The Accountant

by chibi_nightowl

Summary:

The last thing Tim needed was to get involved with someone who worked for Gotham’s meanest crime lord—or was him. Either way, getting into bed with the Red Hood was a really bad idea. 

Notes:

I still can't get over how fast this story is coming together. I'm pretty sure bumpkin and txbookeater think I have magic fingers at this point with how fast I'm sending them new chapters to beta. Also a special thanks to themandylion for poking around as well!

Btw, I am not an accountant, though I do work in an adjacent field. If there's any obvious errors, those are all on me.

Also, a note on canon... This is very much the Under the Red Hood Jason and is in a Pre-Flashpoint world where Tim was never Robin and did not ever figure out exactly who Dick Grayson was. More on that eventually in the story, but for now, just keep it in mind.

Chapter 1: My Name is Tim

Tim yawned, mouth opening so wide his jaw popped. It had been a long day and an even longer evening, but he’d reached the point where he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Only a few boxes of old statements and invoices were left to sort through, ones that were labeled with tax years the IRS wouldn’t care about anymore—or at least, they’d better not. Times like these, he was glad record-retention requirements were a thing.  

His fingers dancing over the calculator never stopped, the constant tap tap tap breaking the silence. Piles of receipts and invoices were strewn into semi-comprehensible stacks across the desk, each one with their own list of items he had to keep an eye out for. Pro-bono jobs like this were often messy, but he liked them. They presented more of a challenge than what he found in his day job.  

He made a mental note to bring his portable scanner tomorrow night. The sooner he could digitize the files, the sooner he could start a bonfire to free up all the space in the storage room Rochelle had dragged everything from.  

The new owner of this dingy Bowery bar was a friend of a friend, one that he privately suspected Ives was trying to not-so-subtly hook him up with. Fat chance of that happening, but Rochelle was a nice gal who gave him full access to whatever he wanted from the kitchen while he was here.  

As far as Tim was concerned, any meal he didn’t have to cook or buy on his own was a win.  

Another jaw-breaking yawn broke his concentration. Okay, he could take a hint. Time for a break and a stretch.  

He rolled his neck from side to side, feeling and hearing the pop of joints that hadn’t moved in too long. With a soft sigh, he rose from the desk and removed his glasses, using the back of his tie to wipe any smudges from the lenses. He could be excused for being overly particular about his little habit—without his glasses, he might as well be blind as a bat. Not for the first time, he wondered if corrective eye surgery was the way to go.  

Maybe he’d look into it after this side job was over.  

Then again, pigs had a better chance of flying first.

 

---

 

Outside the small office, the bar was quiet. The few regulars he’d met earlier had left for the night, which spoke volumes as to how late it was. Only one guy was left, chatting quietly with Rochelle as he nursed his beer.  

Tim leaned against the far end of the bar, opting to stand rather than sit. From this angle, he had a good view of most of the place. Rochelle had spoken a bit about some plans to brighten it up and bring it into the 21 st century. She was excited about the opportunity, assuming the money was there to do it.  

He wasn’t sure about that yet.  

The new owner offered him a sunny smile as she turned his way. “Hey, Tim! Time for a break?” Rochelle asked, her accent redolent of Gotham’s East End.

“I’m in desperate need of some caffeine,” he answered. “Can barely keep my eyes open anymore.”  

“You’ve been here for four hours already. And I know you worked all day too. Go home and go to bed. Those boxes are still gonna be there tomorrow.”

The man seated at the bar chuckled from behind Rochelle. “I think you’ve just been told, nerd-boy.”

Tim snorted. “You’re not the one with the appointment at the bank on Monday.” He cast a meaningful look at Rochelle, who frowned at the reminder, but stood her ground.  

“Ives wasn’t kidding when he said you were a workaholic. Seriously, Tim. Go home. Or do I need to get some blankets so you can sleep under the desk?”  

That garnered another chuckle from the mostly unseen man. “A pretty boy like him slummin’ it around here? I might pay good money to see that.”  

“No one asked you,” Tim retorted, leaning back so he could glare. Then he did a double-take because wow. How on earth did this guy not ping on his radar when he walked out here? Ruggedly handsome, dark blue eyes, and shoulders that went on for miles—sign him the hell up. Even the white streak of hair falling over his forehead was sinfully attractive.  

But as tempting as it was to try and flirt, the fact that he had missed picking up on tall, dark, and handsome meant he wasn’t getting any tonight. He was a fan of knowing just who he fell into bed with and remembering it the next day—even if it sucked because that way, he knew to avoid them in the future.  

He doubted a night with this guy would fall into that category.  

The man just smirked and raised his beer to his mouth, almost like he knew the direction Tim’s thoughts had gone. Lips sealed over the rim of the glass and Tim had to choke back a whine.

Oh, that shouldn’t be as much of a turn on as it was. Cocky and an asshole. Great. Just great.  

Tall, Dark, and Handsome shot a glance at Rochelle. “Mouthy little number cruncher, isn’t he?”  

“Knock it off, Jason,” the bar owner warned. “I kinda need him right now. Don’t scare him away.”  

Jason. Tim made a mental note of the man’s name.  

“Things really that bad, Roche?” he asked.  

She nodded. “Yeah. They are.”  

Tim caught a look from the man that was far from scaring him. There was a weight to his gaze, assessing and judging. He’d been on the receiving end of it more than once in his life, mostly by people who weren’t quite sure what to do with him. His head for numbers combined with his tendency to back-talk didn’t usually bode well for his prospects.  

Jason lowered his beer and rose from the barstool. He was tall and solidly built, but if Tim were to guess, his muscle came from hard labor rather than the gym. “I gotta hit the can,” he said, rolling heavy shoulders his t-shirt did nothing to hide. “Top me off, yeah?”  

“Sure,” Rochelle answered as he strolled away.  

Tim’s mouth watered as he caught sight of Jason’s ass, framed oh-so-perfectly in his jeans. But it was the man’s thighs that he wanted to be trapped between, pinned to the nearest horizontal surface while he was fucked so hard he wouldn’t be able to walk straight the next day.  

A short laugh brought him out of his daze. “You got it bad,” Rochelle teased as Jason disappeared down the short hall at the back of the bar where the bathrooms were.  

“I do,” Tim agreed, rubbing his eyes over the rim of his glasses. Wow, he hadn’t been prepared for that. “You have any idea which way he swings?”  

“Not a clue.”

“Then I have a chance.” Tim straightened and grinned. “Unless he’s already taken. I don’t poach.”  

Not knowingly, at least.  

“I’ll keep my ears open,” Rochelle said with a wink. “It’s the least I can do for you.”  

“You’re a saint.”  

Suddenly, the front door opened, swinging wide and slamming into the wall, startling them both. A burly, bearded man swaggered in like he owned the place.  

“Fuck,” Rochelle swore under her breath. “Not that asshole again.” She squared her shoulders as the man came to a stop on the other side of the bar from her. “What are you doing here, Jaime?”  

That didn’t sound good, especially as the man’s lips curled up into what he probably thought was friendly but came across as smarmy and condescending. “Mija, I told you I’d be back for my money. Time to pay up.”  

Tim frowned, thinking back to the accounts he’d been immersed in for the better part of the last few evenings. The only creditors on the books were the bank and they knew damned well that an estate process of this particular magnitude took time to sort out—or at least they did once he’d gotten involved and ripped the claims manager a new one.  

So who was this guy?  

“I don’t owe you shit,” Rochelle fired back, reaching under the bar for the heavy baseball bat she’d taken to keeping there for problems like this. Or so she’d told Tim when it was just the two of them the other night. “I already told you that.”  

“Everyone in this part of the Bowery owes me,” Jaime answered, cracking his thick knuckles in a not-so-idle manner. “Including your uncle. Mike was neck-deep in debt to me and I want my money back.”  

What? No.

“Was it in writing?” Tim spoke up before he could stop himself.  

Jaime’s heavy gaze cut to him. “Who the hell are you, cabrón?”  

“I’m Rochelle’s accountant,” Tim answered, adjusting his glasses in an attempt to look dignified. Lord knew the rolled-up shirt sleeves and tie never did it for him. “I’ve been through all of Mike’s papers.” Okay, that was a lie, but he was almost done. “And I know who he had outstanding debts with. I don’t remember seeing your name on anything. Or is it under something else?”  

If looks could kill, he would be a dead man. The already stormy expression Jaime wore grew under the weight of the challenge tossed his way.  

“Are you callin’ me a liar?”  

“No. But if there’s no written record of the loan, or a transfer, or even a cleared check, then all we have is your word on the matter. You want your money back; you’ll need to provide proof. I’ll be glad to make you square when you do.”  

Hell, he’d do it out of his own pocket just so Rochelle didn’t have to deal with this asshole again. Why was it whenever a woman inherited something big, creeps like this guy came crawling out of the woodwork to take a piece of it? Tim was doubly glad Ives had introduced them. It was times like this where his penchant for numbers came in handy.

Who was the nerd now?  

“It was a verbal deal,” Jaime spat. “And now that Mike’s dead, I’m here to collect.”

“How about this… I’ll go over the records again. When were the payments being made to you and for how much?” If there was the slightest chance this was legit, Tim would find it. Even if the payments had come from the petty cash, the amounts would match up.

Money in, money out. That’s how things worked in his world.  

“You piece of shit,” Jaime snarled. “You think you can talk to me like you own this place, huh? Pretty boy in his fancy suit, talkin’ a big game. There’s only one thing your mouth is good for.”  

“If you believe for a second that I’m sucking your dick, you’ve got another think coming.”  

That was the wrong thing to say.  

Jaime’s eyes flashed and he lashed out, drawing something out from behind his back as he did.  

Tim recognized it as the butt end of a gun before pain lanced along the side of his face, whipping his head around as his glasses went flying. Blood filled his mouth, the taste of copper on his tongue. This was just like that time in boarding school, except it hadn’t been a gun he’d gotten hit with. And, just like back then, once his glasses were gone, he couldn’t see a damned thing. His world narrowed to blurry, unidentifiable blobs.  

Rochelle was shouting, Jaime was shouting, and oh look, that was his hair being tugged back so Jaime’s ugly mug came into focus. This close, Tim could make out the blotchy pores on the man’s nose.  

“What’ve you gotta say for yourself now, cocksucker?” A wave of foul breath made Tim’s eyes water. “I’m gonna break you in half.”  

He shouldn’t say it. He really shouldn’t. Every single one of his admittedly poor self-preservation instincts were screaming at him to keep his mouth shut.  

“You kiss your wife with that mouth? Probably want to lay off the onions.”  

Yep. His self-preservation instincts were shit.  

Rage darkened Jaime’s face and he roared, rearing back for another strike.  

Tim flinched, waiting for the blow—  

It never came.

“Wow, you gotta death wish or somethin’, number cruncher?”  

Jason. It was Jason.  

Relief rushed through him like lightning. Why he was so happy that Jason was rescuing him, Tim had no idea. He’d never been rescued before, that was probably it. It was a nice feeling. Especially by a really hot guy he’d more than happily drop his pants for.  

But then panic replaced the endorphin rush as he remembered a rather important little detail about his current situation.

“He’s got a gun!” he managed to get out before he was swung around like a sack of potatoes by his hair and slammed into the bar.

Ow.  

Tim folded in half over the dark wood, breath leaving him as his guts rearranged themselves to make room for the beveled edge. His world grew dark, ears ringing—  

Then his hindbrain rebooted and he gasped, air flooding his lungs.  

“Tim!” Rochelle grabbed hold of his arms, steadying him. “Tim, look at me.”  

Why was she paying attention to him when Jaime had a gun? That was stupid.

“You’re stupid,” Rochelle retorted. Her voice was strained, like she was barely keeping her shit together.  

Blinking, Tim tried his best to focus on the bar owner. No such luck. He needed his glasses. Where were they? They’d gotten slapped off his face, that’s what.  

Why did assholes never realize how important those things were?  

From his right, a pained groan drew Tim’s attention, as did the deep chuckle that made his already-pained insides turn to goo.  

“You okay there, number cruncher?”  

Jason’s voice should not sound that good. It was bad for his sanity, what there was left of it at least.

“My name is Tim,” he answered somewhat prissily. “Not pretty boy, not number cruncher, not cocksucker. My name is Tim .”

Jason chuckled again. “Gotta earn the right to be called that around here, number cruncher. After your performance tonight, looks like you’ve got a long way to go.”  

Another pained moan drifted up from the floor and Tim managed to move enough to peer around the side of the bar. Not that it did any good, all he saw was one blur standing over another blur. All things considered though, it was easy to figure out who was who.

“Did I miss something?” Tim asked as he tried to piece together the last couple of minutes.  

Rochelle snickered. “Just Jason kicking some serious ass and saving yours.”  

“Oh. Well in that case, me and my ass thank you.”  

There was a muffled snort of laughter from behind the bar and as Tim replayed what he’d just said, he wanted to sink through the floor. His ears started to burn as blood made its way back to his head.  

Well, there went any shot he’d had with Jason, slim though it had been in the first place.  

But much to his surprise, Jason just laughed. “You’re something else, pretty boy. Gonna have to watch that mouth of yours around here.”  

“You two need to get a room,” Rochelle commented, clearly amused.  

“Not tonight,” Jason answered and wow, did that mean what Tim thought it meant? Score! “I got some business to clean up here.” His voice darkened and not in a good way. “Isn’t that right, Jaime?”  

“Fuck you,” snarled the blur on the floor. “You’re not the boss around here.”

Jason’s form lowered to the floor where Tim could just barely make him out, kneeling over the downed Jaime. He wasn’t sure how that had happened or when, but he knew one thing for sure—he owed Jason big time. That wasn’t something he’d forget either.  

Maybe he could do the man’s taxes for free for the rest of his life. Wasn’t like he had anything else to offer.   

“You’re not from around here if you don’t know who runs these streets.” Jason’s tone deepened into a growl that sent a shiver down Tim’s spine. “And guess what? He wears a red hood.”

Oh shit. That level of confidence only came from someone who had the connections to back it up.  

Tim sucked in a breath. Any and all thoughts he had about slipping Jason his number vanished. That level of confidence, the smooth takedown that had occurred right before his blurry eyes without him even realizing it…  

Jason was either the Red Hood wandering around without the notorious helmet or placed so high up on the food chain that he could summon the crime lord with a single call.  

The last thing Tim needed was to get involved with someone who worked for Gotham’s meanest crime lord—or was him. Sighing to himself, he mourned the lost opportunity as what few self-preservation instincts he had finally kicked into high gear. Getting into bed with the Red Hood was a really bad idea.  

Still, he wouldn’t have minded climbing those beautifully thick thighs encased in what looked like really soft denim. He made a mental note to hit the gym for a swim when he was done with this job and his face wasn’t looking like it had been on the wrong end of a meat tenderizer. It had been a while since he’d gotten laid, and it was clear he was thirsty. There was almost always some meathead who was good for a quickie in the locker room.  

“I think you and I need to take a little walk,” Jason continued. “Have a little chat. Comprende? ”  

Jaime whimpered.  

The two blurs morphed into one under the dim lights of the bar as Jason hauled Jaime to his feet. “Roche, this guy won’t give you any more problems, I promise.”  

“Thanks, Jason. I appreciate the help.”

“Any time. I’ll check in on you soon.”

Tim felt more than saw as Jason’s gaze landed on him. “Keep your nose clean, number cruncher.”  

“I’m pretty sure my nose is broken, thanks.”  

“Nah, but you might want to get your cheek looked at. If that’s not fractured, your next beer is on me.”  

As he walked away, a familiar crunch made Tim wince even more. Goddamnit, not again.

Jason paused. “Were those…?”

“My glasses.”

“You able to see without them?”

“If I could see without them, why would I need to wear them in the first place?”

“You know, I can see why you got pistol-whipped now.” Jason didn’t sound annoyed. More like amused, though that could definitely be the pain in the side of Tim’s face starting to stand up and wave. 

With that parting shot, the two men left the bar.  

Tim let out a slow breath. The adrenaline of the last few minutes vanished, and as he slumped against the bar, his face throbbing. “I think I need a shot. And some ice.”  

A heavy bottle thudded in front of him, the label unreadable. “Way ahead of you, Tim,” Rochelle said. There was a long pause then, “I think he likes you.”

Fuck his life.

Chapter 2: When Shit Hits the Fan

Notes:

I have been absolutely floored by the feedback on this story! Thank you all so much. I wasn't going to post this week, but I changed my mind.

As a reminder, this is not RHATO Jason. This is preFlashpoint Jason, so anything New 52 and beyond has been tossed out the window.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” Jason tore through the office, grabbing files, receipts, anything that looked even remotely important and tossed them into filing boxes he’d barely taken the time to cobble together. He could tape them later. 

If there was a later. 

This was bad. This was so bad. The Feds were rounding up members of his organization and carting them off. They’d even managed to get their hands on his accountant, Bobby, which led to the seizure of his bank accounts before the man met an inglorious end on the wrong side of a gun. It was like one of those old-school gangster movies where the shit hit the fan and everyone was shooting.

Where somehow, the bullets only ever managed to hit the bad guys.

Jason didn’t consider himself a bad guy. Then again, he didn’t consider himself a good guy either. He was just a guy who believed that crime couldn’t be stopped, but it could be controlled. A guy who had the means and the skills to put his money where his mouth was.

For things to fall apart this spectacularly, there was only one conclusion that made any fucking sense.

Someone had ratted him out. And when he figured out who, they were dead. Bullet right through the old brainpan, no fucking around, dead. Not even the walls of Blackgate would keep him out. There had to be someone else involved beside Bobby. A loose end that needed to be tied up.

And oh, did he intend to tie that end up. Preferably with a rope, a few cinder blocks, and a long drop off the Sprang Bridge.

The office door cracked open and Abby poked her head in, her bleached bangs pinned on either side to frame her face. The teenager looked nervous, which was more than fair considering the situation. “Dad? I got the truck running finally.”

Thank fuck. Now wasn’t the time to worry about dead batteries or spark plugs, or whatever the hell it had been. Lucky for him, his daughter took after her old man when it came to the inner workings of an engine.

“Good girl. Help me get these loaded, yeah?”

He hated involving his little girl in this mess, but he had no choice.

There was no one else Jason could trust, not with Mallory dead in that shootout that nearly killed him too. The bandage over his ribs would need to be changed soon. Hopefully after he sent Abby on her way. He didn’t want her to see him hurt—though knowing her, she already knew. She was smart like that.

Didn’t mean her mother would murder him any less if anything happened to their daughter. He’d have to beg pretty as it was to have her stitch him up. Stephanie had a steady hand with a needle, though her tongue was just as sharp. Thank god they'd never been stupid enough to even try dating after they'd rediscovered each other at Leslie's clinic. That would only make shit like this worse.

Abby stepped around the dark stain on the carpeted floor, wisely not saying a word about it beyond a raised eyebrow. She knew who her father was, what he did. In her eyes, he was the coolest person ever to walk the face of the earth. 

Had he ever been that idealistic?

Jason nudged Bobby’s limp hand further behind the desk with the toe of his boot. 

“Elevator or stairs?” she asked, eyeing the number of haphazardly folded boxes. 

“Stairs. If someone starts comin’ up, you drop what you got and run.”

Abby’s already pale face whitened even more, but she nodded firmly. 

Jason reached out and tugged her into a quick hug, pressing his lips to the top of her head and breathing the scent of her shampoo in her black hair. “You don’t have to help me, you know. You’re not part of this.”

“Who else is gonna, Dad?” Her brilliant green eyes stood out against her black mascara. His little girl was going through a Goth phase or whatever the kids were calling it now. He didn’t really care so long as she didn’t end up a teenage pregnancy statistic like him and her mother—not that he’d known until nearly a decade later.

He sighed and let her go. “That’s a good question, darlin’. That’s a really good question.”

 

---

 

The question was still nagging at him a week later. 

Jason had done the only thing he could, which was get the fuck outta Gotham until shit settled down. Boston wasn’t exactly his cup of tea, but the beer was good and so was the seafood. 

On the balcony of the Airbnb he’d rented under a false name, he breathed out heavily, expelling smoke from his lungs. Smoking was a nasty habit that only re-emerged when he was stressed. And right now, he was definitely stressed out.

What the fuck was he gonna do?

He refused to be run out of Gotham, at least for long. This was a tactical retreat, covering his ass until the Feds stopped swarming and went back to their little hive. 

The Red Hood hadn’t been captured, which had to stick in their craw—not to mention Bruce’s. 

Jason had a sneaking suspicion he knew who was behind this particular raid. It was too well-organized, too coordinated to strictly involve the FBI. 

Fuck, if Babs hadn’t been feeling magnimonious, he’d have been caught with his pants down.

As it was, they’d been unbelted and unzipped rather than pooling around his ankles.

In his pocket, the burner phone he’d bought earlier that morning started to ring. 

There was only one person who’d be able to find him this fast. 

“Oracle,” he said in lieu of an actual greeting. 

“Hood,” came the mechanized voice he knew so well. Looked like they were playing at being polite strangers rather than the broken family Bruce had no clue how to put back together. 

“Do I even wanna know how you found me?”

“It wasn’t easy, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Good. Nice to know he still had evasion down pat.

“It’s not.” Jason leaned against the wall of the balcony. “So why are you calling?”

“To let you know that Batman is still picking apart your operations. Might want to keep off the radar for a while longer.”

“Who the fuck pissed in his Cheerios, seriously? I haven’t done anything to piss him off in months.”

“This goes back further than months, I think.”

Jason frowned, thinking back to his last encounter with Bruce. It hadn’t gone well—not that any of their meetings ever did. However… Oh, fuck. “Last time we spoke, I told him that if he didn’t like how I’d taken out the Maroni’s, then he should have done it himself.”

Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. He had no one to blame for this but himself.

Barbara started laughing, which was just all kinds of wrong with her synthesizer on. “Oh, Jason. You know better.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do.” He sighed and kicked at one of the metal rods framing the balcony. “I hope he realizes this means war.”

“Greater people than you have tried to take out the Bat and failed.”

“Talkin’ from personal experience there, Barbie?” There was no love lost between the former Batgirl and Batman. His own death had driven a wedge between them that time had never healed. Then again, Bruce going off his rocker for a while there hadn’t helped matters, or so Jason had heard.

It still didn’t matter. He’d had to kill the Joker himself after Bruce refused to, even after he’d set it all up so perfectly for him.

“No comment,” Barbara answered. “So what are you going to do now?”

From the reports trickling in, Jason had been hit on multiple fronts. Drugs, weapons, cash—most of his repositories were gone. Business fronts used to launder money had been seized. And then there were his bank accounts…

These were why he’d suspected Bruce was behind all this. Accounts that hadn’t even been related to the Red Hood were now gone. Vanished. Kaput. 

If it weren’t for the cash he’d found stashed in Bobby’s office, he’d officially be up shit creek without a paddle. There were other caches of cash and weapons in Gotham, as well as multiple other places, but he couldn’t be sure the big old Bat hadn’t found them out either. 

Jason raised the cigarette back to his lips, inhaling as the fire burned the white paper and tobacco rolled inside. It was tempting to give in to his simmering anger and lash out at Bruce. Hit him right where it hurt the most. 

But that was exactly what Bruce expected him to do—react like the Pit-crazed maniac he still thought he was.

“Hit him back where it hurts the most.”

In his fucking pride.

For that, he had to think this through. Needed a plan. Needed someone who could make all his finances look completely legal. Because that was where he’d been hit the worst. Supply lines could be rebuilt. New deals could be made. But he had no fucking idea where to even start with rebuilding his account books. That’s what Bobby’s job had been—or was before Jason shot him while he babbled on about not betraying him even though it was clear the little pissant had.

“And how do you plan to do that?” Barbara asked.

“Why’re you so nosy?” Jason retorted, still musing.

“Who else do you have to talk to about this? Your second-in-command is dead and if I understand things correctly, you killed your accountant yourself.”

“Fucker was a snitch.”

“Do I sound like I’m judging?”

“You don’t sound like anything right now.” Besides, Jason knew all too well what kind of activities Barbara got up to. While her Birds of Prey cleaned up a lot of shit, there were some missions that needed a more permanent solution. A solution only the Red Hood was able to provide.

Oracle paid quite handsomely for those services too.

Flicking the ash from his cigarette over the rail, Jason looked out into the night. The view wasn’t inspiring, but he hadn’t rented this place with a vacation in mind. 

“What I need is someone who can unfuck everything that happened,” he said. “Someone who knows the system inside and out.”

Someone like…

The memory of a thirsty little number cruncher trying and failing to hold his own against a man twice his weight, but not backing down came to mind. Tim, he’d said his name was, all prissy and defiant even with blood trickling down the side of his face.

He’d had a sweet looking mouth, even if he didn’t know when to keep it shut.

Such a shame he hadn’t had a chance to find out before that shitstain got in the way. He and Tim could have had some fun.

“Do I need to come up with a list of candidates for you?” Barbara asked.

Jason finished his cigarette and dropped the butt, grinding it under his heel. “No,” he said, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “I got someone in mind already.”

 

---

 

It took another couple of weeks before Jason felt the heat had died down enough to return to Gotham. 

The first night back, he strolled into a bar he hadn’t seen the inside of since early last month. 

Rochelle looked up from behind the counter and grinned. “Hey, Jason! Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“Eh, you know how it is,” he answered, taking a seat at the bar. “Places to go, people to see.”

“I bet, especially after…” Her dark eyes shifted to the side, unwilling to continue.

On these streets, Jason was known as a guy who worked for the Red Hood. Where he ranked on the food chain, no one was exactly sure, but he had clout because if his word wasn’t listened to, then Hood would come and rain holy hell. 

It looked like the FBI raid had done more than wipe him out financially—it had wiped out his street cred too. 

Fuck. Well, it wouldn’t take long to build that back up. Heads weren’t likely to roll around in duffle bags this time, but he’d get his point across.

The Red Hood controlled crime in these streets. If you crossed him, then you were fucked.

“Yeah, it’s been an interesting few weeks,” Jason finished for her. “But how are things around here? The little number cruncher still around?”

Rochelle broke out into a smile. “No, Tim’s gone. He finished up everything for me after his surgery. He’s really good at what he does.”

“Surgery?”

“Yeah, for his cheek? You told him it was broken and it sure was.”

“Looks like he owes me a beer then. Any idea where I gotta go to collect?”

 

---

 

Jason stood outside a new office tower in the Financial District, all modern and sleek with its glass windows and nary a gargoyle to be seen. It stood out against the older buildings, though whether it was an eyesore, he couldn’t decide. In his hand, he double checked the address against the business card Rochelle had given him.

Right place. 

Timothy Drake worked for a high-end accounting firm up on the 23rd floor. None of the covers Jason had left would even get his toe in the door, unless it was to go around and pick up the trash left by all the high-priced beancounters. 

So he did what any good former protege of the Bat would do in a situation like this.

Shoving the card in a pocket, Jason wandered down the street to a cafe, bought an iced tea, and made himself comfortable. 

It was time to get his stalk on. 

 

---

 

The results surprised him.

Tim Drake was, for lack of a better term, a fucking machine. He worked his little nine to five, went home to a rather nice brownstone in the Upper West Side, then would catch a ride to the subway where he’d range all over the city doing work like he’d done for Rochelle. It didn’t appear to bother him in the slightest that he was being paid chump change compared to what he had to rake in downtown. He just worked—and did good work too from what Jason managed to glean.

Which was why it came as a surprise when the weekend rolled around to find Drake taking a commuter train out of town. Jason had barely enough time to buy a ticket before the doors closed.

His surprise grew when Drake finally got off. Not in New York like Jason expected, but Atlantic City. 

“Well, well,” he murmured as he watched Drake check-in to one of the fancier casino hotels. “What have we here?”

It didn’t take long for Drake to emerge into the casino. At the gaming cage, he was greeted by name, clearly a regular. 

And a high-roller if the color of the chips he collected were any indication. 

Jason prayed he didn’t go into that part of the casino right away because there was no way in fucking hell he had that kind of money to follow him. 

Luckily, Drake took a seat at one of the blackjack tables outside the high-roller’s lounge. The buy-in wasn’t exactly cheap, but Jason still didn’t have the money to sit down and play. Instead, he found a perch at a penny slot nearby where he settled in to watch. 

One fact quickly became clear to him—Drake was a card counter. There was no other way to explain his win/loss ratio. 

Smirking, Jason shook his head. Who knew the guy had it in him?

 

---

 

Jason didn’t stay the night. Instead, he returned to Gotham to make himself acquainted with the inside of Drake’s brownstone. 

The lower level was neat and tidy, but didn’t have a lived-in feel to it. There were black and white pictures hanging from the walls of cityscapes and buildings that took him a moment to place as being in Gotham.

Or rather, Gotham before the quake destroyed most of it.

Had Drake taken these? There was a non-professional touch to them which led him to believe they were amateur work. Good eye, if untrained. 

