’s not supposed to feel this safe, this soon.
He’s not supposed to trust Tim yet.
Because Tim knows what he did.
He rewrote the game.
He planted every opportunity, every late-night rooftop, every spark that led Jason to think he made a choice.
And the worst part?
Jason thinks it’s his idea.
Tim paces his apartment like something hunted.
He replays the kiss over and over. The way Jason smiled. The way he said just you like it meant something.
It did mean something.
And that’s the problem.
Because now the plan isn’t a plan anymore.
Now it’s real. Now it’s fragile.
And if Jason ever finds out how deep the roots of this thing go—how long Tim’s wanted him, watched him, built the steps that led to that moment on the couch—
He’ll walk.
No questions. No second chances.
Because Jason Todd has been controlled before.
And he doesn’t forgive it.
But the worst part?
Tim isn’t sure he’d even blame him.
Jason Todd has never been good at slow.
He likes fast cars, fast fights, fast exits. You can’t get hurt if you don’t stay long enough to be a target.
But somehow, Tim Drake is changing that.
Because this? This is slow. This is lingering.
This is waking up three mornings in a row with Tim’s hoodie under his cheek and Tim’s coffee in his hand and Tim’s fingers brushing his spine like it’s normal to be touched so gently.
And the worst part?
Jason likes it.
He likes the steady quiet of Tim’s apartment. The soft background noise of keyboard keys and the way Tim hums when he thinks. He likes the way Tim looks at him—not like he’s dangerous, but like he’s already home.
He likes being wanted.
He just doesn’t know what to do with that.
So he cooks.
Because apparently, when Jason Todd is overwhelmed, he makes pancakes.
Tim comes into the kitchen barefoot, yawning, hair a mess. His hoodie is halfway off his shoulder, and Jason nearly drops a spatula because holy shit.
“You’re cooking,” Tim says, voice still thick with sleep.
Jason grunts. “Shut up.”
“Is that bacon?”
“No.”
Tim walks over and kisses him on the cheek, whispering, “Liar,” before stealing a strip from the plate.
Jason goes red.
Tim smirks.
Jason tries not to combust.
They eat in silence, hip-to-hip at the counter.
Tim moans a little around a bite of food, which Jason is absolutely not going to think about later.
“These are really good,” Tim says. “You’re a better cook than me.”
Jason grunts. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
Tim glances at him, eyes soft. “I’m not. I just… I didn’t know you’d still be here.”
Jason freezes.
Tim looks away quickly. “Not in a bad way. I just thought—usually people leave.”
Jason sets down his fork.
“I’m not people,” he says.
Tim nods. “Yeah. I know.”
But there’s something in his voice that’s just off enough to make Jason’s gut twist.
Like he’s waiting for Jason to go. Like he’s already built the next contingency plan in case Jason doesn’t stay.
Jason stares at him. Then reaches over, fingers brushing Tim’s wrist.
“I’m not leaving,” he says quietly.
Tim swallows. Nods again.
But Jason isn’t sure he believes him.
Later, when Jason’s in the shower, Tim collapses against the bathroom sink and grips the counter like it might keep him upright.
This wasn’t the plan.
Jason was supposed to push, to test, to fight this.
Not settle into it like he belonged.
Not memorise the spice rack or fold his sleeves just so or hum in the mornings when he thinks Tim is asleep.
Tim has no idea what to do with that.
Because the plan was about control. The plan was about building the perfect framework. The plan was never supposed to work this well.
And now?
Now it feels real.
And Tim doesn’t know if it can be real—not when it started like this. Not when he started it.
That night, they lie in bed—not quite touching.
Jason is half-asleep, body warm beside him.
Tim is wide awake.
He stares at the ceiling, heart thudding like a metronome with no melody to follow.
And he thinks What happens when he figures it out?
Because it’s not if. It’s when.
Jason may not be asking questions now, but he will.
And when he does—
Tim turns his head to look at him. At the man sleeping so peacefully beside him, arm flung over the pillow like he’s not afraid to take up space here.
And he thinks I’ve never been more in love.
I’ve never been more scared.
It starts with a kiss in the dark.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Just… warm. Slow.
Like they’re allowed to take their time.
Jason shifts closer in the bed, one hand on Tim’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He kisses him again—longer this time, deeper. No urgency. Just that quiet, electric sense of yes, this is okay, this is real, this is ours.