Heading up the stairs, Jason stopped short on the landing. 

This was clearly an area Drake spent time in. If he had to give it a name, he’d call it a nerd-room. Gaming equipment was everywhere. Video games lined the shelves, as did figurines from various movies or cartoons that Jason only recognized because Abby had sat his ass down to watch with her. Along the far wall was a computer set-up with three monitors and a high-backed chair that looked like it saw a lot of use. 

Moving on, he found two small guest rooms further back. One had been converted into a small home gym while the other had a single twin bed without any sheets on it. Poking in the closet revealed folded bedding, as well as some hangers. 

Ranging up the stairs to the top level, it was immediately obvious the entire floor was the master suite. Drake had an enormous bed that beat anything Jason had slept on for a long time when he stretched out across it. Clothes were scattered around the hamper, some in, some out as they were apparently tossed in that general direction. 

In the closet, he found a gym bag with Drake’s membership card to a fancy gym in the area. On the shelf above the bag were numerous pairs of swim trunks—and not the baggy ones that most men had. These were more like the kind professional swimmers wore.

Was Drake a swimmer then?

“Bet you can hold your breath a long time, huh?” Jason murmured, remembering Drake’s mouth and what he’d wanted to do to it. 

Had it really been almost eight weeks? Life sure had a way of going ass-up. Time felt nonexistent, sheesh.

Rummaging through the closet some more, he came across Drake’s diplomas.

Yeah. Diplomas . As in more than one. 

High school didn’t really mean much. But Jason let out a low whistle when he saw the name of the college Drake had attended.

“Got ourselves a Stanford boy here, huh?” 

He had a Bachelor’s degree in accounting. And then, because apparently that wasn’t good enough, Drake also had a Master’s degree in…

“Holy shit,” Jason breathed as another fancy looking certificate slipped out from behind the Master’s diploma.

Drake wasn’t just a certified public accountant with a sweet-paying desk job. 

No, he was a certified forensic accountant as well.

It was like the clouds finally decided to part and offer up a single ray of sunshine. If there was anyone who could figure out how the hell to salvage his ass and make sure it couldn’t happen again, it was Timothy Jackson Drake.

So now the question became: how the fuck could he convince him to do it?

 

Chapter 3: The Job Offer

Notes:

I decided to be nice and give everyone the gift of an update today. It's my birthday so I'm feeling generous. Enjoy some thirsty Tim!

Tim strolled into the little deli around the corner from his office, scrolling through the stock market feed on his phone. He wove through the crowd to stand in line at the counter. Sure, he could have ordered ahead of time and gone right to the pick-up window, but he refused to spend any more time in the office than he absolutely had to. It wasn’t that he disliked his job—he was damned good at it, actually; even the FBI hired him on the side to consult—but his lunch hour was his own and he’d march back through those doors only when he had to. 

It was this attitude that probably kept him from being promoted, but he didn’t care. When the shit hit the fan, he was the one management called to figure things out, not the ones with the shiny nameplates on their desks. In most cases, they were the ones who screwed up in the first place.

He placed his order and went to stand in the queue, waiting for his number to be called. After he collected his sandwich, he wandered over to a mostly clean high-top and took a seat at the table. 

The sandwich was half-way gone when someone asked, “Is this seat taken?” 

Tim barely had a chance to look up, let alone reply, when a familiar face appeared in front of him, sliding onto the stool in all his muscled glory. 

“Hi,” said Jason with a crooked smile. “How’s the cheek?”

Oh crap. He’d managed to forget—or convince himself he’d misremembered—just how good-looking Jason actually was. Here in broad daylight, he was a walking wet dream. 

Fuck. 

“Healed, thanks,” Tim answered slowly, feeling like a fish out of water. 

What was going on here? The Financial District was about as far from the Bowery as it could get and still be in the same city. Definitely not the normal stomping grounds for the Red Hood or anyone associated with him—especially during the afternoon lunch rush. 

“Was I right?” 

“About?” 

“It being broken.” Jason spoke to him like only a couple of weeks had passed since their first and only meeting, not two months. Then again, if Tim’s theory that he was the Red Hood held any water, it would make sense. 

Gotham crime lords were busy people. 

“You were,” Tim responded, blinking rapidly as he tried to work out exactly what the hell was going on. “ZMC fracture—all three bones had to be pinned back in place.” 

That had been tons of fun. Not. 

Jason nodded sagely. “Figured as much when I saw what hit you.” 

“Personal experience?” Tim asked, knowing. There was little chance Jason hadn’t had this happen to him before. 

“Yep.” Jason took a sip from a bottle of iced tea he must have purchased at the counter, gaze narrowing slightly. “You’re wondering why I’m here.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Tim tore a corner off the ciabatta roll from his sandwich. “You’re a long way from the Bowery.” 

“Rochelle said you wrapped up her uncle’s estate all nice and neat, and handed it over to the courts and the bank with a big shiny bow.” 

Tim nodded, not seeing how this was relevant. “I did. Took me a week longer than I’d anticipated because of my surgery, but I got it done.” 

“Made sure she didn’t have to pay through the nose on taxes either. And you didn’t charge her a dime for any of it.” Jason’s eyes narrowed a bit more. This close, the blue really stood out. Blue-green, if Tim had to guess. It was an odd color. “I looked up your firm. Your services don’t come cheap.” 

“Rochelle is a friend of a friend,” Tim answered. This felt almost like an interview—or an interrogation. But for what? “I also do pro bono and some consulting work. It’s better than most of the files that come my way.” 

“Don’t like the suits?” 

“Something like that.” 

“Why?” 

This time, Tim narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Or did something happen to Rochelle?”

Ives hadn’t said anything, but that didn’t mean he necessarily would. It wasn’t like they talked every day. 

“She’s fine,” Jason was quick to say. “Her remodeling project is coming along nicely.” 

“Good. You didn’t answer my question though.” 

That crooked little smile flashed across Jason’s lips again and it reminded Tim of just who exactly was probably sitting across from him. A person didn’t mouth off to a crime lord or one of their close associates and get away with it—even if they were hot and charming and looked really good in simple gray v-neck t-shirts.

More like tight gray v-neck t-shirts. If Tim squinted, he bet he could find a nipple.

Dammit. 

Clearly, he needed to get laid again. He’d just started going back to the pool at the gym a couple weeks ago, much to his enjoyment and that of the guys he messed around with on the regular. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone involved. 

“You know, it was your mouth that got you in trouble last time.” 

“I’m well aware of that. You also saved my ass, so for that, I owe you one.” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Jason waved him off with a shake of his head. “I’d have done the same thing even if you didn’t have a pretty mouth.” 

Cue the instant blush. Tim’s ears went red at the thought of what he wouldn’t mind doing with his mouth to Jason’s— 

He gave himself a mental slap upside the head. There was no way in hell Jason’s dick or anything was getting near his mouth. Nope, not happening. Even if the knowing smirk on the man’s face told him he knew exactly where Tim’s brain was right now. 

“But to answer your question,” Jason continued, amusement clear as day, “I have a job offer for you. Or rather, my employer does.”

Tim stilled, libido going the way of the dodos, as the words sank in. “A job offer,” he repeated, making sure he’d heard it right the first time.

Jason nodded. “I know you’re not stupid despite your inability to shut the fuck up—”

“Hey, I was trying to help Rochelle. It wasn’t like I wanted to have three bones broken in my face—” 

“Yes, you were quite the hero there, number cruncher.” 

“And you were the one who broke my glasses,” Tim glared. “Some hero you are.” 

“I never claimed to be a hero.” 

“Yeah, that’s because you’re…” Tim trailed off, suddenly cognizant not only of his next words, but also of his surroundings. The sounds of the bustling deli around them, the laughter, the chatter, the shout of a number being called, it was all background noise until it wasn’t. 

All signs of amusement vanished from Jason’s face and his gaze grew cold. “Because I’m what?” 

“I think this is the right time to shut my mouth.” 

“Because I’m what, number cruncher?” 

Tim mimed zipping his lips and shook his head. “It’s nothing.” 

For some reason, that seemed to please Jason. He settled back on the stool, eyeing him levelly. “I think you and me need to have a little chat.” 

Hell no.

“That’s nice and all, but I’m going back to the office and forgetting I ever met you.” Tim wrapped up the remains of his decimated sandwich. He’d shredded every last bit of bread and hadn’t even noticed. 

But Jason had. There was no way he’d missed it. 

“You sure about that?” Jason asked. 

“Yes. I suspect my continued well-being depends on it.” Hopping off the stool, Tim adjusted his jacket and picked up his trash. “It was nice meeting you and all, but I hope I never see you again.” 

Though he would miss the shoulders. And the pecs. Good lord, how did they not burst out of that shirt, seriously?

 

---

 

That night, Tim returned home later than usual. He hadn’t planned on staying late, but an hour before he was supposed to leave, his manager called him into his office and assigned him a project from hell. Needless to say, it was someone else’s screw-up that he now needed to fix and oh look, it had a deadline.

Sighing, he closed the front door to his brownstone behind him and locked it, then leaned against it with another sigh. “Why do I fucking do this to myself?” he muttered. 

It wasn’t like he needed the income. Between his investments, trust funds from his parents and grandparents, as well as his gambling, he could retire right now and be flush for the rest of his life. 

But he knew why he put up with the nine-to-five. If he didn’t have the routine, the social interaction, he’d go out of his mind.

A bored Tim Drake was a self-destructive Tim Drake. And that wasn’t good for anyone, especially himself.  

The brownstone was dark aside from the distant light over the sink in the kitchen that he never turned off. Kicking off his shoes, Tim loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his dress shirt. Maybe he should look into going to an accounting firm that didn’t have such a strict dress code. 

Turning into the living room, he slipped his messenger bag over his shoulder. 

It dropped to the floor from suddenly nerveless fingers as he spotted the large hulk of a person sitting in the low armchair. Through a crack in the curtains, the streetlamp outside provided enough light to catch the dark gleam of a red helmet. 

Oh fuck. 

Tim let out a sharp breath and closed his eyes, then opened them again to make sure he was still seeing the Red Hood seated in his living room, chair angled to face the foyer. Dramatic much? 

“You have got to be kidding me. I thought I said no.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to say, but they’d already established his brain-to-mouth filter was pretty much nonexistent when he was tired. 

The Red Hood didn’t move. It wasn’t like he had to, he already commanded Tim’s attention. “So I heard.” 

His voice was modulated, but not overly so. If Tim tried, he could imagine it was Jason’s. Not that he wanted to. Nope. 

“Then why are you here?” 

“Because of something else I heard you said.” 

He really didn’t want to deal with this right now. Or ever.  

“Look, I’m not an idiot. I have eyes, even if I can’t see shit without my glasses. What I also have are suspicions, not any concrete confirmation that Jason works for you. After what I saw at the bar that night, it was kind of obvious.”

More like obvious that Hood and Jason were the same damned person, but he has some self-preservation instincts, thank you very much. Though if the Red Hood were to stand up and let Tim turn a light on, he’d be able to tell in a heartbeat by looking at his thighs. 

“Sounds like I need to have a talk with someone about not being so obvious,” Hood answered after a beat. 

“Great. Good talk then. I’ve had a really crappy day and just want to go to bed.” As much as Tim wanted this to be over and done with, he knew this wasn’t the end. Not by a long shot. He made for the stairs when Hood’s voice stopped him short. 

“I want you to work for me.” 

Called it. 

His shoulders slumped and he spun back around. “I’m not looking for a new job.” 

“Yeah, you are. You’re bored.” 

“And just how the hell did you come to that conclusion?” It struck too close to home, that’s what it did. 

“I’ve been watching you. You work like a machine during the week, then as soon as the weekend hits, you’re either playing videogames or you fuck off to Atlantic City and blow tons of money at the blackjack tables. And you get all of it back and then some.” 

Shit.

“You’ve been following me?” How did he miss that? Actually, that was an easy question to answer. It wasn’t as though he’d been expecting anyone to follow him. Oblivious Tim Drake, just strolling down the street, or taking the train, or getting in that Uber… Yeah, it probably had been all too easy, now that he thought about it. 

“Me, as well as some other associates,” Hood replied. “You’re a card counter.” 

“So? It’s not illegal in this state. Makes the game more fun. The dealers do it too.” 

“I wonder what your employer would think, knowing one of their highest-performing employees has a gambling addiction.”

“It is not an addiction.” Tim drew himself up straight. “If it wasn’t one of the few things able to challenge me, I’d either throw myself off a building or start popping pills.” 

Whoops. That was apparently the wrong thing to say as the Red Hood leaned forward. “Sounds like you need what I have to offer then. It’s a challenge. Keep you on your toes.” 

“What you’ve got to offer is either all kinds of illegal or questionably legal at best. I keep my nose clean, thanks.” 

“You might keep your nose clean, but the dark side is so much more fun.”

Tim couldn’t exactly argue with that. “Okay, you’ve got a point there, but why should I just drop everything and work for you? What happened to your last person?”

“He fucked up and I got raided by the Feds last month. If I didn’t have a stash of cash on hand, my entire operation would be up shit creek without a paddle.”

Letting out a low whistle, Tim shook his head. He’d heard on the news that there had been a mob takedown recently, but hadn’t been paying much attention at the time. Guess that hadn’t been the mob after all. “That sucks,” he offers, not exactly feeling charitable or sympathetic, but feeling like he should say something. 

“It does. That’s why I want you to unfuck it up for me.” 

“Is that even a word?” 

“If popping you a good one wasn’t counterproductive right now, I’d slam you into the wall.” Hood was sounding exasperated, even with the modulator. 

“And get my glasses broken again? No, thanks. It took me three weeks to get them replaced.” 

“I’ll make Jason send you the fucking cash to pay for ‘em if it means you’ll work for me.” 

“Why me?” That was a really damned good question Tim should have asked sooner. 

Hood leaned back, stretching out like he either owned the place or was exhausted. Or really tired of dealing with him. “You’re an accountant. A certified forensic accountant at that. You know all the ins and outs, the loopholes, the ways to scam the system and get away with it. More importantly, you know how to cover your tracks. Plus, everyone I talked to spoke very highly of you.” 

“You did your homework.” 

“I really need you.” 

There was a raw honesty in that simple statement that had Tim replaying the last several minutes. The problem was, the Red Hood wasn’t wrong. He was bored, practically ready to crawl up the walls or start streaking down the street. What he was being offered was about as opposite from legal as it could be. But it was also interesting. 

Very interesting. 

Fuck. This was going to come back and bite him in the ass. He just knew it. 

“What are you prepared to offer me?” 

A tension Hood carried left him as he relaxed into the armchair. “Thank you.” 

“I haven’t agreed yet. What are you offering me? I doubt you have a 401k plan or full medical insurance.” 

“Like you need a 401k.” 

“True, but it’s a nice perk.” 

“You think of money as a way to keep count, don’t you?” 

Tim nodded. “More or less. I could live in a much nicer place downtown if I wanted to. Lucky for me, I have simple tastes.” 

“Try telling me that when I know what kind of gaming setup you have upstairs.” 

“Fine, I like video games. Which I can buy myself, so you’re not helping your case here.” 

“Whatever. You don’t need the money. Your gambling habit, while problematic, could be useful.” 

“That’s beneficial to you, not me.” 

Hood kept going like Tim hadn’t even spoken. “You’re not addicted to pills or alcohol, though you do have some nice bottles of liquor in the kitchen. Honestly, if you were, I wouldn’t even be wasting my time with you.” 

“Thanks. Maybe I should take up drinking then.” 

“So that means the only thing I can really offer is sex. I heard how you were drooling over Jason.”

Tim’s mouth dropped open. This was actually surprising. The Red Hood had a reputation, certain lines he never crossed. Consent meant something to the man sitting in front of him, or so said the Gotham Gazette. “You think I’m going to do all that work just to get my dick wet? And without Jason’s consent? No thanks. I don’t care if he’s a walking thirst trap I would gladly take for a ride. You can’t make a deal like that when he’s not here.”

Shit. Did he actually say that out loud? Fuck his sleep schedule, he was going to the gym first thing in the morning and praying one of his himbos was there to play.

“Like fucking hell I’d ever…” Hood took a breath, pausing. This was the first time Tim had seen him lose his veneer of complete control. Nice to see he’d managed to finally get under his skin.

Really though, this was the final nail in the coffin on any doubts he had about Jason and the Red Hood being one and the same—Hood wouldn’t have brought up Jason like that if he weren’t a hundred percent certain of his willingness to participate. 

After a few deep breaths, Hood spoke, slowly like he was testing out each one first. “What about me then? I’ll fuck you however you want until this shit gets straightened out, then start paying you a regular salary. Hell, I’ll even let you set up a medical plan if it’ll make you happy. Just work for me.” 

Wow. Just… Wow. Tim was suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of bouncing on Hood’s cock right there in that chair. He wouldn’t have a stitch on while Hood still wore everything, from his helmet on down to the holsters strapped to his thighs...

Fuck. 

“Are you that desperate?” Tim managed to say after his brain rebooted for the second time.

“Yeah, I am. All my other options aren’t anywhere near as good as you. Though they’re a lot less mouthy.” 

“Working with me won’t make it any better. Might actually make it worse.” 

“Does that mean you’ll do it?” 

Tim closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. This was wrong on so many levels. Ethically, morally, legally—yeah, he had them all covered.

But damn if the Red Hood didn’t have him pegged. 

He was bored—not to mention really sexually frustrated, though this would be the absolute dumbest thing he’d ever done for sex. 

How was this even his life? 

Tim cracked open an eye and glared at Hood, who hadn’t moved an inch. “I want a contract. In writing, and with an end date where we’ll then renegotiate. I assume you’ve got someone who will notarize or witness it because I sure as hell don’t want to ask anyone I know.” 

Hood slowly rose from the chair and closed the distance between them. Holy fuck, those thighs were even better than before, framed as they were with those guns. 

He wasn’t going to mewl. Nope, he was a professional , he was not intimidated—thirsty—for those legs to pin him in place and… 

“Then we have a deal?” Hood asked, looming over him.

This close, Tim could feel the warmth radiating off him, the smell of leather and ozone from his jacket. It was headier than any cologne. 

He let out a heavy breath. Fuck his life, seriously. If he was going to go out, might as well be on the wildest ride there was. “Yeah. I hope I don’t regret this.” 

“You won’t. Though I can’t promise you’ll get paid every two weeks.” 

“What? Reneging already?”

A gloved hand traced a line over his lips. “With a mouth like yours, I’m pretty sure it’ll be weekly.”

Chapter 4: Parenting and Contracts

Notes:

I've been convinced by some members of my JayTim server (you know who you are!!!) that certain scenes need to be written out in full rather than have a fade to black, so please note the rating change. Not for this chapter, but in the future. I swear, they're as thirsty as Tim. :D

Drake really did have a pretty mouth. Pretty enough that Jason was still thinking about it the following afternoon as he lounged around in bed, wondering what it would look like wrapped around his cock. Well, one thing was for sure—he’d find out soon enough. There was no mistaking the interest in those eyes—the way they’d raked across him and practically screamed fuck me right then and there.

Those eyes though… Yeah, he’d forgotten just how blue they were—and how icy they became if the wrong button was pushed. 

The guy had a spine, Jason would grant him that. Not to mention a brain that was more than capable of putting two and two together—heh—that the man under the hood was none other than yours truly. 

That could present a problem. It almost had, in fact. When he left the little deli in Old Town yesterday, it was with plans to make sure Drake didn’t talk. Or rather, talk to the wrong people because Jason sure as shit needed the man’s help.

Perhaps this was why he’d made the offer that he had. Sex for services rendered? Really? 

Dammit, but that was a new low, even for him.

Still… It was one way to keep Drake’s mouth shut.

And speaking of mouths… Rolling over in bed, Jason dropped to his stomach and idly scratched at the bare skin. Did he want to wander lower or not? Little Jay was already waking up at the memory of a soaking wet Drake at the gym—which shit, had that been fun to discover. Someone not only had a size kink, but very obviously got off on having a cock shoved deep down their throat.

Jason’s hand drifted lower. The filthy things he’d seen the number cruncher do was a nice fantasy, so perhaps—

The door to his bedroom opened and his hand jerked away from his dick so fast as Abby poked her head in. 

“Dad? You awake yet?”

All boner-inducing thoughts died a horrible and painful death. Shit, but that had been close. Kids had the worst timing, seriously.

Jason grunted and cracked open an eye, glaring. “Don’t you knock?”

“You told me not to. To just enter normally like I belong here so I don’t trigger you,” she pointed out, unmoved by his surly tone.

Okay, he had told her that. Waking up a guy unexpectedly who slept with a gun under his pillow and regularly dealt with night terrors led to very bad consequences.

Yawning, Jason sat up and stretched. 

“Geez, don’t you sleep with a shirt on?” Abby made a face and turned away. 

“You’re lucky I started sleeping with pants once you got a key and the alarm code.”

“Ugh, TMI, Dad!” 

“Whatever. What time does your mom want you home tonight?” 

There wasn’t a formal custody arrangement between him and Stephanie. Kinda hard to have one with a guy who was still considered legally dead. Hell, his name wasn’t even on Abby’s birth certificate since all Steph had known was his first name and Jason wasn’t exactly uncommon.

He and Steph had been a one-time thing, back when they were young and stupid, and really fucking glad to be alive after the big quake that all but took Gotham off the map there for awhile. Honestly, he was still kinda surprised he’d even managed it, hyped up as he was on revenge and fresh from the Pit. Sex was the last thing on his mind, but his body apparently didn’t agree. Steph was a great gal—still was—who hadn’t deserved to be knocked up by anyone, let alone him. 

But then neither of them would have Abby in their lives and that was a fucking crime all of it’s own. 

“No later than ten,” his daughter replied. “She’ll be home by eight like usual.”

Jason swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching again with a jawbreaking yawn added to the mix. 

“Long night?” Abby asked, leaning against the doorframe with a nonchalance he saw right through. Did she think he was born yesterday?

“Not really. Interesting though.” That was all Jason planned to share with her. He’d only involved her with his work the one time because he’d been desperate as hell, and he planned to keep it that way, no matter how much she fished.

She made a face, recognizing his usual reticence. “You never tell me anything.”

“I don’t need to inspire you into doing something stupid, like takin’ up teenage vigilantism. Been there, done that, got buried.” He headed for the bathroom. “I haven’t been here for a few days, did you case the fridge?” he asked, changing the subject.

Chasing after Drake was exhausting—and expensive. It would all level out in time, but for now, Jason was feeling every penny.

“The milk’s expired,” Abby answered as he closed the door.

“Gimme a few to make myself pretty and we’ll head to the store,” he said, knowing she’d hear him. The walls and doors in this place were so thin, he could hear his neighbor snoring when he happened to be here at night. Since the raid, that was a hell of a lot more often since he was fairly sure all his other safe houses were infested with little Batbugs now.

Fucking Bruce.

The only reason he even had an apartment in Coventry was because of Abby. On weekdays when Stephanie worked, the teen came over after school, which was just a few blocks away—though how that would work with this year’s summer vacation had yet to be decided. Abby was old enough to be okay on her own now, but it had been their thing for five years, so habits were hard to break. 

Besides, it was kinda nice that a teenage girl even wanted to spend time with her old man. And Jason had a lot of years to make up for.

 

---

 

Out in the small living room, he was surprised to find a cup of tea waiting for him at the small dining table tucked into the corner. Abby was sitting there fiddling with one of her own. 

“If this is a bribe, I’m not fallin’ for it,” Jason said, taking a seat beside her. 

She shook her head, frowning. “It’s not. Just… I want to help you, Dad.”

“Baby girl.” He reached out and took her hand. “You do not need to get yourself mixed up in my business. You know what I do.”

It had been an accident, her finding out he was the Red Hood. He’d gone crawling to Steph late one night to be patched up after a bang-up fight with Bruce. She was a nurse, an ER nurse at that, and was good with a needle. Needless to say, she wasn’t exactly happy about becoming the Red Hood’s go-to for stitches, but she couldn’t turn him away.

Steph had grown up on nearly the same streets he had. She knew what it was like, understood why he did what he did, and why the Red Hood was good for Gotham. It was nice, having someone in his corner who quietly supported him.

Or it was until Abby walked into Steph’s bedroom that night when Jason was a bloodied mess and his helmet was sitting right there on the floor for the world to see. She’d been thirteen at the time, and Jason had only been in her life for a year and a half at that point. Suddenly, all of Dad’s bumps and bruises, the little cuts, and the occasional broken bone made a lot more sense—not to mention his penchant for sharp, pointy weapons and why he slept with a gun.

After that, Stephanie tried closing him out of Abby’s life. And he went along with it, for a while.

But then he got a call from an informant one day about a young teenage girl asking around for him in the Bowery.

Stephanie just about lit his ass on fire when Jason showed up with Abby in hand, but it wasn’t like it was his fault their daughter slipped her leash. So the after school visits resumed, but only on days when Steph worked. It worked out just fine…

Until now, apparently.

“I don’t want to help with the fighting,” Abby said. “I can barely throw a punch and you’ve been trying to teach me that for years.”

This was true. Coordination was not his daughter’s friend, thank god. 

“I just… I want to help you with other things, like how Mom does. Like how I helped you move all those boxes and fixed the getaway truck and…” she trailed off, not looking at him. “I just want to be useful.”

Oh, shit. This was where he sucked at being a dad. His first instinct was to cave completely to those wobbly green eyes that were already starting to shine. It was during times like these that Jason asked himself one very important question—

What would Alfred do?

Well, they already had tea, so that was off the table. 

Dammit. Parenting was hard. 

“You are useful,” Jason finally answered, catching and holding her gaze. “Have you ever considered the fact that simply being here and accepting me as I am is the greatest support you can possibly give me? You don’t judge me. Or if you do, you don’t do it to my face,” he finished with a wry twist to his lips.

Abby huffed a small laugh, just like he’d hoped she would, and ducked her head. “You’re such a sap, oh my god.”

“Just don’t blab it to the whole world, yeah?”

She rolled her eyes. “Like anybody would believe me.”

Jason could think of a few people who just might. The lengths the Bats would go to get some leverage on him—yeah, fuck no.

“I still don’t think that’s being very helpful though,” Abby continued, definitely trying to push her luck.

He couldn’t blame her. He’d have done the same thing at her age. Pretty sure he did, actually. And look where that got him.

“Well, tell you what.” Jason picked up his still-steaming mug and leaned back in the somewhat rickety chair with a wink. “When you turn eighteen, you can do whatever the hell you want. At least then, you’ll be legal and can make your own dumb decisions where your mom won’t ride my ass six ways to Sunday.”

 

---

 

That night when he dropped Abby off, he hung around. It wasn’t his norm as he didn’t want to overstay his already shaky welcome. But he needed to talk to Steph, so after their daughter vanished into the depths of her bedroom, Jason caught her eye.

“Got a few minutes?”

Steph frowned, but nodded. “Here or outside?”

Here being the living room where the TV was on, airing the ten o’clock news in a quiet drone. It would be enough to cover their voices, assuming they didn’t start shouting.

“Here’s fine.” Jason didn’t make a move to sit down and instead leaned against the front door. Stephanie perched on the end of the sofa, facing him. Her long blonde hair was hanging loose, freshly washed from the look of it. She normally braided it back for work.

“What happened?” Steph asked. 

“Nothing yet,” he said carefully. How the fuck to phrase this and not get yelled at? “It’s just… Abby is starting to show some… interest in my work.”

That was apparently the complete and utter wrong way to say it because Steph’s expression darkened immediately.

“I told her no and to drop it,” Jason was quick to add. “But it’s the first time she’s done that and I want to make it very clear up front that I’m not encouraging her in the slightest.”

He was already regretting having her help him pack up those boxes and moving them over to New Town. Now look at what he had to deal with. The only person he had to blame for this was himself. Gave her an inch and she wanted a mile.

“You don’t have to encourage her.” Steph’s reply was surprisingly non-venomous, considering. “You just need to be you and she’s going to want to follow.”

“Huh?”

“You’re her dad, Jason,” Steph said with a wry twist to her lips. “You’re also the Red Hood, who is quite possibly one of the coolest people in Gotham for kids her age, even if the police would love to lock you up and throw away the key.”

“That’s bullshit—though the police part is 100% accurate.”

Steph started shaking her head and laughing quietly. “You have no idea how the mind of a teenage girl works, do you?”

“Not a fucking clue.” Jason was out of his depth and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. “The only kinda cool thing we ever do is work on my motorcycle or repair old clunkers in my garage.” 

They sold them too, and put all the money into an account in Steph’s name that was earmarked for Abby’s college fund. 

“Oh, Jason…” Steph didn’t look pissed anymore. If anything, she was amused, which was confusing as hell. “Honestly, considering both of our histories involving masks and Batman, I’m surprised she hasn’t tried something on her own yet. Pretty sure our only saving grace here is that she still trips over her own two feet and is afraid of heights.”

This was the other reason Steph was able to turn a semi-blind eye to his activities. She’d done the teenage vigilante thing too. Her run ended a lot better than his had, but only because Bruce ratted Steph out to her mom after her dad ended up dead in some accident.

So yeah, all things considered, they had gotten lucky with Abby. 

Jason slumped against the door as the realization over how much worse it could be sank in. “Afraid of heights, huh?” he managed. 

“Yep.”

Thoughts of Abby swinging high over the streets of Gotham or racing over the rooftops vanished, though not without a twinge of loss. Somewhere deep in the old brainpan, he’d kinda wished he and his daughter could play tag over the Gotham landscape.

“I can live with that.”

 

---

 

“You want me to what?” Rochelle asked later that night, eying Jason askance. 

“I need you to witness somethin’ for Hood and Drake,” he repeated, leaning against the bar. “He’s gonna be doin’ some work for the big guy and wants everything all nice and neat in a contract.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. But why me?” 

“You’re the only person I can think of that little Timmy won’t nope out on when he sees ‘em.”

Rochelle still didn’t look convinced. “Tim, of all people, has to know that a contract signed by the Red Hood won’t hold up in court.”

Jason shrugged, though it didn’t stop him from grinning. “Pretty sure he’s doin’ it to be a petty little shit. Guy’s got a fuckin’ mouth and a death wish, I swear.”

A mouth he still couldn’t get out of his mind, dammit.

“He’s not…” Rochelle paused, troubled. “He’s not doing this because you blackmailed him, is he? Tim is a good person, he doesn’t deserve that.”

More like a desperately thirsty person, holy shit. For a guy who got banged on the regular at the gym, Drake was ridiculously horny. Or maybe he just really got off on danger, which also made sense. Anyone could walk in on him and his flavor of the week at any time, fucking away like bunnies in the shower.

But oh, did he look gorgeous with his mouth wrapped around a cock.

In his pants, Little Jay twitched at the thought. Soon, very soon, he’d see some action. It’d been too long, apparently.

Jason caught the bar owner’s gaze and held it. “Roche, I swear. He’s doing this of his own free will. You can even ask him.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

 

---

 

Two nights later, Jason snuck into the bar through the backdoor, decked out in full Red Hood regalia. 

Not all of his armories had been snatched up by dear old Daddy Bats, thank god. He still had some goodies to play with, though what sucked most was that the only one with a spare hood and uniform didn’t have extra under-armor to go along with it. Leather, Nomex, and Kevlar provided some protection, as did his hood, but if he got into a fight with Bruce or even the Demon Brat anytime soon, he’d need to pull out all the stops to get the hell outta there quick.

The back door opened into the kitchen, which was already shut down for the night. So much for trying to beg a basket of fries. The lingering scent of grease and burgers made his stomach rumble.

Before entering the main room, Jason paused at the kitchen door, which never managed to close all the way unless it was shoved into place. Mike had been meaning to fix it, but there were always other things that had to be done. Before he died, Jason had been somewhat of a regular here and genuinely liked the guy. That was how he met Rochelle, who’d been helping her uncle out there near the end.

Hell, the first time he’d been able to bring himself back in here after Mike died was the same night he’d ended up meeting the little number cruncher waiting for him.

As he suspected, voices carried through the gap in the door.

“…I don’t know what I was thinking, okay?” Drake was saying, sounding more than a little defensive. “I have a habit of doing really stupid things when I’m bored. Ives can vouch for me on that.”

“We all do dumb shit, Tim. But working for the Red Hood? What are you doing for him?” Rochelle asked, concern clear in her voice.

“Pretty sure I can’t talk about that.”

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure out, considering what you do for a living.”

Jason frowned. Damn, but he sure hoped he wouldn’t have to tie up that loose end. He liked Rochelle, he really did. But the best thing for him to do, as well as Drake, was make sure they didn’t come here again, at least not any time soon.

Shoving open the kitchen door, he strolled into the otherwise empty bar like he owned the place. 

Conversation ceased as he made his way to the bar and took a seat where it curved so he could face Drake.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Jason drawled, amused by the deer-in-the-headlights look in the man’s eyes. 

Somehow, he doubted that Drake had told Rochelle the exact details of the contract they were about to sign. 

Then again, he was still surprised he’d agreed to it too. But they were both consenting adults and Drake did have that oh-so-pretty mouth. From what Jason had seen at the gym, the rest of the package was nice too.

Nice enough he wanted to get his hands all over that lean swimmer’s body. Mark up that pale skin with his hands and teeth, and see exactly what it took to make Drake sing like a bird. 

That wasn’t likely going to happen as the Red Hood, but it shouldn’t be too hard to get the little accountant into bed as himself. The looks Drake had shot his way at this very bar were a dead giveaway. 

Such a fucking shame that shit-stain Jaime had shown his ugly mug. If he hadn’t, then odds were likely Jason wouldn’t be putting himself or Drake through this farce.

“We were done,” Drake said with some finality. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Aw, and here I was hopin’ to have a drink with ya.” Jason grinned, just because he could. Times like these, he enjoyed the crap out of wearing a full face mask.

The number cruncher raised a shot glass and tossed back the contents, wincing as he did. “Sorry, just finished mine and I don’t plan on having another. I like to be sober when I deal with public transportation around here.”

“I could always give ya a lift.”

“Thank you, no.” There was that prissiness again. It wasn’t like Drake was looking down at him—he wouldn’t dare, not to the Red Hood. If anything, it was more like the guy was giving him attitude. 

Ballsy. Jason liked that. 

Rochelle looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here. “So what exactly do I have to do?” she asked, getting them back on track.

Drake reached under the bar to retrieve a messenger bag that had seen more than a little wear and tear, and removed a single file folder. Smart move, considering the area. “I wrote up a contract. Mr. Hood here needs to read and sign it, then I do, then down below our signatures, there’s a witness line for you.”

“Mr. Hood?” Jason snickered. “How d’ya know I’m not a doctor?”

If looks could kill… Oh, Drake’s gaze was beyond frosty now. It was downright glacial. 

Note to self: the guy was fun to tease. 

“Are you a doctor?” Drake asked after a long pause, like it was being dragged out of him.

“Nah, just wanted to see what you’d do.” Jason accepted the file that was slid across the bar to him. “Gimme a sec to read this over and make sure you didn’t sneak anything into the fine print.”

“What fine print?” Drake muttered, sour. 

“Oh, I dunno. Perhaps how often you get to—”

“Just shut up and read. Please.” The last was added almost as an afterthought, but Drake’s ears had started to turn red.

Jason chuckled, but didn’t push for once. He had some tact. That and he needed Drake’s brain more than he needed his mouth, a fact his dick protested in the confines of his armored jock.

The contract was fairly standard, all things considered. A breakdown of expected services, the typical costs for said services, a line where he apparently had to initial about being aware that unexpected fees might arise and if he had a minimum he wanted to enter before being contacted about said fees. 

A big fat zero would be entered there as soon as he was given a pen. Drake was a wily little shit and he fully intended to keep an eye on him as much as possible.

Buried in the middle were the details of their agreement, obviously placed there so Rochelle wouldn’t likely read what she was putting her signature to.

Until such a time where Timothy J. Drake’s salary can be paid in full or installment payments can begin, payment will be made by the Red Hood in the form of consensual sexual intercourse. To be reviewed in a reasonable timeframe, but no sooner than three months from the initial date of this contract.

“Three months, huh?” Jason cocked his head, catching Drake’s gaze even if the man didn’t realize it. “That confident?”

Drake’s already stiff spine straightened even more, like he’d just insulted him in some way. “You hired me because I’m one of the best there is. If I didn’t think I could do it in that time frame, I’d have put six.”

“Gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

Drake smirked and handed over a pen. “I do every time.”

 

Notes:

I amend my original statement. Jason is pretty damn thirsty too.

Chapter 5: Bleeding Hearts

Saturday morning, Tim oozed his way out of bed, wishing he hadn’t taken it upon himself to drink so much vodka the night before. It had seemed like a great idea at the time, considering how badly his weekend was about to suck. 

Today was his first day working part-time for the Red Hood. Full-time would be coming soon, once he put his notice in at the office.

Joy. 

A shower revived him somewhat, though he knew from experience the only cure for the dull pounding behind his eyes was hydration and caffeine. It wasn’t often that he got drunk, but when he did, he liked to think it was for a good reason. 

This constituted a very good reason. 

What on earth had he been thinking? This was quite possibly the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his nearly thirty years of existence. It was definitely the most dangerous—and that included the time in college when he managed to rig a poker game in Vegas where he walked away with a cool two hundred and fifty grand for his efforts. 

There was a reason he never went to Las Vegas anymore. He hadn’t been caught—not by a longshot—but he didn’t want to tempt fate a second time. The only risks he took were ones where he controlled all the variables. 

Unlike the current situation he’d landed himself in. 

But it was too late now. His contract was signed and witnessed, for what good that would do. It wasn’t like he could take the Red Hood to court for not holding up his end of the terms and conditions. 

His ears still burned from putting his name to that. Thank god he’d thought to put the sex clause in the middle of page one. Otherwise, Rochelle might have seen something she shouldn’t have. 

Downstairs, Tim sipped carefully from a glass full of iced peach green tea he’d somehow had the foresight to make the night before. The toaster was busy burning his bread, despite it being on the lowest setting. There was a note on the fridge about getting a new one, something he had meant to do today. He’ll have to place an order for one online and hope it was still on his doorstep when he got home. 

The shrill cry of the doorbell broke the silence. 

Well, looked like someone had come early to collect him. Hood had said the other night he’d send a guy over. 

Blearily, Tim stumbled his way through the living room and into the foyer. He didn’t bother to look out the peephole, which was probably a mistake as he opened the door. 

Jason stood there grinning in all his v-necked t-shirt glory, jeans ripped in multiple places that showed far too much leg underneath. 

Tim slammed the door closed. 

Or rather, he tried to because Jason was just that quick to wedge a booted foot into the gap, then shoulder his way in. 

Stupid shoulders. 

“Good mornin’ to you too, sunshine.” 

“Fuck you.” Tim didn’t even bother trying anymore and just left Jason and the foyer behind to finish his breakfast. Of course it was Jason coming to get him. The Red Hood wasn’t about to just give him the keys to his finances without some kind of supervision. And not just any lackey would do. 

He was doing it himself. 

“Someone get up on the wrong side of bed?” Jason’s voice trailed after him. 

Flipping him off seemed like the best thing to do, so Tim did exactly that as he entered the kitchen at the back of the brownstone. 

His toast was nearly black. Dammit. 

He dropped the two pieces of burnt bread on the plate and opened the fridge. There was jam in here somewhere. Or butter. No way was he wasting his peanut butter on this crap.  

Emerging from the fridge with some grape jam, he found Jason leaning against the counter, arms crossed, and looking decidedly amused. “You got trashed last night, didn’t you?” 

“Whatever gave you that idea?” 

Jason nodded to the sink where Tim had apparently dropped the empty bottle instead of putting it in the recycle bin. “Doesn’t take a detective to figure it out.” 

“Thought I’d celebrate my last night of freedom.” 

“That so? And here I thought you were all kinds of excited to get railed by my boss.” 

Tim shot him the darkest glare he could muster. “I didn’t think he’d actually agree to what I put in my contract.”

Hood had signed it with a flourish. Even with the full face mask, Tim knew he’d been grinning, rather like the asshole standing before him. In broad daylight, it was easy to believe they were two separate people. That his suspicions were just that—suspicions. He had a feeling he’d be compartmentalizing here soon. 

“But you signed it,” Jason prodded. 

“A fact I am regretting more and more.” 

“You know, if you really don’t want to fuck him, he’s not gonna push. Hood’s got his own moral code. No means no.”

“That’s good to know.” It was nice to have the rumor confirmed, especially by the man himself. Seriously, how had no one else figured out Jason and Hood were the same person? Those thighs were a dead giveaway. 

“If you change your mind though, I’m ready and willing to step up to the plate. Especially after you went and defended my honor and all.” Jason waggled his eyebrows at him, then laughed. 

He had a nice laugh for a person who ran one of the largest criminal organizations in the city. How was that even fair? 

Tim glared harder, then realized a little fact as he set the jar of jam on the counter. A certain someone was blocking his cutlery drawer and access to a spoon. 

Hmm… 

“Are you now?” he asked, sidling up beside Jason and resting a hand on the counter just beside his hip. This close, he could smell cigarettes on the man, as well as the faint tang of sweat on skin already heated by the early summer morning. There was something else too that he couldn’t place—like the scent fireworks gave off if you stood too close. 

Then it hit him. 

Gunpowder. He was smelling gunpowder. 

It was a chilling reminder of exactly whose personal bubble he’d just invaded. 

Jason’s arms dropped, a hand settling on Tim’s waist. Through the thin undershirt he wore, his touch was scalding. “Yeah. But only after you brush your teeth. Your breath stinks.” 

Tim barked out a sharp laugh of his own and purposefully rose on his toes to breathe in Jason’s face. “I need a spoon and you’re in the way. Move.” 

Gagging, the man stepped to the side. But he still had a grin on his face the whole time. “You are something else, number cruncher.” 

“You need to come up with a better nickname,” Tim said as he opened the drawer and retrieved the utensil in question. 

“And you need a new toaster. Unless you like your toast burnt as hell?”

 

---

 

Tim slumped in relief when the motorcycle came to a stop. Of course, this meant collapsing against Jason’s broad back where his arms already clutched the man’s waist tightly. 

“Jesus Christ, you can let go now.” 

“I think my hands went numb.” They had too, his fingers laced so tightly together after that absolutely terrifying ride through Gotham. He was so taking the subway home. 

Callused fingers gently rubbed some life back into him. “I thought you said you’ve been on a motorcycle before?” 

“A few times in college,” Tim answered. “The guys were never worth it.” 

“Huh?” 

“Let’s just say their performance was all in their bikes and not in their pants.” 

Jason snorted, his whole body shaking from laughter he didn’t even try to suppress. “I don’t think you’re gonna have any complaints here.” 

Tim managed to finally sit up on his own and glared at the blur that was the back of Jason’s helmet. His glasses were safely tucked away in the messenger bag slung across his back. “I’ve heard that before too.” 

“Fuckin’ mouth…” Jason removed his helmet and ran a hand through his hair before getting off the bike. 

Tim’s imagination readily supplied what that must look like from the front. Thank god he’d been more petrified than turned on during the ride here—wherever that was—because inappropriate boners were not his friend at the moment. Although, getting railed while sitting on a motorcycle was very likely going to appear the next time he jerked off. 

Yanking off his own helmet, Tim did the same as sweat-dampened hair fell across his forehead. “I can’t imagine wearing one of these for very long.” 

Jason accepted the helmet, quiet for a moment before he said, “It’s hard to say this without sounding like a sap, but your eyes are gorgeous, Drake.” 

Drake. Definitely a step up from number cruncher. He’d take it. 

“Thanks. I think that’s how they make up for not working very well.” Tim carefully swung a leg over the back of the bike and hopped to the ground. His hands were already slinging his bag to the side so he could get his glasses and take in the lay of the land. 

“You really can’t see that much?” Jason asked as he put them on and looked around. 

The area wasn’t exactly inspiring and gave no clue as to where in Gotham they even were. About the only distinguishing feature was the scent of roasting meat from somewhere down the street. It smelled good, wherever it was. 

“I’m almost legally blind in one eye,” Tim answered. “The other isn’t anywhere near as bad, but because they’re so different, I need special lenses to keep everything in focus. Regular lenses, I just see double.” 

“No contacts?” 

“Used to, but had to give those up just after college when things started going really screwy.” Righting his messenger bag, he squared his shoulders. “Where to now?” he asked, changing the topic. 

Jason didn’t press and nodded toward the building they stood in front of. “We’re here.” 

“This is an apartment building,” Tim stated, perplexed. The whole area was residential, as far as he could tell.  

“Yeah, so? It’s not like we can work out of an actual office.” 

“I take it this place is new after… after what happened?” 

After the raid. 

“It is. And we haven’t had time to organize anything either, so Hood asked me to apologize about that.” 

Tim wondered how long Jason would be able to keep up the charade. If he was right, they’d be working together quite closely for the next several weeks. The Red Hood was about to get a crash course in accounting—and of his own desire from the look of it. He wasn’t just passing it off to some peon, assuming he even had any of those left after what had happened. 

No, he just didn’t want to be blindsided like he had been last month. Not again, if he could help it. 

Time to get to work.

 

---

 

The apartment Jason led him to was five floors up and had a lovely view of the grimy brick building right beside it. It was small, with a kitchenette taking up one corner of the main room, a bathroom Tim barely managed to fit in, and a bedroom that was about the same size as his closet at home. 

“Cozy,” he announced, taking in all the boxes that took up most of the space. “Where am I supposed to work?” 

“This is all temporary,” Jason reminded him. “It’s a safe house.” 

“Where are we, exactly?” 

“New Town, on the edge. Crime Alley is a couple streets over.” 

“So we’re not even in Hood’s territory.” 

“This is a neutral zone, though you didn’t hear that from me.” Jason dropped their motorcycle helmets on the narrow loveseat shoved against one of the walls and flopped down beside them. 

He looked ready for a nap. Then again, he’d probably been out all night doing Red Hood things, so odds were likely he hadn’t been to sleep yet. 

Tim wondered if the man ran on caffeine and spite like he did. 

Poking around, he found a folding table in one corner where the light was fairly decent and some mismatched chairs. “Is this my ‘desk’?” he asked. 

“Yeah. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but budgetary constraints and all…” 

Tim set his messenger bag down with a thump, taking it all in as a plan started formulating. Organization was imperative. If he didn’t know what he was working with, he wouldn’t be as effective or efficient as he could be. The sooner he was done here, the better. 

“Do you think Hood would be okay if I started an expense report?” 

Jason cracked open an eye. “Why?” 

“Because to do my job properly, I need better equipment. And that includes an actual desk with a proper chair. Not to mention some monitors I can sync to my laptop—makes it easier to read.” His back was already protesting sitting in that chair and he hadn’t even sat down yet. 

“And this stuff would be paid for up front by…?” 

“Me. I’m not the one who’s desperate.” 

“A case can be made about that.” The leer that punctuated the statement was mocking, to say the least. 

“Shut up.” Tim did not need to be reminded of what he’d signed his name to. “I can pay for what I need, as long as Hood agrees to pay me back once he’s in the green again.”

“I’ll get back to you on that one.” 

Which meant he’d think about it. Right, then. 

The matter settled, Tim turned his attention to the first box. This would take a while.

 

---

 

By the time lunch rolled around, Tim was more than ready for a break. Rising from the metal folding chair, he vowed to buy a cushion while he was out. A yawn and a stretch later, he was ready to get some air. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” Jason peered out from the bedroom where he’d opted to take his nap when it became clear Tim wasn’t kidding about organizing all the files first. 

“Lunch.” 

“You mean the burnt toast wasn’t good enough earlier?” 

“Nope.” Tim popped his neck, then ran a hand over the back of it, digging into the muscle. There would be a massage in his very near future; he could already tell. “You recommend anything around here? Or will I get mugged as soon as I walk out the door wearing this?” He gestured to the t-shirt and jeans he’d opted for when getting dressed earlier. 

“Nah, you’re fine.” Jason yawned and scratched his stomach through his shirt. “Come on, there’s a taqueria around the corner that makes some of the best carne asada this side of the border.” 

Considering the smells Tim remembered from earlier, this would not be a stretch. “I assume I’m paying?” 

“Yeah. Save your receipts for your little expense report. When the time comes, I’m sure Hood will love to see the bill.” 

Tim just bet he would.

 

---

 

The light was starting to fade by the time everything in the boxes was sorted. The Red Hood hadn’t been exaggerating in the slightest—his financial empire was in dire straits and on the verge of collapse. Not only did he need to consolidate the remaining cash, but he also needed a secure place to put his income once things stopped bleeding at the seams. There were still expenditures that had to be made, of varying degrees of importance. 

Tim rocked back on his heels, having long ago forsaken the devil chair. “What are these?” he asked, holding up a stack of receipts. 

“You tell me.” Jason glanced over from where he was reading on the loveseat. He had been of minimal help all day, mostly just lounging around or napping. There had been a couple of phone calls he’d taken too, but he always stepped outside for them. Despite his apparent disinterest, his occasional comments had questions couched within them, ones that showed he was very aware of Tim’s actions. 

The man was a good actor. And smart too. It wouldn’t be wise to underestimate him. 

“I’d say they’re money order receipts, all made out to 501(c)3 organizations. But they’re very… regular.” 

“So Hood donates money to charity. Big deal.” 

Tim didn’t miss the intense gaze behind the brush off. He had Jason’s full attention, despite his lackadaisical attitude. “These are to at least two youth centers in the Bowery. Ten grand, each month on or around the 15th.” He paused, then continued. “These wouldn’t happen to be operating expenses for the centers, would they? Or at least in part?” 

Bingo. 

Jason swung his legs around as he sat up. “Hood doesn’t make a big deal out of it, okay? He’s like me—we grew up in that area, the Bowery, Crime Alley. We know what those streets are like, and we know how important places that kids can go and just feel safe really are.” 

“So this money will be missed if it stops suddenly.” 

“Yeah.” 

Sighing, Tim cast his gaze back down on the thin slips. His entire mental image of the Red Hood was rearranging itself. He was still a crime lord, but he was a crime lord who donated a ton of money to the streets he called his own. Not enough to solve all the problems, but enough to give people—especially kids—a fighting chance. 

An idea started brewing in the back of his mind. He’d originally planned to keep himself and his name completely off the radar here. Just come in long enough to clean up the mess, get Hood back on his feet, and then step aside so someone with a more questionable reputation could take over. 

But would his replacement care the way Hood did? Or would they be in it for the money? Altruistic was not a word that could be used to describe Tim, but he did his fair share of donations each year—mostly to the Wayne Foundation because graft wasn’t tolerated under Bruce Wayne’s watch. Besides, they were a nice tax write-off. 

The thought of these centers, as well as others like them because there had to be more, hurting when there was something he could do to speed along the process… 

Dammit. 

“What are you thinkin’, Drake?” 

“The 15th is ten days from now.” 

“Yeah.” 

“How much ready cash does Hood have available? Not scattered in bank accounts, but cash on hand that hasn’t been laundered yet?” 

Jason’s gaze went distant. “Maybe fifty grand, tops.” 

“How many centers does Hood operate?” 

“Four.” 

It was times like these that Tim wished he’d spent a little more time learning about computers and network security. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want to see their bank account activity. If they have a buffer, you can get away with smaller payments this month. That’ll give me time to…” he trailed off. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this. 

“Time to what?” 

“Time to get a new business account established and launder the rest of the cash.” Tim hung his head. At least all his anti-money laundering training was about to be put to good use. 

“Aw, someone has a heart!” Jason teased. 

“Shut up.”

 

Chapter 6: Fallen Birds

Notes:

For those of you who didn't think this story was ever going to develop a plot... :D

Exiting the apartment building with Drake, the number cruncher immediately pulled out his phone and started tapping at the screen. It was only sheer proximity and several inches of height that allowed Jason to see the man was opening a maps app and zooming in on the area.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, resting his chin on Drake’s head.

Drake jerked and shot a glare over his shoulder. “Do the words personal boundaries mean anything to you?”

“Only on Tuesdays.” 

“You’re impossible.”

“Says the guy who has no idea where he is and is thinkin’ about takin’ the bus home. What, is ridin’ behind me really that bad?” Jason grinned. Pressing Drake’s buttons was quickly becoming a new favorite pastime. That and finding out what made the little control freak tick. 

He would put good money on the fact that Drake had some more kinks locked away. The question was, how soon would he let Jason discover them?

They needed to start fucking it out soon. 

Drake’s cheeks pinked and he adjusted his glasses as he looked away. “If by bad you mean terrifying, then yes. Do you even know what a speed limit is?”

“Thought you liked it fast.” Jason’s grin morphed into a knowing smirk, which only made those cheeks even redder. Such a pretty sight. 

What else could he make that color?

“I am not having this conversation with you. Good night.” Drake turned on his heel and walked away.

Rude. Still, there was a benefit to knowing this area like the back of his hand.

“Subway is faster and has a stop the other way!” Jason called out before his number cruncher got very far.

The man stopped, instincts clearly at war. It was hilarious just how much effort it visibly took Drake to decide which direction he should go. 

“Which option has the least likely chance of me getting mugged?” he finally asked.

“I’d say 50/50.” Jason strolled up to him and placed an arm over Drake’s shoulders, who promptly stiffened like he’d been touched by a live wire. “But, I know an alternative that has a 0% chance of it.”

“Let me guess. Your motorcycle.”

“Hey, you’re a smart one after all!”

Drake allowed himself to be drawn around, downcast and dejected as his self-preservation instincts won out. “Fine,” he said, more than a little put out.

“C’mon, it’ll be a blast. I won’t even make fun of you if you pop a boner.” Now there was a thought. Jason glanced down at Drake, whose face had gone completely red at this point. “What? Never thought about having sex on a motorcycle before?”

Neither had he, but now that he had… Oh, but he could see it now. Drake stretched out beneath him, grasping the handlebars while warming Jason’s cock. In the fantasy unfolding before his eyes, they’d drive around at night and at every red light, Jason would fuck that tight little—

“How would that even be possible?” Drake asked, tearing Jason out of dreamland. He then seemed to instantly regret his words as Jason’s grin stretched wide.

“Well, I think the balancing act would be all up to me, but with you stretched out and holdin’ on to the handlebars—”

“Oh my god, will you just shut up already?”

 

---

 

Jason was still laughing about it when he pulled up out front of Drake’s brownstone near the Finger River in the Upper West Side. It was a nice neighborhood, not too pretentious. The kind of place he wouldn’t mind seeing Abby having grown up in or even raising a family of her own.

Ugh. Grandpa-hood had better be a long-ass time away for him. 

“There ya go, Drake. Safe and in one piece, as promised.”

Behind him, Drake slumped against his back as the death grip around Jason’s waist finally slackened. “I never want to do that again.”

Because he wasn’t a total dick, Jason asked, “Are you actually afraid of motorcycles or is it just the way I drive?”

Abby loved it when he opened up the throttle and roared down the road. Before her little escapade to the Bowery, they’d taken short road trips outside of Gotham, driving along the shore. 

“A bit of both,” Drake finally answered as he straightened. “But I’ve also never done well with letting someone else be solely in charge of my overall state of being.”

Yep, definitely a control freak. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Drake hopped off the bike and removed his helmet, handing it over to Jason. His incredible eyes were on full display before he fished out his glasses and Jason wasn’t ashamed to just stare from the concealment of his own helmet. Even with the tinted visor, the pale blue stood out, framed by dark lashes and the black line of his brows. 

Fuck, but he was gorgeous. 

In his pants, Little Jay stirred as Drake drew a hand over his forehead, dragging his sweaty bangs back. For a brief second, he held still, almost as though he were posing, before the moment was lost as he reached for his bag to get his glasses.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. 

“I’ll see ya tomorrow then, yeah?” Jason said before he did something stupid, like ask to be invited inside.

“Yeah, tomorrow. Good night.” Drake bounded away, up his stairs and through the front door in a blink. 

Looked like he wasn’t the only one feeling the chemistry between them. Drake was something else, that was for sure. Now wasn’t the time to push though, not after his comments earlier about regretting what he’d put his name to in that contract. 

No, when Drake came to him, Jason wanted it to be without a single shred of doubt in his mind. 

He just hoped it was soon because before he went out tonight to take care of some business, he had a date with his hand and the memory of that beautiful mouth wrapped around another man’s cock. A good fuck was a much better way to start the night, but for now, he’d take what he could get.

It would be Drake’s mouth around his cock soon enough.

The shrill tone of his phone ringing tore Jason out of his musings. Only three people had this number, but only one would likely be calling at this time of day.

Frowning, he tapped the side of his helmet to answer. “What?”

“I need your help with something.”

Jason blinked, because what the hell? It was Barbara, as he’d suspected, but without any of the synths she used to disguise her voice. 

“You feelin’ alright there, Barbie?” he asked, using a nickname he knew she despised since this just did not compute. They never spoke outside of Oracle and/or Red Hood business. Never. 

“If I was, I wouldn’t be asking a favor of this magnitude.”

Well, fuck. There went his plans for the evening. She must be desperate, coming to him. Problem was, he owed her a few too many. Time to start clearing that ledger.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“It’s Dick.” 

Jason frowned, thinking fast.

Dick wasn’t a Bat anymore. Or maybe that was more like Bat-adjacent, last he’d heard. A shootout—that Jason had not been part of, no matter what bullshit Bruce liked to spout—had put an end to Nightwing’s escapades across the Gotham landscape. The injuries had left him with a permanent limp and a lovely eyepatch that meant anytime the big bird wanted to fly, he needed a safety net to catch his ass when he fell. Lack of depth perception was a bitch.