Tim sighs against his mouth, hands sliding up under Jason’s t-shirt, fingers pressing into the small of his back.
Jason shivers.
“You’re freezing,” Tim whispers.
“I run cold,” Jason mumbles. “Side effect of being dead, probably.”
Tim huffs out a laugh, presses a kiss to the edge of Jason’s mouth, then his jaw, then lower.
Jason tilts his head back, letting it happen. Letting Tim have him.
Not because he doesn’t know how to take—but because there’s something terrifying and beautiful about being the one someone reaches for.
Tim pushes the blanket down and slides on top of him, knees straddling his hips, weight balanced just right.
Jason looks up at him like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“You don’t have to—” he starts.
“I want to,” Tim says.
Quiet. Steady.
His hands move carefully—like he’s learning a map by memory. Fingertips brushing scars. Tracing the curve of Jason’s ribs. Feeling his heartbeat like it’s something he needs to memorise.
Jason’s breath catches when Tim kisses the spot just below his collarbone, where the Lazarus scar starts to fade.
“You always touch me like I’m going to disappear,” Jason says, voice low and strange.
Tim pauses. Looks at him.
“I touch you like you came back,” he whispers. “Like you chose to.”
Jason doesn’t speak.
But his hands come up to cup Tim’s jaw, and he pulls him into a kiss that’s all teeth and ache and please stay.
Clothes come off slowly.
Half-lifted shirts. Quiet laughter when Jason gets his arm stuck. Tim pressing his mouth to Jason’s hip like it’s something sacred.
It’s not rough.
It’s not even messy.
It’s intentional.
A slow unravelling of tension, of armour, of years of grief knotted behind ribs and between words.
They don’t say much.
But Jason keeps whispering, “You feel so good,” like it’s a confession. And Tim keeps kissing his chest like he’s afraid to stop.
When Jason comes—hips arching, hand clenched in the sheet, a quiet gasp of “fuck, Tim”—Tim doesn’t look away.
He just watches him fall apart and thinks, I built this moment. I built this.
And now I don’t know if I deserve it.
After, Jason doesn’t pull away.
He stays tangled with him, skin still warm, thumb brushing Tim’s shoulder lazily.
“You always this gentle?” he murmurs.
Tim presses his face into Jason’s neck.
“No,” he says. “Just with you.”
Jason breathes out.
And that’s when Tim knows: It’s not just a lie anymore.
It’s a choice.
And it’s getting harder to keep it.
Stephanie Brown doesn’t consider herself a genius.
But she does know people. And right now, she’s watching Jason Todd walk into the Gotham Clocktower with two coffees and a slight, uncharacteristic smile—and she knows something’s up.
“Okay,” she says, spinning her chair toward Barbara’s monitors. “Someone’s getting laid.”
Barbara doesn’t look up. “Jason?”
“Jason,” Steph confirms. “The guy who grunts more than he speaks and once told me, and I quote, ‘I don’t do mornings’, just walked in with caffeine and a good mood. He’s either possessed or getting some.”
Barbara hums. “Let’s not rule out both.”
Steph turns back to her screen, tracking Jason’s progress through the hallway cams.
He’s humming.
“Humming,” she whispers. “That man is humming. What the hell.”
Jason, for the record, has no idea he’s being watched.
He drops the coffees on the intel table, boots scuffing the floor, and calls out, “I brought blackmail fuel in liquid form. Drink it before I change my mind.”
Tim appears from the side room not five seconds later.
He looks… flushed. Hair slightly messy. A faint smudge of ink across his jaw like he’s been rubbing at it for hours.
He sees Jason, sees the coffee, and—Jason swears—his whole face lights up.
“Morning,” Tim says, already reaching for the cup Jason marked with a crooked little ‘T’.
Jason ducks his head. “Thought you didn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t,” Tim replies, sipping. “But this helps.”
Their hands brush. Neither pulls away.
Steph watches from the cams and practically screams.
After Jason leaves, she waits exactly two minutes before pouncing.
“So…” she drawls, leaning against Tim’s desk. “How long?”
Tim doesn’t even look up. “How long what?”
“Timothy.”
“Stephanie.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You and Jason. You’re making eyes at him like a Victorian ghost bride. And he brought you coffee. That means something.”