And Bruce, in typical Bruce fashion, fired him. That had gone over real well with the Titans, who’d officially split off from any and all doings with the Justice League unless it was a world-wide disaster. Nightwing was still the leader of the Titans, running their ops and comms and whatever else that needed doing.

In any case, he was still a hero, which made Jason want to grind his teeth anytime he had to deal with him. 

It was better than wanting to shoot him on sight. His shrink would be so happy to hear that, if he ever decided to tell her.

“What did Big Bird do this time?”

“I received a call from Donna this morning. She’s concerned that she hasn’t been able to get ahold of Dick. She told me that he’s completely resigned from anything to do with the Titans as of a month ago and that his behavior for the last several weeks has been… erratic.”

That could mean anything. But the clear worry in Barbara’s voice was enough to keep Jason from making his own commentary—for now.

“I haven’t spoken with him for a while either,” Babs continued. “So I did some digging. He’s closed down that private investigation business he started and was evicted from his apartment two weeks ago.”

Jason’s jaw about hit the ground. Say what he would about Dickwing, this was not normal behavior for him. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“I wish I was.”

“So whaddya need me for?”

“He’s been staying at a homeless shelter where he’s using one of his aliases. The staff pointed me in the direction of Sheldon Park, said he usually wanders in that direction each day. I finally found him out by the pier. He barely spoke to me and wouldn’t accept any help. I’m sitting in my SUV in the parking lot because I don’t know who else to turn to.”

Jason let out a slow breath. Damn. He’d known Dick hadn’t been right after the shooting—not with injuries that took away the one thing he loved most in the world. But he hadn’t thought the big bird would spiral so quickly.

Or at all. Out of everyone he’d ever met in the caped business, Dick Grayson was the one who always bounced back, was always stronger than before. 

And now he’d fallen. 

Fuck, but that was enough to yank even on his heartstrings. 

“I’m on my way. Lemme know if he wanders off before I can get there, yeah?”

“Thank you, Jason. I will.”

 

---

 

Sheldon Park was a narrow strip of undeveloped land along Gotham’s northernmost island, looking out over the broad expanse of the Atlantic. It was a popular spot for families during the day, but at night, the atmosphere changed entirely. The park was technically part of his territory, adjacent as it was to the Bowery and the East End, so it was usually rodent-free, unless the Demon Bat felt like sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. 

Such a daddy’s boy, sheesh.

It was still daylight when Jason arrived and parked his bike. Out here, the warm summer air was at least moving, teased by the ocean breeze. Removing his helmet, he took a moment to just sit and feel it on his skin. 

But he wasn’t here to commune with nature. 

Locking his bike, Jason made his way over to a large black SUV parked facing the shoreline. The window was already rolling down to reveal Barbara’s worried face.

“He’s still there,” she said, nodding toward the water. “Sitting at the end of the pier.”

Jason nodded, looking out over the water. “Find out anything else?”

“Just that Alfred has tried to reach out to him too and didn’t have any luck either. He said he hasn’t told Bruce or Damian yet.”

“Well, shit.” If the elderly man who meant so damn much to them all couldn’t get through to Dick, then what chance did Jason? Only one way to find out. With a sigh, he squared his shoulders. “Wish me luck then.”

He strolled down to the pier. A few food vendors were still open, luring him in with the smell of hotdogs and chili. Never one to refuse the call of the chili dog, he bought two and made his way further down the pier. 

Dickie was seated on a weathered bench with his bad leg propped up on the railing. The crutches he used on bad days were beside him, and that was a rather impressive salt-and-pepper beard the normally clean-shaven man was sporting. Then again, it never took long for Dick to grow one, so this was likely only a couple weeks old.

Which just so happened to match up with the eviction notice Babs told him about. Coincidence? Jason didn’t think so.

He sat down heavily on Dickie’s blindside and put his own feet up, crossing his ankles on the railing, then took a large bite from one of the chili dogs. Wordlessly, he handed the other one over to Dick, who accepted it with a quiet nod.

“Babs called you,” Dick said, voice pitched just enough to be heard over the cries of the seagulls above them.

“Yeah.”

“She shouldn’t have.”

“We all make bad decisions. Think it’s a side effect of wearing tighty tights for too long. Poor blood circulation and all that.”

Dick cracked a minute smile and took a small bite from the chili dog. “They also ride up your ass despite everything you do to stop it.”

“Is that why your ass is still the most famous one on the planet?”

“I think that dubious honor has passed on to someone else at this point.”

Jason made a rather obvious once-over of the former Robin seated beside him. While it was clear Dick had let himself go, he wasn’t quite so far gone as to be called soft—not by any stretch of the imagination. “I think if you did enough squats, you could reclaim it.”

There was another of those small smiles. “Kind of hard, considering I can’t bend my knee.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have access to the best healthcare on the planet and then some. I find it hard to believe you’re still livin’ with a bullet in your knee.”

“It was taken out at the same time I had my knee replaced,” Dick answered, his voice still pitched low enough to be barely heard. “It’s just… I’m one of those few people where it didn’t take well. PT helped some, but… yeah.”

“My statement about access to the best healthcare on the planet and beyond still stands.” Jason tried not to roll his eyes, but it was hard. Bats were so damned dramatic. Made him glad he didn’t wear a symbol on his chest. “Besides, aren’t you still friends with Raven? I can’t see her not offering to help you out.”

“She’s with Kori on New Tamaran.”

“Oh. That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

The conversation petered out, leaving Jason to wonder what else he could say. He and Dickie, they’d never been all that close. The age difference between them when he’d first been brought on as Robin had seemed insurmountable. Seven years between him and the big doofus who’d thought he’d try and bring disco back. With a costume like that, it had been hard to take Nightwing seriously.

Even if he could drop down into the splits effortlessly and was determined to make sure Jason could do it too.

Still could, for that matter. Thank you, yoga.

Dick shifted, moving for the first time since Jason sat down. For a man who’d constantly been in motion, seeing him this still outside of the fingerstripes was just bizarre. “I just can’t do it anymore, Jay. I can’t be who everyone expects me to be. Not like this,” he said, his face taking on a cast that made him look Bruce’s age rather than waving hello at forty. “I’m so tired and it hurts all the time.”

Most Bats refused to believe that Jason had an empathetic or insightful bone in his body. That the crude and often crass exterior was as deep as he got. But sitting here beside the man who was once his brother, Jason was struck by how similar Dick’s words were to ones he himself had spouted several years back. Words that had resulted in him getting the help he genuinely needed and had finally been willing to seek out.

Not to mention he didn’t want to go anywhere near his daughter until he’d worked some shit out. 

“Well, the way I see it, you got two options,” Jason said after a long moment.

“Oh?”

“Go back to that shelter and hope to God that Damian or Alfred don’t find you. Because we both know how well that’s gonna go. Or, you come with me and lemme hook you up with my shrink. Cuz seriously, Dickie—your issues have issues, and if you’re anything like me, you’ve got a shit-ton that needs to be unloaded.”

Dick lowered the barely touched chili dog and gaped, his bright blue eyes wide in surprise. “You’re in therapy?”

“Was in therapy,” Jason clarified. “And lemme tell ya, it’s not a one-size fits all kinda thing. But after, especially after the PTSD therapy, I’m really glad I did it. I still got problems, but I’m not the rage-fueled asshole I used to be.”

“Just the dick kind of asshole.”

“Exactly.” Jason took a large bite from his chili dog and stared out over the waves. 

The ball was in Dickie’s court now. All he could do was wait.

Dick took his sweet-ass time eating the chili dog. It was hard to blame him—this was a lot to take in. Everyone always thought of Jason as the broken bird, but sitting here beside Dick, it was rather obvious which one of them had their shit together.

Christ, how the tables had turned.

The sun was just starting to set behind them when Dick spoke up again. “Who's your therapist?”

Jason was afraid he’d ask that question. Really though, it was the only person who made sense, considering the life he led. And if she’d been able to get her shit together and come out the other side, then so could he.

“Harley Quinn.”

 

Chapter 7: Rails and Roller-Coasters

Notes:

Sorry for the delay between chapters. RL crept up on me and smacked me around quite a bit this month.

Tim spent most of the night putting his plan in action. The first part was the most time-consuming and, if he were being honest with himself, the most exciting. While he’d often toyed with the idea of striking out on his own, he’d never seriously sat down to just think about it. 

Now here he was, putting his good name at risk all because he was a sucker for a pair of shoulders and bulging pectorals. 

After reviewing the first draft of his business plan, scrawled on a notepad in his messy print, he just shook his head as he read it aloud. “Business description—single agent limited liability company secretly funded by the Red Hood for the purposes of establishing a shell organization and laundering money. Right, like this is going to see the light of day.” 

Still, structure was good. 

As was lighting fires, which was what he did once the real business plan was finalized. Tim held a lighter to the corner of the page and watched the flame lick at the paper until there was nothing left. 

He couldn’t help but sense there was a metaphor to his life here somewhere as the fire died out.

 

---

 

It was late by the time he went to bed—or early, depending on how you looked at it. Tim remembered the digital clock on his nightstand, with the big numbers he could make out sans glasses if he squinted enough, saying 4:17 when he finally collapsed into the welcoming embrace of his bed. 

This was why being woken up at 5:37 to someone bouncing on his bed made him lash out blindly. 

A gloved hand caught his swinging fist. “Wow. Do you always wake up like this?” 

The hell? 

Brain coming online, Tim blinked. “Why are you in my bedroom? Actually, scratch that. How’d you get into my house?” 

“Your alarm is decent enough for the common criminal, but not a match for me.” 

Tim didn’t even need to see Jason’s face clearly to know he was grinning. “I’ll have to have words with my alarm company.” 

“Do that, and I’ll tell you where they keep fuckin’ up.” 

“You could tell me now.” 

“And spoil your little tantrum? You gotta let off some steam somewhere. Might as well be with them.” 

Tim flopped back into his pillow nest. He wasn’t prepared to deal with what passed as Jason’s witty banter at the ass crack of dawn. “Is there a reason you’re here? I went to bed barely an hour ago.” 

“And I haven’t been to bed yet, so suck on that.”

“I’d rather suck on something else.” 

Dammit. His brain-to-mouth filter needed at least two more hours of sleep before it was functional again. 

“Oh really?” Jason sounded all too intrigued. 

“Shut up.” If it wasn’t a display of childish pique, he’d throw a pillow at the man. 

Then again… 

Tim managed to unearth one of his pillows before Jason caught that hand too. The motion drew him over the thin sheet, their bodies pressing together nearly as close as they’d been on the motorcycle the previous day. 

Holy hell, that should not feel as good as it did. He’d never been much for restraints, but Jason holding him down, even inadvertently, was really doing it for him. 

It had to be the pecs. Tim could see them clearly now that they were so close to his face. He wanted to lick them. 

Damn t-shirt being in the way. 

Jason smirked down at him. “Hmm, what do we have here?” He rolled his hips, grinding against Tim’s groin. 

Oh, fuck. That felt way too good. 

Tim’s breath punched out as his cock stirred. Traitor. 

Remaining motionless took all the willpower he could muster on an hour of sleep. As it was, his legs twitched in a weak attempt to escape the cage of Jason’s thighs. Oh, who was he trying to kid? He wanted to spread his legs and take whatever Jason was offering. 

The only thing holding him back was his fear of the repercussions. 

“You didn’t come here to fuck me at ass o’clock in the morning,” Tim managed to say.

Wow, that even came out steady. 

“I’m allowed to change my mind.” But Jason sat up, releasing him as he did, though he didn’t give Tim any room to move as he settled over his legs. 

Right. No meant no even if Tim’s cock protested vehemently. Yay for crime lords with morals. 

The blur that was now Jason nodded towards the nightstand. “Hood got those files you wanted. The bank statements from the youth centers.” 

“That was fast.” 

“Well, he is on a time crunch here.” 

“Okay, that’s fair. Want to give me the highlights?” 

“You think I looked through them?” 

Tim snorted. “You’re nosy as hell. Of course you did.” 

Above him, Jason laughed. “Yeah, I am. Job hazard.” There was a long pause before he continued. “They’re not exactly flush, but there is a small cushion.” 

“That doesn’t tell me anything. Give me numbers.” 

A gloved finger trailed up Tim’s bare chest, searing a line of heat into his skin, before tapping the end of his nose. “Pushy.” 

“Get off me then so I can turn on a light and read.” 

“Nah, this is more fun.” The finger tapped his nose again. “Don’t you think?” 

“Fuck you.”

“Ask nicely, Drake. You know I’ll make it good.” 

How the hell was this his life now? It wasn’t every day Tim found himself trapped between the powerful thighs of Gotham’s most notorious crime lord—okay, it had never happened before, obviously—but damn, was it causing a war between his dick and his brain. 

He needed to get laid again. Badly. 

“Numbers, Jason,” Tim managed to growl. 

“You are seriously no fun.” Jason rolled off him and stood beside the bed. “Between them all, they’ve got about 10k in reserves.” 

“So Hood only needs to come up with thirty.” Tim frowned while flipping through his mental calendar. 

Thirty grand wouldn’t be too hard to come up with. He could always front the cash, but those kinds of withdrawals were unusual for him. Avoiding transactions that drew attention was key to success here. 

Or rather, transactions that were outside the norm of someone who didn’t have a history of wiring funds to the gaming cage of a casino on a regular basis. It wasn’t like he had to use all of it—or tell Jason where exactly the proceeds came from. 

“You got that kind of money just layin’ around?” Jason asked, drawing Tim from his thoughts. 

“Not in cash, no.” Sitting up, Tim reached for his glasses and switched on the small bedside lamp. 

Jason took a step back, out of the light. 

Interesting. Looked like he’d been hoping to slip some Red Hood gear under the radar by taking advantage of the semi-darkness of the room, not to mention his knowledge of Tim’s need for his glasses to see a damned thing. 

Choosing not to make a comment, Tim picked up the file folder sitting on top of his alarm clock and started reading. 

“Need me for anything else, Drake?” Jason asked when it became obvious Tim wasn’t offering more information on where the money would be coming from. 

“No, you can go. Take a nap. You’re cranky.” 

Jason scoffed. “Like you’re one to talk. I’ll be back around noon.” 

“Bring a truck.” 

“…Why?” 

“Because it’ll make my life a lot easier if I have all of Hood’s files here than across town where I can only access them on the weekend. And it’ll save him from having to pay me back for a new desk and all the other stuff I need.” Not to mention he wouldn’t have to sit behind Jason on a motorcycle ever again. Good lord, but that was terrifying and a turn-on all bundled up into one. 

“You said you were quitting your job.” 

“It’s called a two-week notice.” Tim glared over the rim of his glasses. “It would look odd if I just up and left without any warning.” 

“Fine, I’ll get my hands on a truck. Anything else?” 

“Well…” 

“Forget I asked.”

 

---

 

Rather annoyingly, Tim couldn’t get back to sleep after Jason left. It was way too early to pick up his dry cleaning and placing his grocery order required far more thought than he cared to spare at the moment. 

That left only one thing. 

The gym. More importantly, the Olympic-sized swimming pool at his gym. At this time of day, he’d have the whole thing to himself. 

So he did exactly that. Hauling his ass out of bed, he changed clothes and grabbed his swim gear, then marched out the door. 

He’d picked up swimming as a sport when he was a kid after the accident that had killed his parents, liking the fact that it didn’t require him to have perfect vision. In high school, he’d made the varsity team, and while he hadn’t necessarily needed to keep it up in college, he did anyway, as a walk-on to the swim team. There was something about being in the water that calmed him these days like nothing else could. 

After warming up on the treadmill, the chlorinated water was cool on his heated skin, managing to kill any remaining thoughts he might have had about Jason pinning him to the bed earlier. Pulling down his goggles, he smiled to himself. 

This was exactly what he needed. 

 

---

 

By the time Tim was done, an hour had passed. He hadn’t been in any rush, just swimming for the sake of swimming, so he felt pleasantly tired rather than exhausted. 

Rinsing off, he put on his glasses and gathered his gear before heading to the locker room. 

He’d just pulled the swim cap off his head when a voice spoke up from behind him. 

“Tim? Is that you?” 

Turning around, Tim grinned. “Hey, Joey. How’s it going?”

Oh, this morning was looking up. The blonde-haired man standing before him might not be a beefcake on Jason’s level, but he did work out. The sharp v-cut at his waist highlighted a washboard abdomen that Tim had licked his way up more than once. 

“Can’t complain. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

Tim tapped the side of his face. “Had a run-in with someone’s fist that ended up breaking my cheekbone. Wasn’t able to come in until just recently.” 

Joey winced in sympathy. “Ouch. Glad to see you’re okay.” 

“Thanks.” Tim pulled a towel and a small shower kit out of his duffle bag. “I was just gonna grab a shower, then head home.”

The invitation couldn’t be clearer. 

Joey’s gaze darkened. “Want some company?” 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

---

 

Tim was still riding the high of a good fuck when Jason arrived to pick him up later. 

“Someone’s in a better mood,” he commented when Tim hopped into the dual-cab truck without so much as a snark about the missing bumper. “Get more sleep?” 

His jeans were still ripped. That was actual skin peeking through. 

“A couple hours, but that’s all.” Tim tore his gaze away from Jason’s glorious thighs. Damn, he’d thought getting fucked would settle his desire for the man, but nope. It was still sitting up and begging. “You?” 

“I managed a few. Had to go out and find a truck for ya.” 

Tim frowned as he buckled the seatbelt. “You stole it.” 

“No. I borrowed it.”

“Why do I have a feeling that we’re arguing semantics?” 

Jason offered up a cheeky grin as he pulled away from the curb. “Stealing implies I’m not giving it back. Which I am.” 

It wasn’t worth arguing over, even though Jason’s smile made Tim’s knees weak. How dare that man have such a nice smile to go along with his… well, his everything else. 

If only he weren’t the Red Hood. 

“So what’d you do this morning that put you in such a good mood?” 

Tim was still pondering the mysteries of Jason’s pectorals, so he’d already started speaking before he realized he probably shouldn’t have. “I went for a swim.” 

Jason’s hands tightened incrementally on the wheel. “Oh really?” 

“Yeah.” It was too late to take it back so he might as well roll with it. “I’ve been swimming since I was about ten.” 

“Started early, did ya?” 

Tim glared, not missing what Jason was implying. “For your information, I was fifteen the first time I had sex.” 

“Please tell me it wasn’t your coach.” 

“My coach was a woman—pretty sure she was a lesbian too. My first time was with the junior varsity vice-captain who was a couple years older than me.” 

“That’s only slightly better.” 

Tim chose to interpret that the wrong way because how dare Jason judge him about how his sex life started? “He wasn’t very good, but it definitely set a precedent for me liking to get railed in the locker room shower.” 

The truck slammed to a stop at a red light, and Tim jerked forward against his seatbelt. Ow. 

“What the fuck, Drake?” Jason’s already intense gaze grew darker as his expression clouded. “Is that what you did after I left this morning?” 

“How is that any of your business? I can have sex with whoever I want.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I just don’t get you. First time we met, you were about ready to bend over the damned bar for the chance to take my cock, but since then, you’re runnin’ scared. What changed?” 

“Because you work for the Red fucking Hood!”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say as Mount Saint Jason decided to erupt. “And so do you! You signed a contract to get fucked by him until he could afford to pay you!” 

His eyes flashed a brilliant green, which was more than a little disconcerting. Eyes didn’t change color like that, right? 

“A fact you yourself said he wouldn’t press if I decide to say no,” Tim reminded him. 

Jason looked ready to throttle him, but kept his hands firmly on the wheel. “Yeah, but that’s between you and him. I wanna know what the fuck is going on between you and me.” 

“So desperate for your boss’s sloppy seconds?” 

Shit. Him and his goddamned mouth. 

Now Jason looked like he was about to kill him. “Fucking hell, Drake. That’s not what—” 

“The light is green,” Tim interrupted just as a horn started blaring behind them. 

Jason growled, then hit the gas. “Don’t think we’re not continuing this.” 

“Have fun talking to yourself then.” 

The truck roared through the light before veering to the right and turning down a narrow side street. Jason turned into an alley, drove a little ways down, then came to a full stop. The engine rumbled as it idled. 

Looked like they were discussing it after all. 

Jason’s knuckles were white on the wheel. “You owe me an explanation.” 

“I owe you shit. You barely know me.” 

At that, the man darted a glance Tim’s way. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but his eyes were still green. “I wonder if that’s the problem. Followed ya for weeks, tryin’ ta get a feel for ya.” 

“Stalker much?” 

Jason’s chuckle was low and dark. “Wish I could say I was a gentleman, but I’m not. Far from it.” 

“See, this is exactly why I shouldn’t be involved with you at all.” Tim didn’t dare take his eyes off the man. He was reminded of the time when he was a kid and his parents had taken him to a wildlife refuge for an up-close-and-personal encounter with a tiger. She had been beautiful. Majestic. The epitome of a huntress in her prime. 

He’d never been more terrified in his life. 

“Puh-lease. We both know you get off on danger. You wouldn’t have signed on for this gig if you didn’t.” 

Tim gave him a flat look. “Hood is the big monster of a roller-coaster you know you shouldn’t ride but are just stupid enough to anyway.” 

He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected from that, but deep, gut-wrenching laughter was not it. 

It was bizarre, seeing the man he knew to be the Red Hood laughing like this. Jason looked younger somehow, as though some of the weight on his shoulders had been lifted, just like his spirits had. And that… That was empowering. 

More than that, it reminded him that the Red Hood—Jason—was just a guy under all the tactical gear. 

“Sorry, that was just…” Jason wiped at his eyes, which were a bright blue now, with no trace of green. “I think that just made my fuckin’ year.” 

“You’re welcome?” 

“Still doesn’t answer my question though.” 

“Why do you keep pushing this?” Tim countered. “You can’t be that desperate to get laid. I mean, look at you. You’re…” 

A walking wet dream. Temptation incarnate. Everything he’d ever wanted in a purely physical package. 

“I’m what?” Jason challenged. 

“You’re avoiding the question.” Tim stood his ground. 

“You know what? Fine. I wanna piece of you because you’re exactly my type. You’re smart, you’re sassy, and you’ve got a mouth on you that just—” 

“If I have to hear one more time how I’ve got a mouth made for sucking cock, you can kiss any chances you might ever have with me goodbye.” 

“I was gonna say a mouth that just won’t shut the fuck up.” 

“And that’s attractive?”

“Maybe I also like your give-no-shits attitude.” 

Tim frowned. “You’re making it very difficult to stay mad at you.” 

The curl to Jason’s lips was more than a little cocky. “Good. Means I still got a chance.” 

And now they were right back to where they started. Tim blew out a breath. “As long as we’re both working for the Red Hood, no.” 

“Why the fuck not? I’m the one who’s interested, not him.” 

Tim distinctly remembered otherwise. The lingering touch on his lips, the warmth of his body as he was caged against the living room wall… 

What was Jason’s game? Why was he so determined to make him switch from banging his Red Hood persona to himself? 

Then it hit him. 

It had to be the mask. 

From what he knew of Jason already, the man had no problem taking care of business without the notorious hood. Look what happened at Rochelle’s—just the threat of bringing the Red Hood down was enough. It was a good threat, there was no doubt about that, which begged the question of just how often Jason had to don the helmet these days to get what he wanted. 

If he could have Tim without it, he would. He could be his expressive self and not hide what he wanted. But if he couldn’t… 

Looking into the now blue-green eyes of the man beside him, Tim suppressed a shiver. Not of fear, but the same danger-seeking thrill that had made him accept the Red Hood’s offer in the first place. He was embarking on the ride of a lifetime—literally. 

“Would it bother you if I had sex with both of you?” Tim countered with. “Or anyone else for that matter?” 

“I’m not lookin’ to marry ya, Drake. Just wanna see if you’re worth all the shit you’re gonna give me.” 

“Oh, I’m totally worth it.” 

“Confident, aren’t ya?” Jason started leaning in closer. 

There was no mistaking what he was angling for. And Tim didn’t feel like giving it to him. 

“I had no complaints earlier.” 

Jason’s expression darkened as he drew away, a scowl painting his face. “You did that on purpose.” 

Yes, he did. “I didn’t go to the gym today intending to have sex. But I wasn’t passing it up when it was offered.” 

“I offered this morning.” 

“And as of this morning, you’re still working for the Red Hood.” Tim shook his head firmly. “I’m not budging on that.” 

“I told you, he’s not gonna care—” 

“Do you know why I said yes to this job in the first place? The real reason?” 

The abrupt change of direction had Jason frowning. “You’re bored.” 

“There’s more to it than that. What he offered me was a challenge . A chance to fuck with the very system I’ve been part of since the moment I entered the workforce. This makes my Vegas scam look like chump change by comparison.” 

“Vegas sca—?” 

But Tim kept going. “I want to see exactly what I can do to make the Red Hood into as legal an organization as possible while scamming the system every way I know how—including more ideas I’m sure I’ll come up with along the way. And to do that, I don’t want to be distracted by a pair of pretty eyes and a set of pecs I want to bury my face in.” 

The funny thing was, it wasn’t until this moment that he realized that this was exactly what he wanted to do for the Red Hood. His knowledge and experience—hell, even his experiences with consulting for the FBI—he was more than uniquely qualified to do the job. It was time to go big, or go home. 

And he’d never been the type to turn around and walk away. 

All the doubts he’d been harboring since he signed on slipped away as fire and a drive he hadn’t experienced in years replaced them. 

He would do this. 

And he was going to do it his way.

 

Chapter 8: Green-Eyed Monsters

Notes:

Sorry this was so late in coming. RL decided it was my turn to have a shitshow of a month, including surgery and a lovely overnight hospital visit. I swear, 2022 is off to an utterly fantastic start.

Drake was fucking infuriating.

Their little conversation left Jason seeing green for far longer than was warranted. It was fine that his number cruncher wanted to get nailed by other guys rather than let Jason give him a night that would make him come back for more. It was just fucking fine. 

(It was totally not fine.)

The freshly retaped box slammed into the back of the truck harder than it probably should. But it was that or punch the man who was still upstairs and making him do all the hard labor. And would likely do it again when they were back across town, smiling all pretty while he held the door open.

Jason didn't think for a second it was anything other than petty revenge. Drake was a shit like that. 

It had been startling, that lurid haze fogging the edge of his vision when he found out what Drake had been up to earlier this morning. Sure, his feelings were riding closer to the surface than usual of late, a low simmer that apparently only needed the right prod to bring to a boil. 

So what was it about his number cruncher that brought forth the crazy? 

The question had been nagging him since they lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive here. Lost as he was in his own head, it hadn't escaped his attention that a smile played at the edges of Drake’s lips as the wily little shit plotted. 

Because that was exactly what he was doing. Drake was plotting how to screw over the authorities using every trick he had and then some. All for him.

It was a fucking turn-on, that’s what it was. If Jason thought for a second Drake would say yes, they'd have taken a detour to the small bed upstairs in the safe house to let off some steam. Let Drake explore the muscles he couldn’t stop staring at while Jason plumbed the depths of that slender throat with his cock. A win-win, all around.

But no. 

Instead, he was out here sweating his fucking balls off in the midsummer sun while Drake enjoyed the air conditioning and packed his boxes. 

Fuck his life. Seriously, only he managed to be cockblocked by no one other than himself. 

Sweat dripped down his forehead to sting at his eyes. Leaning against the truck, Jason tugged the hem of his shirt up to wipe his face. There was water in the cab, though it had to be hellishly warm by now.

A box dropped at his feet.

Drake stood there, gaze locked on the bare skin of Jason’s stomach with a laser focus that would do a sniper proud.

It was hard not to preen. If he thought it would do any good, he’d take his shirt off completely. Or maybe even grab that water and pour it all over his head because hey, he’s wearing a white t-shirt. But given Drake’s line in the sand, that would just be rubbing salt in the wound.

Oh, but it was tempting.

“That the last one?” Jason asked, hand still wrapped in his shirt as he finished sopping up the sweat.

Drake didn’t say a word until he lowered the damp shirt and concealed his abs. Red dusted his cheeks again as his brain came back online from wherever that big brain took him. It was a good look for him. An even better one would be with his mouth wrapped around—

“Y-Yes,” he finally managed, his gaze dragging up Jason’s body until they landed on his face. Blinking, it was like a switch had been flipped as a flash of fire returned to those blue eyes and he stiffened. “Did you do that on purpose?”

Jason didn’t even pretend he didn’t know what Drake was asking. “I can be a petty-ass bastard, but you made it clear you’d rather get railed by your boytoys at the gym than me. No means no.”

From the look on Drake’s face, it was clear he was regretting that decision.

Good.