Tim sighs. “It’s… new.”
Steph squints. “Not to you. You’ve been in love with him for, like, three years.”
Tim doesn’t deny it.
Which is new.
And worrying.
Steph softens. “Hey. You okay?”
Tim nods. Then shakes his head. Then says, “I think I made a mistake.”
“With him?”
“No,” Tim says immediately. “Not with him. With… how I got here.”
Steph stares at him for a long second.
Then sits down slowly.
“Define ‘mistake,’” she says.
Tim presses his fingers to his temples.
“I think I might’ve… manipulated it.”
Steph raises both eyebrows. “You manipulated Jason Todd into dating you? What, did you roofie his black leather aesthetic?”
“Jesus, Steph—no. Not like that. I just—” He breaks off. “I created opportunities. I built proximity. I planned. I nudged things.”
Steph blinks.
“You masterminded your way into his heart,” she says flatly.
Tim looks guilty.
Steph leans forward. “Did you lie to him?”
“No.”
“Pretend to be someone you’re not?”
“No.”
“Force him into anything?”
“God, no.”
Steph crosses her arms. “Then maybe—just maybe—you didn’t manipulate him. Maybe you gave him the space to fall for you.”
Tim doesn’t look convinced.
“He didn’t fall for me,” he says softly. “He fell for the version of me that showed up on his favourite rooftops and remembered his coffee order and made him feel safe.”
Steph’s voice is gentle. “That is you.”
Tim whispers, “But it started as a plan.”
And Steph—smart, observant, nosy-as-hell Steph—understands.
“You’re scared that when he finds out how intentional it was, he won’t believe any of it was real.”
Tim doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
That night, Jason stays over again.
They’re tangled together in Tim’s too-small bed, limbs knotted like seaweed and sleep clinging to them both.
Tim’s head is tucked under Jason’s chin.
Jason runs his fingers absently through Tim’s hair and says, “You ever wonder how this happened?”
Tim goes still.
Jason doesn’t notice.
He continues, voice low and fond, “Feels like one day I looked up and you were just… always there.”
Tim’s heart stutters.
He says nothing.
Jason hums, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Tim’s head.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he murmurs.
Tim closes his eyes.
And says, quietly, “Me too.”
Jason wasn’t looking for anything.
He swears that to himself later, like it’ll make a difference. He was just trying to plug in his phone. Charger’s dead. Tim’s desk drawer has ten.
That’s it.
That’s all.
He wasn’t looking for a reason to doubt the best thing that’s happened to him in years.
But the universe has a sense of humour.
The file isn’t hidden. Not really.
It’s buried under some notes and a folder labelled “outdated gear loadouts.”
Jason flips past it on instinct. Sees his initials. Stops.
JT — Behavioural Patterning | Relationship Variables (PRIVATE)
The blood drains out of him.
His fingers close around the folder like they’re not his. He knows what this is. Even before he opens it.
He just doesn’t know how much it’s going to hurt.
Inside: charts, notations, timelines. Pages and pages of observational data—his patterns, his phrases, his emotional weak points. Everything Jason thought made him unknowable, uncontrollable, laid bare in clean, colour-coded graphs and psychological profiling.
Subject prefers consistency in touch.
Delayed response to direct compliments but retains them.
High emotional volatility following missions involving children.
Prior trauma tied to abandonment, betrayal, and perceived loss of agency.
Jason feels like he’s watching himself from across the room.
Like he’s staring into a coffin and only just realising it has his name on it.
He turns a page.
Projected Outcome Timeline:
Day 23 — stakeout opportunity (shared vulnerability)
Day 41 — mid-mission injury (increased dependence)
Day 54 — first contact initiated (coffee drop-off)
Day 71 — physical closeness normalised (safehouse proximity)
Day 85 — Subject initiates first kiss
He stares at that line.
Again. And again. And again.
Day 85 — Subject initiates first kiss.
He thought he made the move.
He thought he was being brave.
Turns out, he was just hitting his mark.
He doesn’t remember leaving.
Only knows that one second he was standing in Tim’s apartment with the file in his hands, and the next he was three blocks away, breathing like he’d just clawed his way out of a grave.
He doesn't stop walking for hours.
Tim notices the drawer first.
The slight shift. The folder missing.
His hands go numb.
He tears through the files, frantic, fingers trembling until—
It’s gone.