 

---

 

Pulling up in front of Drake’s brownstone, Jason parked the truck and checked to make sure the flashers were on in case someone decided to get crazy coming down the street. This didn’t seem like the neighborhood for it, but people were assholes like that everywhere.

Drake hopped out of the truck like he’d been prodded with a livewire and ran up the stairs to unlock the front door before vanishing inside.

Looked like he’d called it. 

This was ridiculous. Drake’s rejection should not be bothering him like this. Yeah, it sucked. Yeah, it meant he’d go home and jerk one out in the shower alone. Yeah, he’d be thinking of Drake soaking wet and pulling himself out of the pool at his gym, and sucking cock in the showers with some himbo Jason could bench press without a second thought. 

In the greater scheme of things though, it was for the best. He was the Red Hood. People like him didn’t get involved with prissy little number crunchers with smart mouths. 

Besides, there was still a chance—a slim one—that he’d be getting to see that mouth in action whenever he decided to offer Drake a payday. As much as he hoped the man would accept, he wasn’t about to get butt-hurt if he said no. 

And he’d make damn sure Drake knew that.

With a sigh, Jason got out of the truck and went around to the rear. Most of the boxes were crammed into the back of the cab, but he’d deal with those last.

To his surprise, Drake returned, reaching over the side for a box of his own. He offered up a sheepish smile. “I realized on the way back that you’d done all the work earlier. Sorry about that. I get tunnel vision when I’m really focused. If you want to just set these on the curb, I can take them inside.”

It wasn’t an apology, but Jason recognized it for what it was—a peace offering. Maybe Drake wasn’t a complete shit after all.

His lips twitched up in return. “Thanks.”

 

---

 

Later that afternoon, when Jason arrived back at his apartment lugging two bags of groceries, his good mood vanished as he was reminded of the problem waiting on the other side of the door.

Dickie had refused to go anywhere Bat or Oracle sanctioned, stating in no uncertain terms he didn’t want their brand of interference in his life. Jason could appreciate that, he really could.

The problem was, he was fresh out of safe houses, so that had left only one option—his apartment in Coventry where he’d taken up residence since his life went ass-up.

A quick text to Abby and Stephanie Saturday night with a little lie that he would be out of town for the week meant the coast was clear for now, but he still didn’t like it. Just having Dick here, so close to where Abby went to school, was enough to set his teeth on edge.

There was a silver lining though—Barbara had given him some money to feed the extra mouth he now had to deal with. And, if things went to plan, she’d be putting up the money for Dick’s therapy because Harley didn’t work for free.

Not that Dickie knew any of this and Jason wasn’t stupid enough to ruffle his tail feathers. Pride was about all the man had left.

The locks engaged automatically as the door closed behind him.

“Hey.” Dick looked up from the book he was reading on the sofa, a pillow supporting his bad knee. He’d cleaned up some from the night before, wearing a pair of Jason’s sweats and a t-shirt, but still sported the beard even after being offered a razor. “Need a hand?”

Pride, Jason reminded himself. Pride. 

“Sure,” he answered shortly, heading over to the small kitchen. “Not sure if we’ll both fit in here though.”

Dickie hobbled to his feet and used a single crutch to follow. In smaller spaces, that appeared to be his preferred way of getting around. “Well, if I can’t help put things away, I can at least watch. Will you let me make dinner?”

Jason shot a bemused look over his shoulder as he set the bags on the counter. “I thought you were banned from the kitchen too.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t survive on just cereal.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“I do cook, but it’s limited.” Dickie leaned against the wall, taking some weight off the bad leg. “Alfred likes my navy bean soup though. He even said so.”

“Out loud?”

“Yep.”

That was high praise indeed.

“Guess that’s good enough for me,” Jason said, rifling through one of the bags. “I got a bag of beans here.” He hefted the package and tossed it in Dick’s direction with an easy underhand toss. Beans were cheap. Beans were healthy. Beans were easy. Enough said.

Dick caught it and flipped it around, reading the instructions on the back. “Yeah, this won’t be a problem. Just need to get them rinsed and on the stove soon if we want to eat before midnight.”

“Quick cook is good enough for me.” Jason emptied the rest of the bags, leaving an array of produce behind. “Just tell me what you need.”

A smirk appeared on Dick’s face. “You know, you don’t grocery shop like I thought you would.”

“Gotta keep my girlish figure somehow.” Annoying as it was, a clean diet also helped with his mood swings. Fiber, who knew?

“Girlish, my ass.”

Bantering with Dick was… strange. As a kid, Jason had idolized the older bird, thinking he was the coolest person ever—until he saw the disco suit. Then he just thought Dickie was a dork. Death and resurrection hadn’t done either of them any favors. Jason had battled it out so many times with Nightwing over the years that he’d lost count. 

And then Bruce died. 

They’d all spiraled for a time, a fact that still pissed Jason off because the man wasn’t his father. If anything, Bruce was the reason he’d become the man he was today—

Gotham’s reigning crime lord.

(Penguin could suck it—he only thought he was at the top of the food chain.)

Well, that and the absolute shitshow that was Gotham in the aftermath of Jim Gordon’s death.

But that was his beef with Bruce, not Dickie. Things had gone south for Dick too—more than once if the rumor mill was true. There was a reason why Nightwing hadn’t been seen in Gotham until the arrival of a small murder bird. Fucking Bruce hadn’t known what to do with his own son, so he called in reinforcements or some shit like that.

Jason and Dick, they weren’t brothers—not in the traditional sense at least. But there was a bond between them that only someone who’d been trained by Batman could possibly understand.

Snickering, Jason bent over to pull a soup pot out from a low cabinet and placed it on the stove. “And what a fine ass it was.”

“You know, I’d always hoped I’d be remembered for something other than my ass,” Dick quipped, a light shining in his eye even as he shook his head in wry amusement.

“Sorry, Dickie. Pretty sure you’ll be going down as the most heroic ass in history.”

 

---

 

After making sure Dick wasn’t about to burn down the building, Jason snagged a pack of cigarettes from the counter. “I’m gonna grab a smoke and make a phone call. If you need the fire extinguisher, it’s under the sink.”

Dick offered a level look in return. “Gee, thanks for the faith.”

“I let you in the kitchen—that should be good enough.” 

Turning on his heel, Jason crossed the living room and opened the window, crawling out to the fire escape before closing the window behind him. Even as high up as he was, it stank out here. The summer heat and humidity was never a friend to Gotham’s alleys.

He shook the lighter and a cigarette from the pack. Quitting was something he’d always meant to do, and he even managed it every now and then before various shitstorms had him crawling back.

Case in point, right here. 

Jason put the filter between his lips and lit the other end in a practiced move he could do in his sleep. The first inhalation was always the best, a rush that both invigorated and calmed at the same time. Letting out his breath slowly, he dug his phone from his pocket and swiped at the screen.

A moment later, it was ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

He was almost ready to hang up and send a text instead when Harley answered.

“Jason! Sorry ‘bout that. I was in the other room and didn’t recognize your ringtone until Pam asked if I was gonna answer it.” It all spilled out in a hurried rush, the voice thick with a lower Gotham accent not unlike his own. 

“I have my own ringtone?” Jason asked, genuinely curious.

“Of course! A girl never knows when she’s gonna need to pull the Red Hood outta her pocket.” The boisterous tone sombered. “Speakin’ of which, we heard about the big raid. You okay, Hoodie?”

They’d long ago come to the understanding that Harley would never call him by the more common nicknames a name like Jason warranted.

Jay. Jay-Jay. They were all too close to a name neither of them carried fond memories of. 

Hell, they still kept him awake at night even now, half a lifetime later.

“I’ve been better,” Jason answered. “The problem with takin’ over an established criminal organization is havin’ to rebuild it from the ground up.”

It sucked, actually. His entire reputation had taken a blow, though it was nice to see his face was still capable of instilling terror in the hearts of those who thought they could cross him. Just like his finances, re-establishing his street cred was a work in process.

“Yeah, I bet that sucks,” Harley agreed. “You wanna set up a session to talk about it? Or d’ya wanna come over and lemme get ya plastered? Pam’s been brewin’ mead again.”

“Oh, shit. Don’t tempt me.” The last time Jason drank with Harley, they’d both gotten so shit-faced they boosted Damian’s attempt at a Batmobile and cruised around Gotham with the hatch open while singing Queen at the top of their lungs.

Thank fuck Oracle had full control of the car the entire time—though that was probably part of the drunk-logic that had convinced him it was a good idea in the first place.

Fun as that trip down memory lane was, Jason couldn’t ignore the opening he’d been given. “Speaking of sessions though… Any chance you’re open to the idea of takin’ on another mask? I can vouch for ‘em. Make sure they behave and all that.”

The mood sobered like he’d just popped a balloon and all the air came whistling out. 

“Depends,” Harley answered carefully, her light-hearted tone gone. “Gonna need more details than just you vouchin’ for ‘em.”

“It’s a bird who’s had his wings clipped in the worst possible way.” Really, Jason didn’t need to say more than that. Harley was smart. She’d figure it out and fast.

She didn’t disappoint. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“Nope.”

“D’ya have any idea how many times that Bird Brain and I got into it? Pretty sure he’s the reason my knee clicks every time I get up now.”

Jason let Harley rant. It wasn’t just easier, but also part of how she worked things out in her head—especially when it involved the past and her days as a puppet to her puddin’.

Eventually, she ran out of steam. “I thought you didn’t like Wingding anyway. Why’re you wantin’ to help him?”

There were any number of ways he could answer that question, but at the end of the day, there was only one that mattered. Alfred would be so fucking proud of him.

“Of all the people in this fuckin’ world, after all the shit he’s gone through, I can honestly say that if I didn’t at least try to help him, then I wouldn’t be able to sleep well at night.”

Harley let out a breath. “Fine. I can’t promise it’ll work though. He and me, we got history.”

“I know. And he does too. He’s not happy about it, but he’s also smart enough to realize he doesn’t have any other options.”

“I gettin’ paid for this? I might be a bleedin’ heart, but a girl’s gotta eat.”

More like feed those hyenas she still kept as pets. Jesus Christ, but those things still gave Jason the creeps.

“Yeah, you will be. Oracle is footin’ the bill.”

“Oh, goody.”

“Hey, at least you don’t have to worry about one of my checks bouncin’.”

Harley snorted. “No kiddin’. Alright, I’ll meet with Wingding this one time. No promises after that. And you gotta be there until I say otherwise. I trust you. I don’t trust him.”

Jason nodded even if she couldn’t see it. “That’s more than fair. Want me to set up a place?”

“Yeah. Thursday night. Gotta psych myself up. Jesus fuck, I can’t believe I just agreed to this.”

“This fuckin’ life.” Jason knew she’d understand. This life had sent them both down some rabbit holes that no civilian could ever even dream of. 

“Amen to that.”

 

---

 

Thursday night couldn’t come fast enough. The little routine Jason fell into with Dick chafed in all the worst ways. It was more than just the chance of him discovering Abby—It was the feeling of being watched. Of being examined and put under the microscope. 

Honestly, Dick probably didn’t realize he was even doing it, which made it harder to call him out on it. Stupid Bat-training.

Jason spent as much time out of the apartment as he could. There were supply lines to reestablish, deals to be struck, knees to shoot out. His temper was riding a fine line and as the week progressed, it only got worse. 

He purposefully avoided contacting Drake. The thought of his little number cruncher happily fucking away with his himbos was still enough to make him see green. Which seriously, that should not be bothering him as much as it was. Drake was an adult who could make his own shitty life choices, just the same as him.

This whole arrangement would be so much easier if they would just fuck it out. Get it out of their systems and then Jason could go on with his life while Drake relaid the foundations for the Red Hood’s financial empire.

Drake couldn’t be that good in bed.   

These thoughts were still chasing their way through Jason’s brain as he led Dick into an empty warehouse on the edge of the Bowery. 

“This is weird.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” Jason held open the door for Dickie to hobble through. “Pretty sure this is where I’m supposed to drop outta the ceiling and shoot your ass.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing, just the other way around.”

They came to a stop at a set of stairs. The metal stairs were shallow and hugged a wall, so if Dick didn’t want help, he had something to support him. 

Even with a spare mask on, Dick’s thoughts on the staircase were clear to see. “This will take me a few minutes,” was all he said though.

“I can always carry ya.”

“You might have to on the way down.”

It took more than a few minutes, a fact Jason was painfully aware of as he stood behind Dick, ready to catch him if he fell. 

The irony of that wasn’t lost on him. On either of them, if he had to guess.

Seriously, in what part of the multiverse did the Red Hood ever have Nightwing’s back?

Dick let out a quiet breath when he reached the top, the only indication of the pain he had to be experiencing. 

So much for thinking shallow steps were better.

Jason gave him a minute to catch his breath. “You ready?”

“Not really, but what choice do I have?”

“You’ve always got a choice, Big Bird. Most of ‘em suck, but they’re there.”

“Since when were you the most level-headed of all of us?”

“Since I went to therapy.”

Dick shook his head. “Lead the way.”

In the office, they found Harley sitting on top of the desk, legs crossed and her hands in clear view on her knees. Jason had the distinct feeling that what was most surprising to Dick was how normal she looked—or as normal as one could look with chemically white skin. She was dressed casually in a pair of black capris and a red tank top, likely a homage to her former criminal days. Black and white sneakers finished things off. 

Two chairs were placed several feet in front of her, out of range for an easy reach from both sides. 

Jason couldn’t blame her for that. He might be a known quantity, but Dickie… Well, even out of uniform, he was still Nightwing. The mask provided an illusion that he could see normally. Only the scar bisecting his eyebrow and continuing down across his cheek said otherwise.

Dick’s flat face spoke louder than words what he thought about being here. But he hadn’t turned around yet, so that had to count for something.

Harley offered a toothy grin. “Hiya Jason! Long time, no see.”

“Likewise,” he answered, taking a seat while Dick loomed behind him. “Thanks for agreein’ to see us.”

“Eh, you and I need to catch up anyway.” Harley’s voice softened. “You doin’ okay?”

“I’ve been better, but it is what it is. Might take you up on that offer to get drunk this weekend though.” Jason shrugged, then reached over to give the other chair a good shake. “C’mon, Wing. She’s not gonna bite.”

It sucked, being in a position of weakness like this. In Dickie’s case, doubly so because there were physical limitations he hadn’t quite figured out how to adapt to. Dick thought he was weak when he was anything but. 

He just needed help remembering that.

Harley’s gaze turned to Dick. “Heard about what happened to you too.” There wasn’t anything challenging in her voice. It was a simple statement of fact. “There are no traps here. No locks. That door behind ya stays open. You wanna leave, I ain’t gonna stop ya.”

Jason could see the wheels turning in Dick’s head. Weighing, assessing. Fighting instinct that had been overly honed by paranoia. 

Stiffly, he finally sat down. “You know Jason’s name,” Dick said, his statement a question without being phrased as such. 

“Just his first name,” Harley answered with an easy shrug. “Couldn’t keep calling him Hoodie.”

“Though she sure as shit won’t call me Jay,” Jason added.

“I am not telling you my name.” There was a glimpse of the Nightwing attitude that always made Jason want to punch him. 

“And I’m not expectin’ you to,” Harley said. “You’re different from Jason. You’re a Bat. Until you tell me otherwise, you’re Nightwing. Or just Wing because that’s a mouthful.”

There was a long pause as Dick mulled that over. “So how is this supposed to work? I know you cleaned up your act and all, that you haven’t made any trouble for a long time. Despite that, I still don’t trust you.”

“I’m not a fan of you either,” Harley stated bluntly. “But I have gone down a different path. A better path. I’ve got Pam, I’ve got friends, people who genuinely care for me that I don’t want to hurt. Do I still have bad days where it feels like the roof is about to come crashin’ down? Yeah. But I’ve learned healthier ways of coping than goin’ out and committing armed robbery.” She leaned forward slightly, almost challenging. “How do you cope?”

Dick’s mouth stayed shut. He’d been called out and they all knew it.

“You don’t. Or at least, not in a way that’s healthy. If you were, you wouldn’t be here.” Harley settled back on the desk. 

“I’m here because I don’t have any other options.” Some of the fight seemed to leave Dick as his shoulders slumped. “I can’t imagine sharing some of the things I’ve done, the things that have been done to me, with someone who isn’t part of this world. I’m sure there are some great professionals out there, but…”

“But they don’t get it like we do,” Harley finished. “Villain, hero, we’re just on opposite sides of the same coin.” She shifted, dropping her legs to dangle over the front of the desk. “I want to try and help, Nightwing. If I didn’t, I’d have told Jason to forget about it.”

Jason nodded, sensing it was okay for him to speak here. “If I didn’t think she could, I wouldn’t have even suggested it.”

Dick looked like he wanted to protest, but he knew he was in a corner. That he’d reached his rock bottom. 

“The only way to go from here is up,” Jason added. “There’s a lot of people who’d love to see you fly again.”

Himself included, but he’d be damned if he said that out loud.

Grimacing, Dick nodded. “Okay. So how is this supposed to work?”

As Harley answered, a phone started vibrating in Jason’s pocket. He wasn’t needed for this part, not really, so he pulled it out to look at the screen.

Drake flashed across the screen.

Shit. Something had to have come up if his number cruncher was reaching out at this time of night. What craptastic timing since he couldn’t exactly leave Dickie and Harley alone.

Well, he could, but only if the world was ending.

Standing, Jason nodded toward the door. “I gotta take this, but I’ll be right out here.”

Dick shot him a questioning look, but Jason ignored him as he marched out the door. 

The phone was about to go to voicemail when he answered. “Isn’t it a little late for good little number crunchers to be up?

 

Notes:

A big shout-out here to GoAwayOlivia for looking over the scene with Jason, Dick, and Harley. Thank you for putting that almost-complete Master's degree to good use in my story!

Chapter 9: Complications and Death Wishes

Notes:

I need a little pick-me-up today, so I'm posting earlier than usual.

A few days prior…

On Monday morning, five minutes after his boss walked into his corner office, Tim hit send on the email he’d had prepared the moment he arrived an hour earlier. It contained his signed resignation letter and cc’d their HR manager, as per company policy. 

Now all he had to do was wait. 

It didn’t take very long before an IM popped up on his monitor. 

Myers, Kenneth: Tim, good morning. Would you please come see me in my office? 

Drake, Timothy: Good morning. I’ll be right there. 

Ken’s eyes were more than a little wild when Tim entered the office. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. “Would you please explain what this is?”

He turned his monitor so that Tim could read his own resignation letter. 

“I think it’s time I move on.” 

“Did you receive another offer from the FBI to work for them full time?” There was a hint of envy in the middle-aged man’s voice. While his own list of achievements was impressive enough for their chosen field, he’d never been asked to consult for the federal government like Tim had. 

“Yes, but that was months ago after I wrapped up the last case they sent to me.” Tim made sure there was an appropriately pensive, yet thoughtful expression on his face before continuing. “But it did get me to finally start thinking that perhaps it’s time I strike out on my own.”

“It says here that you’re pursuing your own interests,” Ken said. “Are you starting your own business?” 

“I am, yes. I spent the weekend putting together a business plan and was rather pleased with how easily it all came together.” That wasn’t a lie. Once he got out of his own head, the plan did come together quickly. “So I decided to go ahead and give it a run.” 

There was a pinched look on Ken's face. “I’m excited for you and the opportunity, I truly am. But you are one of the best people in this firm and I would be remiss if I didn’t try to convince you to stay.” 

Normally, Tim wouldn’t make a smart comment since he doesn’t want to burn all his bridges here, but considering the circumstances… “With all due respect, Ken, you mean that I clean up after everyone else’s mistakes and don’t give you any grief about it. Like with the Montgomery file you dropped on me Friday before leaving early for… what was it? Drinks with your wife and her yoga instructor?”

If there wasn’t an affair going on there, he’d purposefully lose his next five hands at the blackjack table.

Ken stiffened. “Are you implying—”

“I’m implying nothing of the sort,” Tim answered, eyes narrowing. “But we both know who does all the work around here and it’s certainly not most of the people who have offices with a window.”

And that included the asshole seated across from him.

Why hadn’t he done this sooner? Seriously, quitting was quite liberating. 

“If we were to move your desk to one of those offices, would you stay?” 

Wow. Things had to be worse than he thought for Ken to make that kind of offer, even with the veiled insult he’d just thrown at him. 

“Considering there are no open offices right now, I’m sure whoever gets the boot won’t be very happy about the change in scenery.” He rose from the chair, gaze landing down on his still-seated manager. From the look on his face, Ken was coming to realize he’d never really been in charge of Tim in the first place. “I’ll have my current files wrapped up by my end-date. Was there anything else?” 

“No.” 

“Then if you’ll excuse me.” 

Tim turned on his heel and walked out the door.

  

---

 

That evening, rather than slog through the boxes in his living room, Tim retreated upstairs to spend some quality time with his online gaming group.

Logging in to the server, a slew of messages welcomed him.

“Hey, Red!” said a guy Tim only knew as ImpulsiveImp over the voice channel. “Where were you this weekend?”

The Red King was Tim’s full online handle, but most people just called him Red. The irony wasn’t lost on him these days. 

“Busier than hell,” he answered, remembering he was supposed to have met up with Imp to run through a game they were putting together for their Warlocks & Warriors group. “A massive new project just landed in my lap and I decided now was a great time to start my own business. Just craptastic timing, I swear. I totally blanked that we were supposed to talk on Saturday.”

Lucky for him, Imp was one of the most laid-back guys he’d ever met. 

“No, that’s alright,” Imp said. “Life happens.” Even with short sentences, he always sounded like he was speaking a mile a minute. “You got time tonight?” 

“Yeah, I do. And the distraction is more than welcome.” 

Tim spent the next couple of hours talking with Imp. The guy was a great world-builder, especially with futuristic and sci-fi storylines, but always fell apart with the little details—which was where Tim came in handy because his life was all about those little details. 

By the time he signed off, it was too late to start on any of the Red Hood’s files. Which was fine, he needed a break from Jason’s everything already.

 

---

 

The next night, he did the same thing, choosing instead to go for a swim after work. It was just a swim as the gym was too crowded for any of his more clandestine activities. When he arrived home, he put the finishing touches on his business plan and started filing all the paperwork. 

Downstairs, the boxes were still waiting. 

The following night, he did more of the same. Logically, it made sense. His business needed to be up and running as soon as legally possible. He had licenses to transfer, a bank account to set up, not to mention an investment account because that would make life easier when he started laundering real funds rather than funneling his own. 

This decision came back to bite him in the ass on Thursday night. 

“Oh, shit.” 

Now that he had the chance to really read through the receipts and statements, as well as the various other assorted documents that Jason had provided, some of them—okay, a lot of them—were starting to look… 

Familiar.

A little too familiar. 

Scrambling to his feet, Tim raced upstairs to look through what information he was allowed to save from when he worked for the FBI. It was probably more than he should, but it wasn’t like they looked after he sent back the cleaned-up mess. 

Clicking through his files, he eventually found the one he was looking for. Eight months old, it had been a Gotham-based case where he’d been tasked with identifying money laundering and wire fraud.

Several names, of businesses and a few people, immediately stood out. Names that he’d only seen in digital copies that matched the original documents scattered across his living room. 

A chill ran down his spine. 

“Fuck,” Tim barely dared to breath. 

It was his work that had almost single handedly dismantled the Red Hood’s criminal organization.

“I’m so dead.”

 

---

  

The way Tim figured it, once he was calm enough to actually think straight, he had two options.

One, he could keep quiet and hope to God that his involvement never came to light. 

Two, he could speak up and tell the truth. 

There were pros and cons to each. The cons all involved him dying execution style by the Red Hood. Because there was absolutely zero doubt in his mind that Hood would kill him. 

Assuming there even was a best-case scenario, it consisted of Hood firing him on the spot. He hadn’t done too much work yet, aside from sorting and organizing the files, so everything would be ready to go for whoever was next on Hood’s shady list.

Maybe as a peace offering, Tim could make a sizable donation to each of the youth centers to keep them going for the next few months. Hell, he should write those checks now in case he did end up shot tonight. It wasn't like he could take his money with him.

Then again, he could just up and leave Gotham altogether. Leave the country—shit, more like leave the continent. Liquidate a few assets, move some funds to an offshore account he already had in Switzerland… He could be gone tonight and Hood would be none the wiser. 

Just… None of those options felt right. Not to mention the fact that he’d signed a contract—however dubious it might be—and he’d never once reneged. 

Why did he have to have a case of the morals now? 

Fiddling with his phone, Tim stared at the number he’d been given as a means to contact Jason. 

Jason. The Red Hood. 

Did he want to die now or prolong it a little while longer? If it didn’t remind him too much of Two Face, he’d flip for it. 

In the end, his conscience won out. 

Tapping the number, Tim prayed the call would go to voicemail. 

It almost did before Jason answered. “Isn’t it a little late for good little number crunchers to be up?”  

Fuck. 

Tim’s voice caught in his throat when he tried to speak.

“Drake?”

He cleared his throat. “Jason.”

Only one word made it out. 

“That’s my name.”  

Was it really? 

Swallowing hard, Tim tried again. “Jason, something’s come up. I need to speak to… to our boss.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say his name. Even though he knew Jason and Hood were the same person, it was somehow easier to speak to Jason. Jason, who wore annoyingly tight t-shirts that showed off everything and whose jeans had far too many holes to even be legal. Jason, with his crooked smirk and moody eyes… 

The Red Hood was none of that. The Red Hood was…

Oh, who the hell was he trying to kid? He wanted to climb all over the Red Hood just as badly as he did Jason. Even now.

How fucked up was that? 

“Drake? You still there?”  

Tim realized that Jason had been trying to get his attention. “Yes, sorry. Got lost in my head for a second.” 

“You’re acting weirder than usual. You okay? Or is someone else there with you?” Jason’s voice hardened at the end. 

“I’m alone. Just… There’s something really important I need to discuss with Hood and it’s not a conversation I can have over the phone.” 

“Are you sure you’re alone?”  

“Will you stop being a paranoid ass and tell him already? Tonight would be great, but I understand if he can’t until tomorrow.” 

“Paranoia is what keeps me alive.” There was a long pause. “What happened?”  

“What part of it’s not a conversation I can have over the phone did you not understand?” 

“And there’s your smart mouth back. Fine, I’ll tell him. We got somethin’ goin’ down tonight so we’re a little busy. You want him to wake you up or can it wait til tomorrow?”

There was no way in hell that sleep was even remotely on Tim’s radar tonight. Not a chance. 

“I’ll be up.” 

 

---

 

It was just after three in the morning when the Red Hood marched in through the backdoor to the brownstone.

Tim was waiting, seated at the kitchen table with a neat stack of files in front of him and a bottle of whiskey. Rather ridiculously, or so he now thought, he’d opted to wear a pair of jeans with a white dress shirt, a gray vest, and his favorite red striped tie. He’d been wearing something similar the night he and Jason first met. 

Maybe the colors would earn him bonus points. 

“I feel like I’m walkin’ into the principal’s office,” Hood commented in lieu of a greeting. “Minus the whiskey.” 

“Did that happen often?” Tim asked, swirling the finger he’d poured an hour before. He’d been playing with the tumbler ever since. Liquid courage and all that, but he also wanted to be somewhat sober. 

“The few times I was actually in school, no. Kept my nose clean.” Hood loomed over him. “What’s goin’ on? Jason said it was important.” 

It was now or never. 

Tim knocked back the glass and winced at the burn on the back of his tongue and down his throat. Even the good stuff did that to him. 

Not that it mattered anymore. Maybe Hood would take the bottle when he left and enjoy it on his own time.

“Have a seat,” he managed, nodding toward the other side of the table. 

Hood pulled out the chair, swung it around, and sat down. 

Of course he sat in chairs backwards. Dramatic much?

“I don’t got all night, Drake. Start talkin’.” 

Tim closed his eyes and counted to ten. This was it. He could do it. “First off, I want to preface this by saying that what I’m about to tell you is something I did months before I even met Jason.” 

There. That wasn’t so bad.

“What did you do?”

Sighing, Tim pushed a small file across the table to Hood, who picked it up and flipped it open. “I’m not sure if you know this, but I also do some consulting work for the FBI.” 

Hood stilled as the words sank in. “I didn’t.” 

“My last assignment with them ended a couple weeks before I started working with Rochelle. They’re not regular, but I usually get about half a dozen a year.” Tim swallowed and braced himself. “About eight months ago, I received a massive file for a case that was based here in Gotham.” 

The room became so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

“I did my job,” Tim continued, gaze on the file Hood still held. “I identified possible money laundering. Wire fraud. Uncovered numerous shell companies and identified at least half a dozen individuals that the FBI should take a closer look at.” 

Hood lowered the file. 

“I didn’t realize until earlier tonight… I thought some of the names and companies in your files looked familiar…” Tim pressed his lips together to hold back the sob that was rising from deep within his chest. “I didn’t know they all worked for you.” 

The modulator made it difficult to pick out any kind of inflections, but it wasn’t a stretch to imagine the anger lacing Hood’s voice. “You wiped out my entire organization.” 

Tim nodded, short and quick. There didn’t seem much of a point in speaking anymore, so he kept his mouth shut. 

Hood shoved away from the table. The red of his helmet gleamed duly, dust and grime keeping it from catching the light hanging above them. Gloved hands clenched so tight the leather creaked. “You fucking wiped out my entire organization.” 

It didn’t sound any better the second time. 

“Why are you even admittin’ this?” Hood spat. “Gotta fuckin’ death wish?” 

Swallowing around the knot in his throat, Tim shook his head. “I—I signed a contract. This is clearly a conflict of interest and—” 

“Cut the crap, Drake.” 

Okay, that was uncalled for. Tim raised his head and glared, the fire in his eyes matching the fire in his gut. He probably shouldn’t have drank that whiskey after all. “Excuse you, I wasn’t finished. I’ve never once left a job incomplete. I am a professional and I’m damn good at what I do. I could have cut and run tonight. I could have been on a flight to Berlin and then parts unknown before you even thought to check on me. But no. I’m right here, telling you the truth even though I’m nearly a hundred percent certain you’ll kill me because of it.” 

There was suddenly the barrel of a gun right in his face, close enough his eyes nearly crossed. It was a big gun too, not anything like the one he’d been hit with a couple months back.

Tim’s mouth snapped shut. 

“Still back talkin’ even when your life’s on the line.”

“Just get it over with.” Tim closed his eyes, resigned. This was it. The end. “There’s four checks in the other folder, one for each of the centers you fund. Enough to keep them going until you find someone else to replace me.”

Hood let out a low growl. “You little shit.” 

Tim cracked open an eye. The gun was still right there. Was he supposed to keep his eyes open? 

“You fucking little shit. You really think I’m gonna kill ya, don’t ya?” 

“Yes?” 

The gun barrel moved closer, then cold metal brushed the side of his face, right over the place where Tim had been struck a couple months before.

Oh shit, was he going to have to go through that again? 

The gun traced down over the line of his jaw, stopping at his chin. A gentle prod had Tim tilting his head back. 

Hood loomed over him. “Gotta admit, I’m tempted. You gave the Feds everything with a nice, neat little bow, didn’tcha? Just like you do with everyone else’s pile of shit.” He took a step closer, brushing Tim’s legs, then leaned over, planting a hand on the back of the chair so that the only thing Tim could see was that fearsome helm. “That still makes you the best person to unfuck it for me.” 

“That’s not even a word,” Tim breathed, eyes wide as the gun made its way to the other side of his face. 

“We gonna go over that again?” The gun tapped his unbroken cheekbone. “Or do you want a matching set?” 

“No.” 

Holy shit, he wasn’t about to die. How the hell did that happen?

“Didn’t think so.” Hood straightened, gun lowering to his side, though he didn’t step entirely out of Tim’s personal bubble. “Gotta wonder though…” 

Swallowing again, Tim sensed he wasn’t entirely out of the woods yet. “Wonder what?” 

“If this means I get a discount on your services.” 

He couldn’t help it. His gaze landed right on the slight bulge at the apex of those glorious thighs. Did Hood wear a cup? Probably. It would be easy enough to slip into the jockstrap he sure as hell had to wear with body armor that snug. The dark gray material left nothing to the imagination. Not a wrinkle or seam to be seen. 

Was he a grower or a shower? 

“My eyes are up here, Drake.” 

Tim jerked, drawing his attention away from the mystery of Hood’s junk. Color dusted his cheeks at being caught. 

Hood chuckled, sounding all too pleased even through the voice modulator. “Still thirsty, aren’tcha?” 

Licking his lips, Tim’s gaze flickered down again before returning to Hood’s masked face. “After a near-death experience, yes. I’m definitely thirsty. Wouldn’t you be?” 

“Stand up,” Hood said after a long moment. 

“What?”

“You heard me.” 

Tim did as he was told, throwing his shoulders back with a confidence he didn’t feel, to stand as tall as he could. Something was about to happen. He could feel it. There was a charge in the air, a tension building between them. 

“Gimme your tie.” 

“Huh?” 

“Do as you’re told, Drake.” 

Carefully, he unknotted his tie and pulled it through the neatly creased collar of his shirt. Smoothing out the wrinkles, he handed it over. 

“Strip.”

Tim’s hands were on the buttons of his vest before he realized what he was doing. “What if I say no?”

“Then you don’t get to suck my cock.” 

Clothing flew almost comically fast. 

Hood took a seat in the chair Tim had abandoned, legs splayed wide as he made himself comfortable. He still had a gun in his hand. “C’mere.” 

To his credit, Tim’s knees only shook a little as he stepped forward. The air in the kitchen was cool on his skin, flushed as his body was. At his groin, his own dick was already at half-mast, ready and waiting for whatever came next.

He had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t be allowed to come right away. 

There was no mistaking the appraising tilt to Hood’s gaze. “You work out.”

Tim shrugged. He might not be a towering behemoth, but he had nothing to be ashamed of. “I’ve been swimming most of my life.” 

“Let’s see how long you can hold your breath then.” Hood extended his free hand. “Think you might want to take your glasses off first.” 

It wasn’t the best scenario as it left him unable to see. At the same time, his eyes would be closed soon enough, so what did it matter? 

Tim removed his glasses and set them on the table himself. The world fell into a blur.

“On your knees.” 

He dropped, hitting the floor so hard there would likely be bruises the next time he looked. Hood’s thighs rose around him, caging him in.

Fuck, he was finally between those glorious thighs. 

A gloved hand started making quick work of the front of the body armor. 

Well, what did you know? Hood wore an armored jockstrap after all. 

“I can think of any number of people who’d call this a punishment,” Hood drawled. “Think that suckin’ cock is demeaning and beneath them. But you…” He paused, removing the cup from his jock and shoving the black fabric to the side, revealing his dick. “I think suckin’ cock is the only way you might actually shut the fuck up.” 

Tim’s mouth watered. Even soft, Hood was impressive. And definitely a grower. He braced himself on those thick thighs and looked up, making out only the dark red blur that was Hood’s face. “That’s what you think.”

 

Notes:

I think I said to a few of you last chapter that that wasn't a cliffhanger. Now this, on the other hand...

The louder the screams, the sooner I'll update.

Chapter 10: Riding the Wave

Notes:

All the lovely screams last chapter gave me the warm fuzzies, so here you go! The part all you thirsty souls really want to read (you're as bad as Tim, I swear).

And the art from Krizariel is back! Yay!

Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

Those were the only words playing on repeat as the prissy little number cruncher wrapped his pretty mouth around Jason’s cock. The visual alone would be embedded forever into the old brain pan, of Drake’s challenging gaze as he licked a stripe up his quickly hardening cock and twirling his tongue around the fleshy tip. 

It was more than enough to force the tidal wave of green clouding his vision to retreat back to the edges. The level of rage he’d felt at Drake’s revelation was quickly being replaced by something else. A tight coil of need and want stirred deep in his gut. 

Hand clenching around his gun, Jason idly wondered what Drake would look like sucking on the barrel. It would be a pretty sight, just like the one right now. 

Drake must have sensed his distraction because he closed his mouth and sucked, cheeks hollowing out before letting up to resume the kittenish licks around the slit. The pressure nearly made Jason’s eyes cross before it let up. 

“For some reason, I thought you’d be pierced,” the man mused, punctuating each word with a soft kiss down the hardening shaft.

It took a moment to register that he needed to answer. “Thought about it,” Jason replied, grateful that the hood kept the breathy note in his voice at bay.

“Why didn’t you?” Those lips closed around the base as Drake tilted his head, pressing together firmly before releasing him to resume the trek back up. 

Shit, but Drake knew how to play. And here Jason didn’t think the man knew the meaning of the word slow. 

“You’d be surprised how many people think a groin shot is enough to take me down.” Jason stared as Drake’s lips closed over the tip again, those incredibly blue eyes still intent on him. “Even with a cup, you feel it.” 

The urge to remove his helmet was strong, to just haul Drake up and into his lap to greedily devour that mouth while bouncing him like a rag doll up and down on his cock. He could do it too—the red and gray striped tie was within easy reach. All he needed to do was knot it over Drake’s eyes and… 

Drake swallowed, taking half of the hardened length easily. His fingers closed over Jason’s thighs even as he somehow managed to fucking grin with his mouth full of dick.

Jesus fuck. Warm. So warm and wet and fucking perfect. 

Hauling back up, the grin grew more evident. “Such a shame,” Drake said as his hand slipped down to curl around Jason’s sac. “You seem like the type of guy who’d have a ladder.”

“Seen a lot of those?” Jason asked, mesmerized by the sight and feel of his cock slipping further and further into that sinful warmth. He’d been right about one thing, that was for sure—

Tim Drake looked utterly fantastic with his mouth wrapped around his dick. 

Jesus Christ. Jason barely bit back his words as Drake’s nose hit the fabric of his jock. All thought flew from his head as the man showed off that no, he did not in fact have a gag reflex. 

And it was obvious that he was into it too. The eager little moans when he drew back for air. The arch of his back as he repositioned himself, ass rising into the air while using Jason to hold himself up. His mouth never stopped while his tonsils made friends with the girthy length deep in his throat. 

There was no mistake about it—Drake knew what he was doing. It was like his mission in life was to suck Jason’s brain out through his cock and by god, there was a good chance he would do it. 

Bobbing his head, Jason’s dick almost slipped from Drake’s mouth before he swallowed it back down in a quick rush. Cheeks grew redder as the man chose cock over the need for oxygen. 

Each little moan vibrated through Jason’s entire body, igniting that flame between them to burn brighter and more intense than ever before— 

His breath came faster and faster. Harsh pants filled his ears and the inside of his hood grew damp as the filters tried to keep up with his breathing. Fuck, he needed to get it off. Needed to come down Drake’s eager throat. Needed to breathe. Needed to feel the air on his face. 

Needed to haul Drake into his lap to fuck him stupid, to utterly wreck that cool exterior and make him scream. Drake, with his pretty mouth wide open and gasping while taking Jason’s cock—those blue eyes wide and bright with tears waiting for Jason to tell him to come…

Fuck it. 

Jason yanked on Drake’s hair, dragging him off his cock with a surprised squawk.

“What the—?” 

“Tie,” Jason ordered. “Blindfold yourself.” 

Drake got the hint and groped around at the table for the tie he’d neatly folded earlier while Jason took the respite to holster the gun he still held. Considering he hadn’t come here expecting to fuck, it was fully loaded and not at all safe to involve in what was happening between them. 

As soon as Drake’s pretty blue eyes were concealed, Jason ripped off his hood and tossed it aside. It clattered on the hardwood floor and rolled away. He’d find it later. Right now, nothing mattered more than sucking in a deep breath and feeling the air on his skin. 

Then, in one swift move, he hauled Drake off the floor and into his lap. 

“Oooh,” Drake let out a punched gasp as he straddled Jason, hands pressing firmly against his chest. His fingers curled and opened again, trying to grope through the dark gray body armor at the muscles underneath. “Oh fuck.” 

Grabbing the man’s chin, Jason growled a quick, “Damn right,” before sealing their mouths together.

Drake all but melted against him as Jason ravished his mouth, offering up more moans even as he draped his arms over Jason’s shoulders and dragged his fingers through his hair. Their bodies rubbed shamelessly against each other, and Drake let out a little mewl when his cock pressed into Jason’s.

Jason adjusted his grip to clasp the back of Drake’s thighs and raised him up, then dropped him back down. He should have taken his gloves off when he tossed his helmet aside, but it was too fucking late now. His mouth never left Drake’s, plundering his depths. He was so responsive to every little touch and the sounds he made—Jason wanted to capture them all for himself, greedy bastard that he was. 

“Touch yourself,” he whispered, dragging his lips along Drake’s jaw to nibble his ear. “Get those pretty fingers of yours nice and wet because I’m gonna fuck you until the only name you remember is mine.”

Drake must not have been as far gone as he appeared because he smirked, all nice and pretty like he was the one in-fucking-control here. “Open wide then.” 

Jason couldn’t stop his mouth from falling open and Drake shoved two fingers in without a hitch. He dragged his tongue over and around the digits, getting them good and wet. He’ll allow it this one time. 

Then, like Drake just fucking knew he had Jason’s full and complete attention, he straightened, one hand balanced on Jason’s shoulder, and arched his back. His lean swimmer’s body was on full display, his cock jutting out proudly as he briefly rolled his hips.

He dragged his fingers from Jason’s mouth, pressing hard against his teeth before they slipped out. 

In retaliation, Jason nipped at him. “You’re lucky you’re so fuckin’ pretty.” 

Drake smirked again, then hissed as he speared himself on not one, but both of his fingers at the same time. “And you’re lucky I know how to prep quickly. Though if you have any lube in those pockets of yours, better get it out. I’m going to need it.” 

Lube, yes. Jason fumbled at one of the interior pockets of his jacket to snag a packet of medical-grade lube. The shit came in handy for more than just jerking out a quick one.

However… Where he was used to finding condoms—he always had a stash and handed them out like fucking candy—there was nothing. 

Not a goddamned one.

Fuck. 

Drake rocked his hips again, adjusting his angle as he scissored himself open. 

Jason ripped open the lube and handed it to him, then buried his face in Drake’s neck, sucking a mark as he tried to figure out what to do. There was no doubt in his mind that he was clean, but Drake—well, with his little harem of himbos parading around him at the gym in their shorty shorts and barely-there tank tops, who the fuck even knew? 

At the same time, he knew exactly how much of a control freak his number cruncher was, so the odds he took an unwrapped cock were low. 

Drake’s breath came quicker as he slid another finger inside, aided by the addition of the lube. 

Switching sides, Jason licked a swath of skin before clamping down again. The salty tang of sweat flooded his taste buds, and as he inhaled, it was followed by a crisp and clean scent that could only be cologne. Had Drake put it on when he got dressed earlier, readying himself for what he thought would be his execution? 

Rather than sobering him, the thought only spurred Jason on more. Adjusting his hips, his dick slipped beneath Drake’s to drag along under his sac to rub his taint. 

“You better watch where that’s going,” Drake warned, breath hitching. “It’s only on super special occasions I allow a partner to go in bare.” 

“Well, you better decide now if tonight’s special enough because while I got another packet of lube, I can’t find any fuckin’ condoms,” Jason growled into Drake’s neck. 

“Goddammit.” 

Despite his words, Drake didn’t stop moving and Jason tracked further down his chest to tease the tip of a nipple with his tongue. The hand on Jason’s shoulder relocated to his hair as Drake took hold. But he didn’t pull him away from his prize, so Jason kept going and flicked the bud again. 

 

Drake’s moan sounded like it was being dragged out of him. “You asshole. Fine. Fucking fine. You’d better be clean, or I will make your life a miserable living hell.” 

“Oh, I’m clean, pretty bird,” Jason said as he switched sides to nip the other sensitive bud, forcing another moan that bordered on painful. “The question is, are you? You’re the one who gets around.” 

“I fucking hate you.” Drake’s fingers slid out of his ass to wipe the excess lube on Jason’s pants. 

Jason couldn’t find it in himself to be mad because his cock was now prodding against the ring of muscle Drake had worked hard to loosen for him. “That a yes?” he asked, reaching for the base of his dick to hold it steady. 

If he couldn’t fuck Drake now, he might just go insane again. 

“Yes, dammit!” Drake all but howled, canting his hips so that Jason was lined up with his hole. “Just shut up and fuck me already!”

Jason released his hold on Drake’s thigh and let the man drop. Searing heat enveloped him, tight as a glove and as smooth as silk. He’d thought Drake’s mouth was heaven, but his mouth had nothing on his ass. 

Drake grunted as he took the full length in one go. The punched-out sound he made was music to Jason’s ears and, for the first time since they started, Drake was utterly silent. Then, because he really was a little shit, he rose back up on his knees, allowing Jason to almost slip entirely from him, and impaled himself on Jason’s cock again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Holy fucking shit, that had no right to feel as good as it did. Jason did the only thing he could do, which was keep his touch light on the outside of Drake’s thighs as he fucked himself stupid. His pretty cock bumped over his abdomen, leaving smears of precum behind.

But as good as it felt, Jason was getting tired of just sitting in his chair. His pretty little bird had been in charge long enough. 

It was time to make good on his promise. 

The only warning was the tightening of his grip before Jason rose with a roar, catching Drake on one of his drops so that his cock was fully seated. Drake scrambled to catch hold of Jason’s neck even as his legs wrapped around Jason’s waist. 

Tempting as it was to find the closest wall to fuck Drake stupid against, there was a perfectly sturdy oak table right here. He sought out Drake’s mouth again, lapping up each little noise for himself, and swiped a hand across the table to make space before he laid Drake out. 

Distantly, Jason heard something clatter to the floor, but he was too busy stretching Drake across the table. “Grab the edge,” he rasped, rolling his hips before thrusting hard into Drake’s body. 

Drake groaned but did as he was told. Reaching over his head, he grasped the opposite side of the table, leaving his entire body on display. The change in position had him clenching around Jason, his legs never leaving their tight hold on his waist. 

With a curse, Jason braced himself on either side of Drake’s chest and fucked him with everything he had.

Grunts and groans spilled from both their lips, bitten back curses, and harsh variations of harder and faster from Drake before the words were choked on as Jason did exactly that.

Jesus fucking Christ, but Drake could take a pounding. Sweat dripped down Jason’s nose to land with a splat between those pretty brown buds he couldn’t quite reach at this angle. 

“Touch me,” Drake managed to gasp out, tears leaking out from underneath the tie. “Dammit, Hood. Touch me.”

“You’re gonna come when I damn well say you can come,” Jason snarled. 

The name on Drake’s lips pissed him off something fierce because it wasn’t his. It was, technically, but this was the main reason he kept trying to get Drake to fuck him as himself. Jason didn’t do shit like this masked up. He liked to look his partners in the eye, liked to see that moment when they utterly came apart around him.

Call him a sap, but he was a considerate lover, okay? 

This though… This was nothing more than Drake getting off on having the Red Hood fucking his pretty little hole. In his mind, it wasn’t Jason. It was a man who wouldn’t think twice about putting one between his eyes if Drake so much as blinked wrong. 

And that… That angered him. 

The only warning he had was the flickering of green at the edge of his vision before a wave of green crashed over him like a tsunami, bowling him ass-over-heels as the world vanished. All he saw, all he felt, was the lurid green haze taking over. 

Time stopped. 

Or perhaps it sped up and Jason just couldn’t remember. Either way, he wasn’t a stranger to this blackout—or perhaps it was a greenout—but this was the first time it had happened during sex. 

Things had a habit of happening when the Pit took over. Things he wasn’t always in control of. Bad things… 

Reality bent and snapped back into place.  

Sensations flashed bright as Jason’s brain came back online. Heat enveloping him. Air, cool on his sweating face. Moans and small little cries. Rippling muscle as Drake’s tight little ass milked him dry. 

Jason shuddered and spilled the last of his cum in one final roll of his hips.  

“Shit,” he stammered, blinking hard as it finally dawned on him that the Pit had just stolen what was probably one of the best orgasms of his life. 

Fucking hell.

“Don’t stop,” Tim bit out, voice utterly wrecked and jagged. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.” 

Too late for that.  

Jason took a good look at the man sprawled beneath him, checking to make sure he hadn’t done something he shouldn’t have. He was pretty sure he’d only lost a few seconds there. The days-long blackouts were a thing of the past, but he’d been known to lose an hour or two here and there when he was particularly pissed off. 

Case in point, right here. 

Tim was still mostly on the table, hands stretched out and clutching the opposite side in a white-knuckled grip. But he was flipped onto his stomach now, his ass a bright cherry-red from what was obviously a spank or six. 

Fuck. 

Beneath him, Tim squirmed. “Dammit, Hood. If you’re finished, lemme up.” 

Wordlessly, Jason released the man and took a step back. His spent cock slipped from Tim’s sloppy hole. 

Tim didn’t skip a beat and rolled over, still splayed across his table. He braced a bare foot on the edge and gripped his dick, jerking furiously. His gaping hole winked as it sought something to clench around. A strand of white glistened in the light and Jason winced as he watched his cum drip out. 

He couldn’t stop staring even if he tried. 

The sharp cry Tim let out as he came was music to his ears. White streaked his chest as he fell utterly boneless across the oaken surface. 

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, Jason retreated even further. His back bumped against the kitchen counter, and it took all he had not to slump. Quickly, he tucked his dick back into his jock and pulled up his pants, not that hiding his junk did any good for his conscience.

What the everloving fuck had he done? 

On the table, Tim was clearly enjoying the blissed-out haze of a good fuck. He wasn’t cowering or scrambling away, so whatever had happened, he’d been on board with it. Or mostly on board, though Jason had the sneaking suspicion he might not have given him a choice about the spanking. 

How could he ask though without giving away the fact he’d lost a good… Damn, what time was it? Casting about, the digital clock on the microwave flashed 3:47. He’d arrived a little after three, so that tracked. 

If he had to guess, he’d only lost about five minutes. 

Five minutes where he apparently decided spanking his number cruncher was the best way to get off. 

Shit. 

Okay, as much as it sucked having to admit to a weakness like this, Jason couldn’t see any way around it. He had to know what happened, had to know if Tim had consented to the rougher treatment. 

Before Jason could say anything, Tim slowly sat up, wincing ever so slightly as his ass came into full contact with the table. 

“Is it okay if I take this off?” he asked, gesturing to the tie over his eyes. 

“Not yet,” Jason managed, gaze dropping to the floor to see where his hood had rolled off to. Tim’s clothes were strewn everywhere—somehow his vest had landed on the light over the table, dimming the room.

“You realize you’re lucky all my security cameras face the doors or front windows,” Tim commented idly. 

“Ha-fucking-ha. You want another spanking?” The question fell from his lips as natural as rain, giving rise to the very opening he’d been struggling to figure out. 

“Not tonight,” Tim answered. “Seriously though, if we ever do this again, give a guy a little warning, huh? I don’t mind some rough stuff, but I like to know ahead of time.”

Jason’s shoulders sagged in relief even as he found his hood under one of the other chairs that had gotten knocked about over the course of their fucking. “Sorry about that,” he said, quickly crossing back over to the table and bending over to pick it up. “I lost control there at the end.”

It was as close to the truth as he was willing to admit at this point. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Jason put his hood back on. 

Call him crazy—which a lot of people did—but the close confinements of his mask calmed his rapidly firing nerves nearly as much as a weighted blanket did. There was power and strength in anonymity, control that he only ever had when he was the Red Hood.

“Okay, you can take off your blindfold.”

Tim did, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the low light in the kitchen. There was a slightly dazed look about him that quickly sharpened when his pale blue gaze landed on Jason. “Why?” he asked, shrewdly. 

“Why what?”

“Why did you lose control?” 

“Why d’ya wanna know?” 

“Because if we’re going to do this again, I have a right to know what sets you off.” Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Or should I take a guess?” 

Jason retreated to the nearest wall and waved idly. “Go right ahead,” he said with a nonchalance he didn’t entirely feel. 

“Things changed almost immediately after I called you Hood. I think…” Somehow, that blue gaze grew even sharper, like Tim could see right through him even though in reality, he couldn’t see clearly beyond the tip of his nose. “I think you didn’t like that.” 

His number cruncher really was too smart for his own good. 

“No, I didn’t,” Jason was willing to conceded. “Truth be told, I don’t like to fuck with all my gear on.”

“Then why did you agree to it in the first place?” 

“I believe Jason and I made it very clear how much everything has gone to shit lately, right?” 

Tim frowned. “Yes, I understand. But you shouldn’t have to compromise your own morals just to get me to work for you.” 

“Then how else was I supposed to, hmm? I very clearly remember spelling out how desperate I am for the skills you have.” Skills that were about to be put to the test once Tim officially left his job. Shit, that was only a week away. And then there was the matter of his youth centers, who had their own deadline coming up in just a few days. Jason had to get Tim some cash to start laundering—or gambling in this case. 

He sure hoped his number cruncher was as good with the cards as he said he was.  

“Good lord, I’m not that desperate to get laid,” Tim spat, mouth curling into an outright scowl. He slid off the table, legs wobbling for a moment before he found his balance (if that wasn’t a stroke to Jason’s ego, he didn’t know what was). “I like my partners 100% on board, thank you very much. If you’re not, then there’s the door.” He pointed to the backdoor Jason had entered through earlier. 

Jason dragged himself away from the wall and closed the distance between them, looming over the shorter man. 

To his credit, Tim didn’t even flinch. 

He should have known that stunt wouldn’t work. “You do realize who you’re talkin’ to, right?” 

“Yeah, the same guy who said his dick down my throat didn’t shut me up, so maybe a few swats on the ass might.” A challenging look appeared in those blue eyes. “By the way, you smacked my ass enough times that I’m going to need a butt cushion when I go to work later. Thanks. I really appreciate that.” 

It was quite possibly the last thing Jason expected to hear. A laugh ripped out of him. “Jesus fuck, you really don’t have a shred of self-preservation, do you?”

“We both know I get off on danger. I think that says a lot about me and my character.” 

Jason just stared. To think, his family thought he was the one who was off his rocker. 

Gotham sure did bring out the crazy in people. 

“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” 

Tim just shrugged. “Takes one to know one.” 

Jason had to admit, he was in awe of the confidence his number cruncher exuded as he stood there, butt naked in the kitchen. Right from the start, the man had gotten under his skin and tonight had proven no different. Annoyingly, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Though things would be a lot easier if he’d just fuck him as Jason instead of as the Red Hood. 

“So are you leaving or what?” Tim asked, bringing their conversation back around. 

“You really gonna work for free? Treat me like one of your pro bono clients? Or are you just gonna walk away before you get in too deep?” 

“I think we both know I’m in too deep already.” 

“I wasn’t talkin’ about where my cock just was.” 

Tim smirked. “I wasn’t either. But seriously, if it makes you that uncomfortable to fuck me while you’re dressed like this,” he gestured to Jason’s everything, “then don’t. Blindfolds work wonders, as do completely dark rooms where you can take everything off. And if that’s still not your thing, then well, we’ll renegotiate our contract.” 

The thought of taking Tim apart slowly upstairs in his darkened bedroom, with nothing between them, and having him come alive under his hands… Jason considered himself a strong man, but the temptation here was so very real. And he could have it too, have Tim all to himself, save for one little fact. 

Any name Tim called him would not be his own. 

Considering the circumstances, Jason could live with that. Besides, Tim Drake was a smart man. He’d figure things out sooner or later. 

In fact, he was willing to bet on it.

 

 

Chapter 11: Like a Moth to a Flame

Notes:

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my betas and all the help they've offered on this fic? Because I really do.

Tim stretched out in his bathtub, luxuriating in the warm water and hoping to god that the peppermint oil he liberally poured in would do something to stem the migraine brewing behind his eyes. The meds he had would knock him out, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

Not after the night he’d just had. 

You’d think a round of mind-blowing sex would have done the trick, what with the endorphins and adrenaline and all. But no. 

He’d never been that lucky. Although, a case could be made for the fact that the Red Hood had not, in fact, murdered him in his own kitchen. 

No, they’d just fucked it out instead. 

Tim shifted, still feeling the ache in and on his ass. Now that he could actually think straight, what the fuck had he been thinking? He’d had no intention of screwing the Red Hood—Jason—whenever he came around to offer up a paycheck. The absolute last thing he needed was to get even more entangled with his new boss. 

And what did he just do? The complete opposite of that because he was downright weak in the face of those thighs and the way the dark fabric of Jason’s body armor hugged every freaking line of his pecs… 

His mouth watered at the thought. He’d touched them, even though he wasn’t given the chance to bury his face between those glorious mounds of muscle thanks to said body armor. But oh, did he know what it felt like to be spread out over those thighs now. The stretch was just as he’d imagined and coupled with the pebbly texture of the uniform… His cock twitched at the memory. 

Then it twitched some more as Tim’s brain decided to do an instant replay of exactly how it felt to have Jason’s cock down his throat—the weight, the shortness of breath, the thunderous pounding of his own heart as he tried to choke himself on it. And then there was the delicious burn as every single inch slid into him without a single barrier between them. 

Tim whined and palmed his dick, squeezing the base because he wasn’t going to jerk one out here in the tub, no matter how readily his coconut oil was at hand. 

It was just sex. Really, really good sex. But it was just sex. It wasn’t like he was a blushing virgin who got off the moment a hand that wasn’t his own wrapped around his dick. 

Dammit, who was he trying to kid? He’d gone for a ride on that roller-coaster and survived to tell the tale. And he’d do it all over again if Hood so much as crooked his finger, which he’d all but invited him to do. 

“Fucking weak,” Tim muttered, kicking at the far end of the tub. “Like a moth to the flame, I swear.”