The JT file.
He sways. Fumbles for his phone. Calls once. Voicemail. Tries again. Blocked.
He doesn't leave the apartment for three days.
He doesn’t sleep. Barely eats.
Every time he imagines Jason’s face when he read it—when he realised—he feels like he’s being hollowed out from the inside.
He knows Jason.
Knows what choice means to him. What it means to be used.
And now?
Now, Tim doesn’t know if this was ever love, or if he just built the illusion of it well enough for Jason to believe in it.
And he doesn’t know what’s worse.
When Jason comes back, it’s not through the window.
He knocks on the door. One sharp knock.
Tim freezes.
His feet don’t want to move. But his heart does.
He opens the door slowly.
Jason looks wrecked.
Not angry. Not yelling.
Just… hurt.
Like he’s holding himself together out of spite.
There’s no helmet. No jacket. Just civilian clothes and the file tucked under one arm.
He walks past Tim without a word.
Sets the folder on the table.
Then turns.
Tim doesn’t speak.
He waits.
Because anything he says now might make it worse.
Jason finally asks. “How long?”
Tim breathes in. Out.
“Since the rooftop stakeout,” he says. “The one near the Narrows. You got shot. I brought you coffee.”
Jason nods slowly.
“You planned that?”
“Yes.”
Jason stares at him.
And says, “Tell me it was real anyway.”
Tim closes his eyes. “It was.”
“I don’t mean the plan,” Jason snaps. “I mean me. All of this. The nights. The mornings. The way you touched me. Was any of that—any of it—real?”
“Yes.”
Jason’s voice cracks. “Then why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
Tim looks like he’s drowning on dry land.
“Because you wouldn’t have let yourself fall for me,” he says. “Not if you saw it coming. Not if you thought it was calculated.”
Jason flinches.
Tim presses on, quiet and shaking. “I didn’t know how else to reach you. I didn’t think you’d look at me—not the real me—if I didn’t earn it first. So I stacked the deck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Jason paces. Hands in his hair. Not yelling. Not quite leaving.
“You weren’t supposed to earn me, Tim,” he says. “This isn’t a mission. This isn’t chess. It’s—God, you can’t just design a person into loving you.”
Tim swallows. “But I didn’t make you love me.”
“No,” Jason snaps. “You just made it easier for me to think it was my idea.”
They both go still.
Tim looks at him, finally breaking. “You were never a variable. You were the outcome.”
Jason doesn’t respond.
He just stares.
Long and silent.
And then says—voice soft and sharp, “You could’ve told me the truth.”
“I know.”
“I would’ve stayed anyway.”
Tim looks away. Eyes shining.
Jason breathes in once. And walks to the door.
He stops there, one hand on the handle.
“You were right,” he says, without looking back. “I don’t like being controlled.”
The door opens. Closes.
And Tim is left standing in the middle of a life he built too well.
It’s been four days.
He’s taken three different safehouses in as many nights. Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t check in with Babs. Ignored Dick’s calls. Tossed his comm unit in the Hudson.
He patrols until dawn and crashes wherever he lands. Then repeats.
It doesn’t help.
Because everywhere he goes, he sees him.
Tim in his hoodie, barefoot in the kitchen. Tim tapping notes into his phone without looking. Tim touching Jason’s shoulder like it’s second nature. Tim pressing his mouth to Jason’s neck with that little sound—God, that sound—
Jason punches the wall.
It doesn’t help either.
He opens the file again on Day Five. He doesn’t know why.
Maybe because some part of him wants it to make sense. Wants to be furious again.
But all it does is make him tired.
Because yeah—Tim tracked him like a mission. But he also saw him. Saw everything Jason tried to hide: his panic, his bruises, his soft spots. Jason wasn’t just a project—he was a case study in longing.
The file is intimate in a way that’s almost unbearable.
Like Tim opened him up just to memorise every piece.
“Subject responds to calm voices after violent outbursts.”
“Subject reads when he thinks no one is watching.”
“Subject aches when alone, even when he pretends otherwise.”
Jason doesn’t realise he’s crying until his hands are wet.
Tim doesn’t sleep anymore.
Not really.
He pretends to go about his day—WayneTech meetings, comms work, light patrol—but it’s all static. Background noise.
Because Jason is gone. Not just from the apartment, but from him.