He didn’t spend too much longer in the bath—he was far too keyed up to relax. Drying off, he dug his spare pair of glasses out of a drawer by the sink. His current pair were somewhere on the floor in the kitchen and he hadn’t wanted to play that little game of hide and seek after Hood left. 

Tim gave himself a bleary once over in the large mirror. There were two rather large marks on either side of his neck, down near the base. A collared shirt would hide them easily. He rubbed at one of them, remembering how it had felt when Jason placed it there. 

Fuck, he needed to go to bed. 

But first, a snack and to find his glasses. And then he’d call off from work today, because there was no way in hell he was going anywhere near there with a migraine—not to mention the condition his ass was in. This was why he’d set up intermittent FMLA in the first place. Might as well use it while it lasted.

 

---

  

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Tim stared in utmost dismay at the twisted tangle that were his glasses. 

He’d placed them on the table. He distinctly remembered that. Said table was large enough there shouldn’t have been a problem, even after… 

Tim took in the chair he and Hood had occupied—where he’d first ridden that annoyingly perfect dick that filled him so completely—then cut his gaze back to the table. There had been two file folders. One was scattered across the floor, but the other was still there, albeit creased and that was probably a cum smear on it. 

And there were his glasses, partially concealed by the file folder on his paneled floor, snapped right down the middle with the arms sticking out at unnatural angles. He already knew without kneeling down for a closer look that he’d find both lenses cracked. 

“That fucker.” Fueled by spite, Tim marched right back upstairs, grabbed his phone, came back down, and took a picture. 

He sent it off with the caption This is not modern art. You and Hood are tied 1-1 now.  

Scooping up the remnants with the file, he placed them both on the table and went looking for his hand-vacuum. Shards of plastic and his Roomba didn’t always get along and he didn’t need a cut on his foot on top of everything else. 

By the time he was done cleaning, his migraine was sitting up and waving hello. 

Fuck his life. Tim managed to eat a few crackers and drank a juice box he shouldn’t even own considering he didn’t have kids, and trudged back upstairs where it was blessedly dark and cool. He found his migraine medication by touch and swallowed it with the smallest amount of water he could handle.

Removing his glasses—thank god he kept his old pair—he collapsed on his bed and curled up into a tight little ball. Belatedly, he remembered he needed to leave a message with his office and fumbled for the phone that was still in his pocket. 

There was a reply from Jason. 

Jason: Put them on our tab.  

The only appropriate reply was a stream of middle finger emojis, so Tim did precisely that. 

Shame he couldn’t send that same message to his manager. If it weren’t for the fact he needed to make sure he left on good terms for reference purposes, he’d do it without any hesitation. 

Instead, he tapped out a quick email and sent it off, then muted his phone and tossed it somewhere in the direction of his nightstand. It had a case, it’d be fine. 

As his eyes closed, there was a flash on the floor indicating a new message. 

Whoever it was, they could damn well wait.

 

---

 

Later that afternoon, Tim felt like death warmed over as he trudged into his optometrist’s office. It didn’t help that Gotham’s summer was in full force and there was sunlight reflecting everywhere, so much so that even his prescription sunglasses hardly did any good. 

A woman looked up from behind the front desk as he walked in. “Oh hello, Tim! How are you today?” 

Tim wasn’t sure what it said about his life that he was on a first name basis with all the staff here. “Hi, Connie. You won’t believe this, but I broke my glasses again.” 

Connie just shook her head. “This is the second time in what? Five weeks?” 

“Eight. I’m starting to think I should just order two pairs with the way my luck’s been lately.” 

“Might be a good idea.” The brunette stood up and gestured to the wall of men’s frames. “Do you want something new or should we try and get as close a match to what you already have?” 

“I’m open to suggestions, but you know how I am. I can’t see a damn thing unless it’s an inch from my nose.” It made trying new glasses interesting. Thankfully, chunkier frames fit his thick lenses just fine, so he didn’t bother looking at wireframes. 

When he was done, he pointedly took a picture of the final total on his receipt and sent it to Jason. This one was captioned If I have to replace these again, I will break your bank account.  

The reply wasn’t long in coming, but Tim waited until he was seated in his Uber before reading it. 

Jason: Then you’re shit outta luck because my account’s busted until you fix it.  

Asshole.

 

---

 

It was Saturday afternoon before Tim felt human enough again to deal with what he was now calling Operation Unfuck. The first order of business were the funds for the youth centers. 

Originally, he’d intended to get some cash from Jason to start laundering and go spend the weekend in Atlantic City at the blackjack tables. His migraine, however, had put a damper on that. Even now, the thought of the lights and constant noise was enough to make him grimace. 

But as he was swiping through his calendar to see just how close he could cut it, an event caught his eye. It was an invitation to an online blackjack game. And not just one that was open to the masses—no, this one was being run by the very same person that Tim had helped out in Las Vegas all those years ago. 

Darla Aquista. 

She might not have approved of her dad’s business in Gotham, but she’d sure made a name for herself out west. Amazing how college changed one’s perspective on life. 

An idea came together rather quickly and before Tim knew it, he was calling the one person he’d hoped to avoid for at least the next week. 

“I need about eight grand, in denominations of twenty or higher,” Tim said once Jason finally answered his phone. 

There was a long pause. “Well, hello to you too.”  

Tim twirled his pencil over his knee, an easy feat curled up as he was in his computer chair. “There’s an online blackjack tournament I’m joining and I need money to buy-in.” 

“Is that even legal?” Jason asked, incredulous. 

“Nope.” Tim made sure to pop the p, just to see if it would annoy him. 

“How do you even know about it?”  

Damn, no reaction. “I have my ways.” 

“You don’t really need the money to buy-in, do you?”  

“Technically no, but I’m not fronting you the money for Hood’s youth centers either and the clock is ticking there, in case you’d forgotten. I’m already doing enough on an IOU.” 

“How are you even going to get it into the system at…” There was a pause as Jason apparently checked the time, “At two o’clock on a Saturday? Even I know most banks won’t stay open past four. And it’s gonna take me at least a few hours to get the money together.”  

Tim tried balancing the pencil on his nose. He’d never been able to do it, but what the hell. There’s a first time for everything. “Just get it to me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What the hell are you gonna do with my money?”

Nice slip. “Don’t you mean Hood’s money?” 

“You know what I mean, you little shit. Wait a sec… Does this have anything to do with that Vegas scam you mentioned last weekend?”  

Damn, he remembered that. “I have some connections,” Tim was willing to admit. “The game isn’t sanctioned, if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

Jason was starting to sound frustrated. Good. “Buy-ins for games like that—you’re looking at a hundred grand, easy.”  

“Yes. Which means when I win, I should be walking away with about ten times that.” 

“Then what the fuck do you need my money for?”  

“So it’s back to your money then?” 

“I swear to fuck, Drake… If you aren’t makin’ sense soon, I will come over there and drop kick you off your fucking roof.”  

“Your money is going to be turning into my petty cash while I give you a percentage of my buy-in fee. Whatever I win, your money grows proportionally. Then when I’m done, I’ll do a few cryptocurrency trades, move some cash, and voila, you’ve got what you need for operating expenses for the next month and some change left over.” 

“I can’t pay them in fucking bitcoin.”  

“No, but I can pay them from the nice, shiny, and new 501(c)3 non-profit organization I opened last week for just such a purpose.” 

There was a really long pause this time. 

“I’ll be there by six. And your ass better be ready to do some explaining.”  

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

 

---

 

When Tim opened the front door several hours later, he was greeted by a thundercloud, both literally and figuratively. The skies outside had darkened considerably and while there was certainly something in the air, it sure wasn’t magical. 

Jason’s scowl curled into a twisted smirk when he got a full look at Tim. “Nice hickey.” 

Truth be told, he’d worn the blue v-neck on purpose to see what the man’s reaction would be, but Tim would lie about that until his last breath. “Thanks,” he said instead as he held the door open wider so Jason and the large backpack he carried could come inside. “Not usually a fan, but I made an exception in this case.” 

“Anyone I know?” 

Tim had no plans to stroke the man’s ego even further—he’d much rather stroke something else, but that was not in the cards tonight. Goddammit, it was like his resolve not to fuck Jason again just up and vanished like a fart in the wind each time they encountered each other. 

He blamed the pecs. They were quite prominent and he still wanted to shove his face in them. 

“No,” Tim answered as he closed and locked the door behind them. “I went for a swim earlier.” 

He was playing with fire, but it was so utterly worth it to watch as Jason’s eye twitched. The only problem was, they also flashed green. That wasn’t good. 

“That so?” The backpack slid down his arm to land with a thud on the floor. “You really are thirsty, aren’t you?” 

Keeping his breathing steady, Tim rolled his eyes. “And you really are gullible.”

Jason blinked, not that it did any good at stopping the green from taking over. “Excuse me?” 

“Do you have any idea how busy the gym is on a Saturday afternoon?” Tim did, which was why he never went. Not that he’d gone today either, though a swim would have felt nice after spending the last 24 hours or so curled up in bed. “I can barely find a locker, let alone privacy. And don’t get me started on the number of people in the pool who can’t swim in their own lane. It’s annoying as fuck.” 

The brilliant green retreated as Jason took a deep breath. It was fascinating to observe, though Tim suspected any questions he asked about it would be met with a wall of silence. 

“Anyway,” Tim continued, pretending he really was just that clueless, “Thanks for bringing the money. I’ll consider all three pairs of my new glasses paid for now.” 

“Three?” Jason’s voice was a deep rumble not unlike the one he’d used the other night after he’d removed his helmet. Really, how did this man keep his Red Hood identity a secret? It was like he wasn’t even trying anymore. “Thought you said Hood and I have broken a pair each.” 

“There was the first pair that you broke. And Hood broke my new ones,” Tim ticked off his fingers. “I went out yesterday and ordered two new pairs instead of one as an insurance policy.” 

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “How did Hood break your glasses?” 

Oh, he was not playing this game. “Don’t you wish you knew?” he said, breezing off down the hall toward the kitchen. “Want anything to drink?” 

Tim was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear the “Just you.”

 

---

  

In the kitchen, Tim pointedly didn’t take a seat when he offered Jason a glass of iced tea. Why he felt the need to prolong the drop-off, he had no idea. Though if he had to guess, he just wanted to see if Jason had been as affected by the other night—morning—as he’d been. 

“Start talkin’, Drake,” Jason said, then took a rather large sip from the cold glass. Condensation beaded down the sides, a match to the ones that had graced the man’s forehead when Tim had opened the front door. Those were gone now, wiped in a graceless gesture that slicked back his white-and-black bangs. 

Tim shrugged. “Not much to tell. I knew Hood would need a legitimate organization to funnel funds through to the youth centers, as well as whatever other programs he runs or plans to run in the future. The new charity gives him the option to do exactly that.” 

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “You’re laundering money through a charity,” he stated flatly. 

“Of course I am. Criminals do it all the time.” Tim took a sip of his own iced tea as he watched Jason’s glare turn into a glower. “It’s not exactly original.” 

“You realize that if funds are going into a charity, Hood will want them used for the stated purpose of said charity.” 

“Duh.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m the financial brains behind Hood’s organization now. I believe I was given permission to make it as legal as possible.” 

“You were,” Jason conceded. 

Tim returned the glare with one of his own. “So what makes you think I’d allow funds going into a charity from questionable sources to be used for the same thing? The only reason I’m going crooked is because I’m bored and desperate for a challenge. I still have most of my morals intact.” 

“That’s debatable.” 

“You know what? Fuck you.” The bullshit was getting old—fast. “I was hired to do a job and I’m doing it the way I think my new boss would approve of. If you think I should be doing it a different way, then have the big guy call me and give me more to work with besides unfuck things for me.” 

Jason lowered his glass to the counter and straightened. “Tell me about the charity,” he said in a tone that made Tim want to fall to his knees and beg. 

Fuck, but this man was going to be the death of him. 

“It’s called The East Side Project,” he answered after a long pause. “The stated purpose is to fund innovative projects and services to low income families and the homeless in the Bowery, Crime Alley, and the East End. The youth centers are part of that, though I was also thinking it could eventually include things like developing job skills and placement services, writing a resume, maybe some financial literacy—stuff like that.” 

Slowly, almost begrudgingly, Jason nodded along. “I like it. And you’re funding it with your winnings from tonight’s game?” 

Tim shrugged and offered up a crooked smirk. “Whatever eight percent of my winnings are tonight. Unless you have more to throw into the pot?” 

“You know I don’t—not in larger bills, at least.” 

“Then you’re only getting eight percent.” 

“Any way I can tempt you to make it ten?” There was no mistaking the pleading note in Jason’s voice. “I can make it worth your while.” 

“I’m sure you can, but the game starts in fifteen minutes,” Tim answered without missing a beat. “If you’d gotten here on time, I probably could have been persuaded.”

Especially if Jason took his shirt off. 

Hell, who was he kidding? All Jason had to do was flash his glorious mounds of man-muscle and he'd probably offer twenty percent while his brain rebooted. 

“I can work with that.” Jason started to prowl forward, but Tim held up a hand. 

“But I can’t." It wasn't quite the hardest thing he'd ever said in his life, but it was close. Fuck, he had to get his shit together and stop acting like a blushing virgin who knew exactly what her wedding night entailed and was looking forward to every raunchy second of it. Tim was the one in control here. Not Jason, and definitely not either of their dicks. "I’ve got to go through some security checks first and make sure my funds have been received.” 

Jason frowned as he came to a stop just inside of Tim’s reach. His fingers brushed the front of the simple cotton t-shirt that barely concealed the mountains across the man’s chest. 

Tim wanted to weep. Never in his life had he ever been this jealous of a piece of clothing. 

“Will you take a raincheck?” Jason offered, his blue-green gaze intent as he took Tim’s hand and raised it to his lips. His breath was warm against Tim’s knuckles. “Pretty please with a cherry on top? I can even toss in some whipped cream if you want.” 

Tearing his gaze away from Jason’s chest, Tim had the distinct impression he was being laughed at. 

Sure enough, those mood-eyes were shining a bright blue. 

He should say no. He really should. There were a million reasons why he should, so how dare Jason use his pecs to sway his decision? 

With a sigh, Tim bobbed his head. “Fine. Ten percent.” 

Weak, that’s what he was. Completely and utterly weak.

 

---

 

Several hours later—more like most of the night later—Tim leaned back in his chair with a pleased sigh of exhaustion. 

He’d won. And the pot had been pretty sweet too for the little tournament Darla had put together. 

A cool one point two million was on its way to a cryptocurrency account he used specifically for events like this, already less the fees Darla had skimmed off the top. Tim didn’t mind. She’d set up the whole event, so why not? All he had to do now was place a few trades, make some transfers that involved offshore accounts he really shouldn’t have considering what he did for a living, and the source of funds would be utterly obscured, even for someone with his skill-set.

Thank god the Swiss still operated on absolute secrecy regarding their banking clients—domestic and otherwise despite what was happening in the news regarding their risk management policies. As long as Tim didn’t rock the boat and raise any red flags, he was in the clear. 

Really, the fact he hadn’t gone crooked before was something else. Then again, if he had, then he wouldn’t know all the ways to make the system work for him instead of against him. 

The trick pretty much boiled down to paying your taxes. Evading them was guaranteed to make the IRS come knocking. Look at what happened to Al Capone. 

Yawning, he got up to go to the bathroom. The satisfaction of winning was quickly being replaced by exhaustion. It wasn’t like he’d been worried about losing—he really hadn’t been—but the sheer amount of concentration and brain power needed to get through to the last hand was beyond draining. Leaning against the door frame, Tim indulged in another jaw-breaking yawn. As much as he wanted to go to bed now, his body would scream at him when he woke up for not feeding it first.

In a fugue-like state, he somehow stumbled down the stairs without falling flat on his face and drifted to the back of the brownstone to the kitchen. The desire for food suddenly became overwhelming and his stomach growled like a screaming child. He was so hungry he could eat a— 

Tim came to a dead stop as he entered his kitchen. “What the hell?” 

Jason was still here. And from the look of things, he’d been here for a while. Casserole dishes lined the counters, as well as a large stack of Tupperware Tim had completely forgotten he owned. The smells wafting around the room were making his mouth water—apparently his nose had gotten the message and bypassed his brain to go right to his stomach. 

And then his gaze landed back on Jason. 

On what he was wearing. 

A ruffled white apron. Admittedly, he was still fully dressed, but if he wasn’t… 

Hello, new favorite fantasy. 

Jason looked up from the sink where he was washing dishes and offered a crooked smile. “Didn’t think I’d stay, did you?” 

“No?” Tim tried not to flail, but it was hard. “Why are you here? And why… Why are you washing dishes? I have a perfectly good dishwasher.” 

That wasn’t what he wanted to say. It really wasn’t. But even his exhausted brain knew it was bad form to ask where the apron had come from and if Jason would mind taking off his shirt so Tim could see how it framed his chest. 

“Dishwashers are all well and good, but I needed to reuse a few pans faster than it would do the job.” Jason cast a look at his handiwork and made a face that was clearly self-deprecating. “Though I think I might have gone a little overboard.” 

“I’ll say.” Tim dared to take a step forward and tried not to gawk. “I didn’t think I even owned this much food.” 

“I raided your freezer. And pantry.” The timer on the oven dinged and Jason paused to grab an oven mitt. “Hope you like hand-pies.” 

“What?” Everything was moving too fast for Tim to think. It had to be payback for what he’d pulled on Jason when he’d arrived last evening. 

But then the oven door opened and released a tidal wave of freshly baked pastry and something savory that had Tim’s mouth watering. Golden pockets of deliciousness appeared and if he didn’t know he’d burn his fingers and his mouth in a heartbeat, he’d have snagged one right off the baking sheet.

Watching Jason move about his kitchen with the same easy confidence he did everything else was surreal. The big bad Red Hood was wandering around in his kitchen in a pair of ripped jeans (did he even own a pair without holes?), a tight t-shirt (those things came in XXL, right?), and a ruffled apron Tim now recognized as one he’d received as a gag gift from his ex-boyfriend-and-now-current-friend Bernard three or four birthdays ago and kept because a silly apron was better than no apron. 

It. Just. Did. Not. Compute. 

Tim waited, brain struggling to reboot and make sense of everything, until the hand-pies were on the cooling racks on the kitchen table before he spoke again. “Why did you do all this?” he asked quietly, hardly daring to catch Jason’s eye, but doing so anyway because he genuinely needed to know. 

No one had cooked for him in years, aside from his foster mom Dana. Sure, they still cooked together for the holidays, but those were special occasions. They weren’t… this. 

Out of nowhere with no apparent reason at all. 

Jason offered a sheepish shrug. “I was worried. And when I worry, I… I tend to stress-cook. And bake.” 

“But why were you worried? It was just a card game.” 

The look he got in return was enough to make Tim wonder if he’d grown a second head. 

“Just a card game? Tim, you put up a hundred grand just for a buncha kids you never met and act like it’s nothin’. You coulda lost it all and then we’d be up shit creek without a paddle tryna to figure out how to fund them without drawin’ the wrong kind of attention.” Even dropping syllables left and right, there was an earnestness in his voice that Tim had never heard before. It was enough to make him weak in the knees. 

Or maybe it was the fact that Jason had just used his name for the first time.   

“I won,” Tim nearly stumbled over the words, afraid to examine that thought any further. “I won it all.” 

Jason grinned, brilliant and so fucking genuine. “That’s awesome. So what did my little ten percent get me?” 

“A hundred and twenty thousand,” Tim answered after moving a few decimal points around in his head. 

Apparently Jason wasn’t a slouch in the math department either as his jaw actually dropped. “That pot was over a million bucks?” 

“Yes?” 

Jason shook his head and laughed. “You’re really somethin’ else. Fuck, maybe I should be workin’ for you instead of the other way around.” 

Tim’s gaze landed on the still-cooling hand-pies, saliva building in his mouth as the smell of hot pastry teased his nose. “If those taste half as good as they smell, I could probably be convinced to hire a personal chef,” he said, unthinking as he continued to stare. “A regular work schedule is one of the only ways I can ever remember to eat at normal times and now that that’s almost out the door…” 

“I suppose I should put my money where my mouth is then.” Jason picked up one of the savory smelling parcels and handed it to Tim. 

Their fingers brushed and Tim really shouldn’t be blushing, not with everything that had already passed between them. But there was something oddly intimate about this moment, like something was brewing between them that hadn’t been there before. 

Or maybe it had always been there and he was just an idiot for not seeing it sooner.  

Tim took a small bite of the buttery, flaky pastry, which melted in his mouth even as a small amount of steam exited the interior. A larger bite ended up with an explosion of flavor on his tongue, of curry and onion and garlic tossed in with some potatoes. 

He let out a little moan. “Okay. You’re hired.” 

There was a pleased smile on Jason’s lips. “Does that mean we’re on equal footing then?” 

Tim cocked his head. “What do you mean?” 

“Technically, we both work for Hood, even though you really report to me. And now, I work for you.” 

Oh. Oh.  

He was actually serious about this. Shit. 

The deer-in-the-headlights expression must have been enough of a tell because Jason just chuckled. “Think about it then. Just don’t overthink it because I already know you well enough to know that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.” 

Tim nodded and, rather than say something stupid like fuck me right now, shoved the rest of the pastry parcel in his mouth. They were just big enough for four decent bites, so his cheeks filled up like a chipmunk’s. 

He snuck another one while Jason finished cleaning up, and then a third when he removed the apron and hung it from a hook on the pantry door. 

Yep, he definitely had the start of a new kink developing.  

Jason hefted the bag he was taking home for himself, which was fine by Tim. There was more than enough here to last him all week, not including what had been added to his freezer. The man sure knew how to make basic kitchen staples stretch—though Tim was still certain he hadn’t had that much butter in his fridge. 

“I think we’re all set here then,” he said as Tim walked him to the front door. “I’ll come over next weekend when you’re a free man and we can discuss some menu planning.” 

A free man… Right, his last day at the office was only five working days away now. 

“Thank you,” Tim managed. “But I really don’t expect you to cook for me. I’m a mostly functional adult who can take care of himself.” 

The look on Jason’s face said he thought otherwise, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Instead, he reached out slowly, telegraphing every movement like he thought Tim would dart away. 

His thumb brushed Tim’s lips even as the rest of his hand cupped his chin. This close, Tim was mesmerized by how blue Jason’s eyes were. 

“You got somethin’, right there,” Jason said, swiping his thumb gently from one side to the other. 

It took every ounce of willpower not to lick it. 

“Thanks,” Tim breathed. 

Jason looked like he wanted to say something, but he bit his lip, gaze darting away before returning. “Fuck it,” he muttered and closed the narrow gap between them. 

A feather light kiss replaced his thumb, a gentle press of his lips, a slight exhale of breath.   

Tim wanted to melt. Right there in his front hall and into a puddle of goo. How was it humanly possible that someone like Jason, the fucking Red Hood, was even capable of a touch so… So soft. So tender. 

Jason drew away before Tim could get his wits about him and drag the man upstairs. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Then the door was opening and he left, vanishing into the remnants of the night. 

Tim closed the door and locked it, then abruptly turned to lean against it, exhaling hard. 

Fuck. This was the reason he never kissed people. Not because he wasn’t any good—hah!—but because there was an intimacy about it that he shied away from each and every time. There was nothing intimate about his sex life and that was precisely the way he wanted it. 

But with Jason… Everything he did was with the intention to claim. To make his mark, to declare his intentions, whatever you might call it. 

And Tim, he wasn’t ready to be claimed. He wasn’t ready for any of it. 

Wasn’t he?

 

Chapter 12: I Didn't Sign Up for This

Notes:

Did you miss me?

What the fuck happened this morning? 

The question had been tormenting Jason since he drove away from the brownstone. Back in the relative quiet and safety of his apartment, he tossed and turned in bed, battling it out with his pillow and smooth sheets that did nothing to cool his overly heated body. 

Tim had… he’d put up a hundred grand for him without even batting an eye—or if he did, he’d done it before making the call about a paltry eight thousand. Everything he’d done last night, he’d done it for him.  

Nobody had ever done something like that before—not without strings attached, at least. Nothing ever came from nothing, though Jason had the distinct feeling that even if Tim had lost, there would still have been a deposit into the new charity he’d created.

Underneath that pretty face and smart mouth, the guy had a heart. And that… that was fucking attractive. 

Jason buried his face into the pillow and let out a muffled yell. 

What the fuck was wrong with him? Tim Drake was his employee, plain and simple. An employee who was being paid in a rather unconventional way, but an employee nonetheless. He expected his employees to be good at what they did and at this level of his organization, he demanded nothing less than the best that each and every one had to offer. 

And that was another thing… since when did he ever get this involved with his employees? It wasn’t like Jason was celibate—he enjoyed a good fuck as much as the next man. Who it came from didn’t matter as long as they were willing and as into it as he was.

But Tim… The only time he’d ever felt this level of need and desire to slam someone against the wall to fuck them stupid had been with Stephanie. And that had been pure adrenaline-fueled-thank-fucking-God-we’re-alive sex, coupled with teenage hormones. 

Last time he checked, he was well past that. What was even worse—his number cruncher really was that good in bed. Well, not that they’d made it to the actual bed, but the kitchen table was a horizontal surface, so it totally counted.

Jason’s cock twitched at the memory of Tim stretched out beneath him, his body on full display as he took it like a champ. The only thing that would have made it better was if he hadn’t been blindfolded—that those icy blue eyes cracked open and Jason’s name on his lips. 

Fuck. 

Flipping over, he glared at the line of daylight attempting to make its way into the bedroom through his blackout curtains. Since sleep was evading him, he might as well try to exhaust himself another way.

 

---

  

The buzzing of his phone nearly vibrating its way off his nightstand dragged Jason from his hard-earned slumber.

Cracking an eye open to glare at the small digital clock beside his bed, he ignored his phone and rolled over. His pillow bunched under his cheek and he kicked off the single top-sheet he slept with during the summer, too warm to want anything covering him. 

The buzzing started up again and Jason rolled back over with a huff to snatch it off the nightstand. 

It was Abby. 

“Hey, baby girl,” he answered, voice thick from sleep. “What’s up?” 

“Did I wake you up?” his daughter asked, worried. “It’s after one.”

“Yeah, but I was startin’ to wake up anyway.” Jason yawned, which had Abby laughing. 

“Doesn’t sound like you’re awake, Dad.”  

“Then you’d better take advantage of it now before I’m awake enough to say no to whatever you’re callin’ about.” 

Abby snorted. “I haven’t seen you like all week. Are you back in town yet?”

It took Jason a moment to remember the story he’d fed Abby and Steph about why the after-school visits had to stop. Shit, now he had to come up with another since Dickie was still crashing on his sofa. Goddammit. 

“Not yet,” he lied. “Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday.”

That should give him enough time to figure something out. Between everything that had happened with Tim over the last few days, and then all the shit with Dick, he’d nearly lost track that Abby was done with school for the summer. She’d want to hang out more, which—seriously, what kind of teenager, boy or girl, wanted to hang out with their old man at their age? 

He could already hear Stephanie telling him to enjoy it while it lasted. 

“Ugh, fine,” Abby said, sounding a bit down. “Just let me know when you’re back, okay? I want to make you dinner.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. You’ve been going through a lot lately and I thought it would be nice.”

Jason smiled, a bit stupidly if you asked him, but he was feeling sappy. “Alright, baby girl. I’ll let you know when I’m home, okay?”

“Thanks, Dad. Be safe and don’t do anything stupid.”  

“Stupid is my middle name.” 

“I thought you said it was danger?”  

“Jason Stupid Danger Todd, at your service.”

Both laughing, they said their goodbyes and Jason hung up. It was good to hear from his little girl, it really was. And he wanted to see her. 

But there was a big problem lazing about in his living room.

Okay, lazing was the wrong word for it because since he’d taken over the sofa, Dick had done everything he could to make Jason’s life easier. He cooked, he cleaned—he even did the laundry. It was kind of annoying to be reminded that Dickhead was a competent adult rather than a disaster human when he wasn’t distracted by all things crime-related. 

Although, he did still eat cereal at every turn.

Jason flung an arm over his eyes and sighed. The two of them were due for a talk. A big one. What sucked the most though was he could see why Dick didn’t want to stay in one of Barbara’s safehouses. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be in her debt or to avoid her. 

He didn’t want to be alone.

And the thing was, Jason could understand that. Fuck, he could even appreciate it. A guy like Dick Grayson, someone who’d all but grown up as the center of attention… Lonely wasn’t something he did well, even if he protested otherwise. 

Hauling his ass out of bed, he washed up and threw a shirt on. It was time to suck it up and put his big boy panties on. 

Ugh. Why did he have to be the adult here? 

But to his surprise, it looked like Dick was wanting to talk too. 