And Tim feels like he’s missing a limb.
It’s not just grief. It’s withdrawal.
Because when you love someone like that—like that—and they leave?
You don’t just feel sad.
You feel unmade.
He opens a blank document.
And types: I’m sorry I tried to make it easier for you to love me.
Then deletes it.
Types: You were never just a variable.
Deletes that too.
He types: I would have loved you even if you never kissed me.
And that?
He saves.
Prints. Folds. Leaves it by the window.
Just in case.
Jason shows up again on Day Seven.
He doesn’t mean to.
His feet just… take him there.
The window’s unlocked. The place is dark.
Tim’s not home.
Jason stares at the empty living room for five minutes before stepping inside.
It still smells like him.
He doesn’t go to the bedroom. Doesn’t check the desk. But he finds the folded note on the sill.
It’s simple.
Just: I would have loved you even if you never kissed me.
Jason presses it to his chest.
And sits down on the couch.
Tim walks in an hour later, still wearing his domino mask, and freezes.
Jason’s there. On the couch. Eyes closed, holding something in his hand.
He looks like he hasn’t slept. Like maybe he’s been walking through hell and finally gave up on pretending he isn’t tired.
Tim doesn’t speak.
Just waits.
Jason cracks one eye open.
“Did you mean it?”
Tim nods. “Every word.”
Jason stares at him. “Then I think I’m ready to try again.”
Tim swallows. “Try what?”
Jason sets the note down gently.
“Something unplanned.”
The living room is dim, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside, filtering through the thin curtains. The couch creaks slightly under their weight as they settle into the silence after everything that happened—words, touches, the realisation that maybe they’ve both been waiting for this longer than they’ve admitted.
Jason doesn’t move when the silence stretches. He’s staring at the ceiling, half-covered by the couch blanket, one arm thrown over his eyes.
Tim slides in next to him, body still warm from everything they didn’t say but finally did. His chest rises and falls, steady. Present. Real.
“Tim,” Jason says, voice rough. “You said you didn’t think you deserved it.”
Tim looks at him.
Jason shifts, lowers his arm, stares at the ceiling again. “Tell me why.”
Tim doesn’t answer right away. He pulls the blanket higher, then rests his head on Jason’s shoulder.
“Because I was always the contingency plan,” Tim says finally. “For everyone. Not the first choice. Not even the second. Just—the kid who knew too much. The one who showed up with files instead of feelings. They kept me around because I made things work.”
Jason doesn’t say anything.
“I watched Dick get welcomed back with open arms. I watched Damian get claimed like he belonged before he even understood what family was. And I—I learned how to adapt. How to fit in without being invited. How to make myself useful enough not to be left behind.” His voice goes quiet. “I don’t think I even know how to want something without turning it into a plan. Without strategising how to deserve it. So when I realised I wanted you—really wanted you—I defaulted. I started tracking your patterns, your tells, your soft spots. Not because I wanted to control you. Because I didn’t believe you could love me unless I gave you every reason to.”
Jason finally turns his head, meets his eyes. There’s something cracked open in his expression. Something raw and wondering.
Tim leans in and kisses him. Slow. Like a promise. Like permission.
He shifts, sliding a leg between Jason’s, hands moving with purpose now, sliding under the blanket and across warm, bare skin.
Jason sucks in a breath. “Tim—”
Tim kisses the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. “Let me.”
Jason swallows. Nods.
Tim rolls them gently, settling above him. Jason goes willingly, eyes wide and unsure, but open. Vulnerable in a way that breaks Tim apart.
“You don’t have to plan this,” Jason whispers.
Tim smiles, brushing his fingers along Jason’s cheek. “I’m not. I just want to feel you. All of you.”
Jason shudders under him as Tim kisses his throat, then down his chest, every movement reverent, every touch a quiet declaration.
When they move together, it’s with unhurried intention. Tim leads with care, with a steady hand and whispered encouragement. Jason gives in completely, breathless, eyes glazed with something soft and stunned. He arches up into every touch, clutches at Tim like he’s grounding him.
Afterwards, they lie tangled together. Jason’s head is buried in the crook of Tim’s neck, skin still flushed, body trembling with aftershocks.
Tim holds him close, lips against his hair.
“You didn’t have to earn me, Tim. You just had to stay.”
And Tim, for the first time in a long time, believes it.