As Jason entered the living room, he found his brother setting a plate of the hand-pies he’d made last night at Tim’s on the coffee table. There were two cups of tea already there, steam wafting off the surface.

Dick caught his eye and offered a small smile. “I could hear you talking, so I figured you were getting up.” 

He’d heard him what? Shit, but it was easy to forget the thin walls in this place extended to the interior rooms too. 

“Catch anything incriminating?” Jason asked with a nonchalance he certainly wasn’t feeling as he flopped onto the near end of the sofa.

“Just heard your voice.” Dick settled on the opposite side with a heavy plop . “Where did you get these?” he asked, leaning over for a pastry-filled morsel. “They’re delicious.”

It was on the tip of Jason’s tongue to say nunya , but then he stopped to examine exactly why bringing up the fact he stress-baked made him defensive. It wasn’t like he was ashamed of it. 

Self-reflection. Harley would be so proud. 

“I made them earlier this morning,” he admitted and reached for his mug.

Dick’s eye widened. “Wow, Little Wing. You might have missed your true calling.” 

Jason didn’t miss how Dickie avoided asking important questions like where and why . Really though, was there a reason to hide those little details? His brother had no more reason to seek out Bruce than he did. And honestly, Barbara probably already knew who his new accountant was. It had been her safehouse he’d dragged Tim to last weekend. 

Jesus, had it only been a week?

“Thanks.” He took a sip and the flavor of spices exploded over his tongue. Looked like someone had gone with his chai to complement the curried potatoes in the hand-pies. “I didn’t have access to a fryer, so they’re not exactly a samosa.”

“Still tasty,” Dick said as he licked a finger. Then a change seemed to come over him and his mood sobered. With a heavy sigh, he continued. “Jay, I—I want to thank you for everything. You didn’t have to help me, but you did anyway. I know there’s no love lost between us and I haven’t exactly been the greatest brother to you, so all of this—it really means a lot to me.” 

His voice choked up a bit at the end. 

“Dick, I—” 

“Let me finish, please.”

Jason’s mouth snapped shut.

“The meeting with Harley the other night… If she’s up for it, I want to see her again.” Dick shifted minutely on the couch, grimacing. “I didn’t realize just how badly I’ve been coping with everything that’s happened to me. But it also goes deeper than that—I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these last few days and man… I’m really fucked up. All the bad things that happened to me—I haven’t seen a therapist since my parents died and the court ordered Bruce to have me go.”

The pause here was long enough for Jason to sense he could chime in. “Same, actually. It was required as part of my adoption. Think I went pretty regularly for about three or four months.” 

“Why’d you stop?” Dick asked, genuinely curious. 

Jason shrugged and reached for a hand-pie. “I was training to be Robin,” he answered, plain and simple. He caught Dick’s eye. “You know what that’s like.”

His brother nodded somberly. “It takes over everything. You feel like you’re on top of the world and nothing bad can touch you because you’re part of something so much bigger than yourself.” 

“Robin makes you magic,” Jason said, remembering what he’d once said. “The day I put on that uniform to go on patrol for the first time, I thought it was the best day of my life.”

And he still did, to an extent. But that memory was dimmed from the darkness that had, for the longest time, all but consumed him. 

“Yeah.” Dick rubbed absently at his bad knee. “It’s magic until it’s not. And then the whole world is depending on you to make the right choice.” 

“Can’t say I have experience with that. I was never much of a hero.” 

Dick’s chuckle had a dark edge to it. “You’re more of a hero than you think. It might not be on a global scale, but what you do around here? Don’t think I haven’t noticed the crime rate dropped after Batman’s fall from grace.” 

Jason snorted. “That’s because the GCPD had fires lit under their asses after Gordon died. I just… I took advantage of the chaos and consolidated a few positions. There wasn’t anyone here who could stop me.” 

That had been a wild time. Everyone in the know knew that Gordon’s death was an accident. Hell, even Barbara knew it. But because it had been at Batman’s hands—

The whole world had felt like it imploded. 

Vigilantes became personas non grata around Gotham. The people of the city had had enough and so had the governor. The FBI all but wiped out the more typical mafia and organized crime syndicates. When the fires died down, there were only two people left to pick up those pieces—the Red Hood and the Penguin. 

Jason hadn’t cared what was going on downtown or how the new DA was rooting out corruption at all levels. He saw his opportunity and took it. The last ten years had been fucking great until Bruce decided it was time to take him down a notch. 

Asshole.

“No, I suppose not,” Dick said. “I was dealing with Damian and… Well, I think you heard just how bad my falling out with Bruce was after you died. I didn’t set foot in Gotham again until I got a call from Alfred about a baby bat.”

“Honestly, I only heard pieces of it—mostly through Barbara so at least the source was reliable. I know you came back and left with a kid. Then there was that whole clusterfuck with Darkseid and Bruce dying/not dying, whatever the hell that was.” Jason took a sip of chai and smirked. “And then the brat up and left you to be with old daddy dearest. You had him for what? Three years?” 

Truth be told, that had to have hurt. When Dick put his all into something, he did it with his whole heart and soul. Damian had meant a lot to him, so for him to choose Bruce over him… Yeah. 

What also sucked was this level of understanding was only possible thanks to Abby. He was under no illusions that when push came to shove, Abby would choose her mother. Hell, that was exactly what he’d want her to do if she ever had to make that choice. It would hurt, but really, it was for the best. 

“Four,” Dick answered, eye downcast. “He was Robin to my Nightwing in New York. He was there when the Titans regrouped and even had his own room in our new complex. Kori taught him to garden, and Gar gave him a love and appreciation for animals to the point where he became a vegetarian too.” 

“I’m sorry, Dickie,” Jason said with genuine sympathy. “I really am.”

“Thanks, Jay.” Dick sighed, then pulled himself back together with visible effort. “Barbara told me once that I live too much in the past. That I have a difficult time letting go and moving forward. This is part of what I’d like to talk to Harley about. I want to hope that she’s able to help me through it.” 

“I’ll give her a call this afternoon,” Jason promised. 

Dick was quiet for a long moment. “This might be too personal of a question, but… What was your rock bottom? What made you want to get help?” 

Talk about a loaded question. 

Much to Jason’s surprise, his first instinct wasn’t to lie. Harley had never asked what his motivation was. She’d just told him to keep it in mind when shit got hard and he felt like giving up. Each time he did, he’d find himself perched outside the living room window at Steph’s apartment. He’d stay for hours, listening to his little girl read out loud. It wasn’t until after they’d finally met in person that he learned she would sit in the chair by the window and read to Steph while she was doing her yoga or whatever it was she did to destress from work. 

Abby was everything to him. And for the longest time, keeping her safe and off Bruce’s radar was his number one priority. 

But Dick wasn’t Bruce. Dick knew what it was like to raise a child—and had done a decent enough job even if the brat was still a gremlin. To be fair, that was probably Bruce’s fault. 

Just like so much was. 

Jason closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “I did it for my daughter,” he said, voice so low he wasn’t sure Dick could even hear it. 

He might not have heard it, but his brother was a master lip reader. “Your…” 

The shrill ring of Jason’s phone cut off what Dick was in the midst of saying. It wasn’t his generic ringtone either. 

It was Barbara’s. 

With a put-upon sigh, Jason pulled the phone from his pocket and swiped at the screen. “As usual, your timing is impeccable.” 

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not,” Barbara answered briskly. “How soon can you get to the Clocktower?” 

“So this isn’t a social call?” 

“Jason…” 

“Fine.” He looked at the clock under the TV. “Maybe half an hour if you do your magic with the stoplights.” 

“I just might.”

Her tone had Jason sitting up. “What’s going on?” 

“I have a case I need your rather specialized skill set for. There’s just two problems.” 

“Which are?” 

“I need you there in less than twelve hours and you’re probably going to be undercover for about two, maybe even three, months.”

“Jesus fuck.” Really? Fucking hell, what craptastic timing. “You realize I’ve got shit going on here I need to keep an eye on, right? Rebuilding my empire and all that.” 

“I’m pretty sure your new accountant can handle most of that with his eyes closed.” Barbara chuckled. “Good job on landing him, by the way. You know who he is, right?”

“Does a guy get to have any secrets around here?” Jason retorted, completely unsurprised by having his earlier suspicions confirmed. Bats and birds, seriously. “And yeah, I do. He fucked it all up, so he gets to unfuck it for me.” 

“Sounds like you two are getting along great then. I’ll see you in thirty.” Barbara hung up without another word. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Jason held his phone out and resisted the strong urge to throw it. He turned his glare on Dick. “Your better half is something else, you know?” 

“I take it you have to leave?” Dick asked. He’d had time to recover from his surprise and had put his game face on. 

“Yeah. Shit.” Jason tossed his phone on the couch where it bounced once, then slid off to land on the floor. Go figure. 

“Not good?”

“Barbie wants me to go undercover for two or three months.” 

Dick grimaced. “Ouch. Okay. You better get going then. Just tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.” 

Jason cast a sardonic eye on his brother. “Dickie, what the hell do you know about running a criminal empire?” 

“Did you ever hear about the time I spent about six months working for Deathstroke?” 

“No shit?” Huh. He’d never have called that in a million years.

“I’ll tell you about it later. Get going.”

 

---

 

Barbara was all business when Jason walked into her sanctum sanctorum at the top of the Clocktower thirty-three minutes later.

She waved him over to a set of monitors. “I realize this is a massive inconvenience for you, especially right now. But I’ve had this case going for nearly a year and I’m finally ready to call checkmate.” 

“I hope you don’t mean that literally. Those people are assholes.” Jason crossed his arms and started to read the profile of the man Barbara had pulled up.

“They certainly are.” Barbara adjusted her glasses. “And no, I don’t.”

Jason frowned. “You want me to go to Argentina.”

“Yes.” 

“You realize that while I’m fluent in Spanish, it’s more the Mexican and Central American type that’s on the streets around here, right? My accent is gonna stand out.”

“And that’s perfectly fine.” Barbara pulled up another file. “Your cover story makes allowances for it.” 

Jason resisted the urge to shake his head. This was nothing less than what he was used to when working for the all-seeing, all-knowing Oracle. She missed nothing. “So I take it this is the guy I have to kill. But why does it need to take so long?” 

Barbara nodded to a chair against the wall, out of the way of her wheelchair. “Take a seat and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

 

---

 

By the time she was done, two hours had passed. It wasn’t just one man he had to kill—it was three. 

He now had ten hours to make it to Buenos Aires. Thankfully, he was flying Air Birds of Prey, which meant Lady Blackhawk would have him there in less than five hours. 

It still didn’t give him a lot of time for what he needed to do. The risks associated with this particular mission—there was a lot at stake. One wrong move and he’d be a dead man. 

A dead man with a family he wanted to make sure wouldn’t need for anything for the rest of their lives in case shit really hit the fan. 

Jason shrugged on his motorcycle jacket and picked up his helmet. “Barbie, before I go, I need to ask you a favor. If things go wrong—” 

“I’ll make sure they’re taken care of. That they know what happened,” Barbara responded, not even making a comment about the nickname she usually despised. “Stephanie and Abigail Brown, right?” 

At this point in his life, he really should just assume Barbara knew everything instead of joking about it. “I want to ask how you know, but I have the feeling you won’t tell me.” 

She smiled softly. “I’ll tell you when you get back. From what I can see, you’ve got a good kid there.” 

Jason’s smile was sappy and he wasn’t ashamed in the slightest. “Yeah, she is.”

 

---

 

There were three things he absolutely had to do before leaving town. Thankfully, one of them could be handled by phone as he wove in and out of traffic. 

“…And that’s where you’ll leave the bag. Just lock it up and go.”

Over the Bluetooth in the motorcycle helmet, Dick sighed. “You know, when I said if there was anything I could do to help, I didn’t think it would involve laundering money.” 

Jason snorted. “You’re just moving things from one place to another. I got someone else who does the laundering. Besides, if I’m gone for as long as Barbie says I should be, then I highly doubt you’ll see any action after a few weeks. If I’m not around to ride their asses, then I don’t get paid.” 

Which would make it easier for Tim in the long run, actually. He’d have more time to layer the cash into the system. 

“Paid to do what, exactly?”

“Keep things under control and make sure there’s no fights. You’d be surprised how much of what I do is just talkin’ to people.”

“And if they don’t listen?” 

“Those are usually the ones who shouldn’t be allowed out on the streets in the first place.” 

Dick sighed. “It annoys the daylights out of me that this actually makes sense.” 

“I’ll make a crime lord outta you yet,” Jason laughed. “I’m about to hit the tunnel, so I’ll lose you. I haven’t had a chance to call Harley, but I will from the plane. Is it okay if I give her your number?”

“Yeah. If things really don’t work out, I’ll just ask Babs for a new one.”

“Silver lining. Alright, don’t kill my aloe plant or burn down my apartment while I’m gone. See ya when I see ya.” 

The call dropped as he entered the tunnel going under the Finger River. That was one person down. 

Two more to go.

 

---

 

When Stephanie opened the door of her apartment instead of Abby, Jason was rather relieved. 

“Jason? I thought you were out of town still.” 

“Yeah, about that…” his voice dropped. “Is Abby here?” 

Blue eyes narrowed. “No, she’s at a friend’s a few floors down.” 

Jason sagged against the door frame. “Good. Can we talk?” 

Steph held the door open wider for him to walk in. “What’s going on?” 

“What isn’t going on might be the better question.” Jason scrubbed a hand over his face and frowned at how much sweat came back. “Can I bother you for some water?” 

“Sure. Your face is all red.” 

“It’s fucking hot as balls out there.” Wait… that meant it would be winter in Argentina. Talk about climate shock. 

Steph got him a water bottle from the fridge and he drank half of it in one gulp. “Thank you.” 

“No problem. Now start talking because I have the feeling that whatever you’re going to say, Abby will probably be upset about it, and I’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

Jason took a seat at the dining table in the small nook just off the kitchen. Steph sat across from him, gaze intent.

Where to start...?

“So I haven’t actually been out of town,” he said, deciding to go with the truth. “But I couldn’t have Abby coming over because I’ve got someone crashing on my sofa.” 

“I thought you said no one ever went to that apartment besides you,” Steph all but snapped. “That was one of the reasons I allowed your visits. That apartment was supposed to be a safe place with no connections whatsoever to the Red Hood. You asshole!”

Jason deserved that. He really did. “I know, I know,” he said quickly, trying to placate his whatever-the-hell Steph was. Ex didn’t have the right ring to it since they’d never been together in the first place and baby mama was just insulting. At the same time, they weren’t exactly friends either. “But I couldn’t just not do anything. Nightwing is a bird-brain half the time but—” 

“Did you say Nightwing is crashing on your couch?” Steph interrupted. 

“Yeah?” 

This time, it was Steph who sagged in her chair. “He saved me once,” she said after a moment. “Mom and me, we’d moved to New York after the quake. I was fifteen, pregnant, and he was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen in my life.” 

“He tends to leave an impression,” Jason agreed. 

“How do you know Nightwing well enough that he’s staying with you?” 

This was where it got tricky. Steph might have been part of his world for a brief period of time, but she’d never been fully involved. She didn’t know the intricacies of the relationships—or lack thereof—involving Batman and his Robins.

Still… 

“Nightwing is my brother,” Jason finally said. “Not by blood, but in every other way that counts.” 

Steph’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.” Jason took another swig of water. “Anyway, he has a relationship with Batman that’s nearly as toxic as mine. But… I trust him. If push came to shove, I’d trust him with Abby too.” 

“Okay,” Steph said, quiet. “Okay. I’ll back off this for now. But that isn’t what you came over here for, is it?” 

Jason shook his head. Now came the hard part. “I’m going out of town for real now. A few months at most. I should be home in time for Abby’s birthday.” 

“You’re going to kill someone.” Steph’s voice was flat. 

“More like four someones.” This right here was why he was a shit father. He didn’t deserve to even breathe the same air as his daughter considering what he did for a living. What kind of girl was proud to have a contract killer for a dad? 

“Oracle gave you this assignment?” 

The question came out of nowhere and Jason’s head snapped up. “How do you know that name?” 

“You’re not the only one of us who’s been around the block a time or two.” Steph sighed and looked off into the distance, or as much as she could in an apartment this size. “She and I met once, not long after you and Abby met for the first time. We had a good long talk about you.” Her gaze redirected back to Jason. “We both agreed you’re an idiot, but that your heart is in the right place.” 

Jason shook his head in sheer and utter disbelief. To say his world was rocked was an understatement. “I feel like I’ve been paranoid all this time for nothing,” he muttered peevishly. 

“No, you haven’t,” Steph was quick to reassure. “She didn’t speak all that highly of Batman either and has many of the same concerns you do if he ever finds out about Abby.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” Jason finished his water and made a fist. The plastic crumpled in his hand. Oh, he and Barbie were going to have some words once he got in the air.

Speaking of which, he didn’t have much time. 

“Do you think you can have Abby come back here?” he asked. “I’ve got a tight schedule before I have to leave, and I really want to see her before I go.”

Steph sighed, then stretched behind her to grab her phone off the kitchen counter. “I’ll call her. You go to the bathroom and clean up.” 

“You tellin’ me I stink?”

“You’re the one who said it’s hot as balls out there, not me.”

 

---

 

Leaving Abby put Jason in a foul mood, so it was a damned good thing he was hitting all the green lights as he made his way back toward the Upper West Side to Tim’s house. His baby girl had been ecstatic to see him, so seeing the light of that excitement dim when he said he was taking an assignment out of town for a few months—he really wanted to punch something. 

But that wasn’t in the cards—not yet at least. He had to meet Lady Blackhawk in less than two hours. Thank fuck he didn’t have to pack. Barbara was providing his entire kit. Nothing could be brought that might blow his cover. 

As Jason turned onto a now-familiar street, his thoughts shifted to who he was about to see. 

Tim was his accountant. His employee and nothing more. 

So why was he feeling the same pit in his stomach at the thought of leaving him as he did for his daughter? 

The motorcycle rumbled to a stop outside Tim’s brownstone. At this time of day, the street was fairly empty. But it would be filling up soon as people came home from work. 

Jason rocked back and stared up at the door, gut churning away and his heart hammering a mile a minute. Tim was just his employee, he kept chanting in his head over and over. He was just his employee. 

Maybe if he said it enough times, he’d actually start to believe it.

He kicked the stand down almost viciously and slid off his bike. As he walked up the sidewalk, he jerked off his gloves and shoved them in a pocket of his motorcycle jacket. 

Just an employee. Just an employee.  

Walking up the short steps to the front door, Jason yanked his helmet off and tucked it under his arm, then rang the doorbell. 

Just an employee. Just an employee.  

It took a minute for Tim to answer. His hair was all over the place and he wore a too-large t-shirt that all but hung off one shoulder. He looked all soft and sleepy, but his bespectacled gaze was sharp and clear. 

“Jason? What are you doing here?” 

Just an employee… Fuck.  

“Can we talk inside?” Jason asked. “Something’s come up.” 

Tim stiffened minutely and nodded. “Sure.” He stepped aside to allow him room to enter. 

Jason didn’t go far. Hell, he had the distinct feeling that if he went any deeper into the house, he might do something stupid. 

The door closed behind him and he spun around. “Hood’s operations are being put on hold.” 

Business. Keep it to business. 

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” 

“No. No, you haven’t,” Jason was quick to reassure. “On very rare occasions, Hood gets tapped on the shoulder for some black ops type of work from one of the hero organizations. Stuff the goody two shoes would never get their hands dirty with but recognize the need to get rid of.” 

That was putting it nicely.

“Because this op is expected to last a few months at most, I’m going with him. There’s no one else around here to keep an eye on things, so after a few weeks, the money will stop coming in and we’ll have to start all over again when we get back. It’s completely craptastic timing, but Hood can’t say no to the money that’s on the table.” 

Tim’s mouth fell into a small oh of surprise. “When do you leave?” 

“Within the hour.” 

“I see.” Tim blinked, looking more than a little dazed by the information. “Okay, then.” He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “What do I need to do?” 

Jason dug two envelopes out of a pocket of his jacket. One was distinctly heavier than the other. He’d written them out before leaving the Clocktower. “This one has a key and instructions for where you’ll find my weekly cash drop. Like I said, I expect it’ll dry up after a couple of weeks with us gone, but I want you to pick it up while it lasts and do your thing. Make it clean and have it ready for when we get back.” 

Tim nodded, accepting the envelopes. “And the other one?” 

This was where he was taking the biggest gamble. At the same time, if he was gone, then what was the point anyway? 

“That one has instructions for what to do if you don’t hear from Hood or me ever again. If there’s no word after four months, open it and do what it says.” 

Everything was going to Abby and Steph. All Tim had to do was make sure it was all nice and clean so there were no questions whatsoever. Barbara might have said she’d make sure they were taken care of, but this was his way of ensuring it too.

Tim swallowed but nodded firmly. Some other emotion swirled deep in his eyes, one that had him blinking quickly before his head bobbed again. “Got it. I can do that.”

“I know you can.” Jason took a step forward and it was like time stopped. All that his world consisted of was this paneled foyer, dust motes dancing in the sunbeams from the window over the door, and his too-smart number cruncher whose lips were already parting as the distance between them vanished. 

“Tell me no,” Jason’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. A hand landed on the wall beside Tim’s head as he leaned in. “Tell me no and I’ll stop.” 

“Don’t stop,” was what he heard before Tim closed the gap and kissed him—gently at first, soft and tentative like they were in a dream. 

Then, almost as one, they moved together, and Jason pressed Tim against the wall as he devoured him with all the raging force of his hunger. Their tongues tangled and their breaths mingled, and the stoked fire between them roared back to life as they fanned the flames.

Somewhere, Tim had dropped the envelopes and was clutching Jason’s hair. He tugged at the ends while Jason dropped his helmet in favor of catching a thigh in his now-free hand and pulled it over his hip. It landed with a thunk as he discovered there was underwear beneath the shirt. But there was nothing else between them save for Jason’s jeans, which did nothing to hide how quickly hard his cock had become. 

 

 

Jesus fuck, but he wanted this man. Right here, right now. Screw Barbara’s deadline. She was the one fucking up his life, so she could damn well wait.

At the same time, he knew he couldn’t. He needed time on the ground when he arrived to get his bearings and while he’d love nothing more than to take Tim apart and put him back together again, he didn’t have the time.  

With a growl, he tore his mouth away from Tim’s, panting hard, and stared at the man who had somehow managed to become so important to him in the short time they’d known each other. He stroked the soft skin of Tim’s inner thigh with his thumb before letting his leg fall back to the floor.

Tim relaxed his grip on Jason’s head and his hand fell away. His breath was coming in sharp and quick pants, just like him. “Please come back,” he whispered. “Please… be careful.” 

Jason took a long, steadying breath and pressed his forehead to Tim’s as he ducked in for one more kiss. “I will,” he promised. 

Drawing away, he took one last look at Tim and tucked a strand of his black hair behind his ear. His bangs were still too long, but maybe that was just the way he wore them. Maybe he liked how they framed his eyes, which were so intensely blue under the flurry of emotions behind them.

Then, before he did something monumentally stupid like stay , Jason scooped up his helmet, opened the door, and left. Hurrying down the steps, he launched himself onto his motorcycle and roared away.

 

End Part One

 

Notes:

For those of you who aren't on Tumblr, the reason for the delay is that I was waiting on the art commission accompanying this chapter. Real life loves to interfere with the best laid plans and it just so happened that both Snowzapped and I were hit hard by the Real Life Bus for the better part of the last two months (her harder than me). Things are finally leveling off for both of us, so we're getting back to our usual shenanigans.

And yes, you are reading the note at the end of this chapter correctly. It is the end of PART ONE.

It is not the end of this fic, however, and I have no intention to mark it as complete because PART TWO most definitely belongs in this hot mess of a fic that I still can't get over how many people are loving.

Thank you so much! <3

Chapter 13: Interlude: The Dog Days of Summer

Notes:

I have no excuse aside from RL being an utter $%#@! for the last two months.

Also, to all of you who left a lovely comment on the last chapter, please know I read each and every one even though I (for the first time in a long time) didn't reply. Please see the statement above. You're all awesome.

As Jason had predicted, the money drops grew progressively lighter the longer he was away. By the fifth week, the locker Dick opened at a youth center in the Bowery was empty. 

It was kind of relieving, actually. 

Dick was under no illusions about his brother’s activities. None at all. The Red Hood had a vicious reputation that was rooted in truth, even though in more recent years he seemed to have mellowed out. He might be less violent, but when he made a threat, he followed through.

Closing the locker, Dick locked it back up and made his way out of the room. It wasn’t his business what Jason got up to. It made no difference to him what his brother did with the money he made. He didn’t care. 

(Some of it had to go toward maintaining his equipment. That was expensive to do on your own when refusing any and all attempts by Bruce to pay for it.)

With a growl, Dick shoved those thoughts aside. He wasn’t a detective anymore—he was doing his brother a favor and nothing more. 

But as he walked down the hall toward the main entrance of the youth center, he knew deep in his gut that a great deal of those monies were funneled through places like this. Odds were damned good they stayed here too. This building wasn’t exactly new, but it was very clean, the supplies Dick had glimpsed during his previous visits were of decent quality, and there were healthy snacks offered as part of the after-school program this particular center ran.

All spoke to Jason’s personal involvement. 

And that ran completely counter to the public image of the Red Hood, just like the man who’d taken him in and offered a sofa to crash on. Jason Todd, under all those frowns and scowls, had a heart of gold. 

A tarnished heart, but still gold nonetheless. It was a shame that more people didn’t recognize this. The Red Hood had done more good for this city than Batman ever had. 

Dick stopped dead in the hallway and squeezed his good eye closed, trying to rein in his thoughts. Under the patch, the muscle twitched as it tried to mirror the movement, a near-constant reminder of what he’d lost. He wasn’t having these thoughts.  

But he was so damn tired of everything and nothing, and he couldn’t stop it if he tried. And he did, he tried so hard, but the spiral just continued with each and every step he forced himself to continue taking.  

He didn’t care what Jason got up to in his own time. He didn’t. 

Each week, he fought this same battle, and each week, he came out defeated by his own brain that would not shut the hell up and switch off when he wanted it to. 

Thank everything that was holy, the lack of a bag this week meant he didn’t have to come here for the pick-up or go to the drop point again. 

Then again… Dick had the distinct feeling that he was the last go-between for the cash and whoever was doing the actual money laundering. If he were curious, he could set up surveillance and find out who else was working for Jason. After what happened with the raid, there couldn’t be too many people and they’d all be new. 

But he wasn’t curious, he reminded himself. He just wasn’t. Everything that kept catching his eye, everything he mulled over week after week, it was just a side-effect of the life he’d lived for so long. 

A life that was no longer his, so why bother keeping up the skills that had made him so successful in the first place? He didn’t need them anymore.  

Telling himself this was a hell of a lot easier said than done. The vaunted control he’d once had over his mind had failed him, wracked as it was by the constant pain in his body. 

Perhaps he needed that particular skill after all.  

(It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he sure found it a lot harder to give a damn about the same things that used to light a fire under his ass when he was younger. He was pushing forty and had seen and done enough to last a hundred lifetimes.)

In the lobby, Dick paused to rest against a painted cinder block wall before stepping outside to brave the July heat. He was tired. And sore. So sore. The constant ache made it difficult to focus on anything. But the muscle relaxers he was supposed to take made him loopy and he’d never been a fan of taking pain medications for very long.

Besides, after some of the things he’d done over the course of his life, the pain was more than he deserved.

With a sigh, he nudged open the door with a crutch and left.

 

---

  

A short time later, he entered a small coffee shop a few blocks from Jason’s apartment in Coventry. He’d taken up the habit of spending an hour or two here every couple of days since his brother left, mostly for the change of scenery. People-watching had always been something he enjoyed, so he’d put his bad leg up and nurse an iced green tea under the pretense of reading a book.

With a quiet sigh, Dick collected his order and hobbled to a small round table where he sat down and put his leg up on the opposite chair. It was uncomfortable, but so was the humid heat outside. The subway stop was four blocks from Jason’s apartment and the little shop was conveniently located on the way back. That left three more blocks he had to trek in the summer sun, and he was the moron who decided that not shaving was a sign of defiance against the hand life had dealt him. 

There were better hills to die on. 

He’d been keeping it trimmed since he moved in with Jason, but it was past time to get rid of the thing. Besides, shaving regularly was a perfect check in the self-care list he’d started. Harley had made a comment about his beard in passing, which he’d brushed aside in the moment.  

But afterward, when he was alone in bed and replaying the session in his mind, it stood out. It seemed so simple, and yet, the very act of stopping in the pharmacy to buy what he needed was so utterly overwhelming that it was easier to just let it be. A beard never hurt anyone.  

Dick sighed again and rubbed at the thick scar under his jeans. This was the depression talking, he knew that much. It was so much easier to just think about things than do them. Action required energy he simply didn’t have. Only the fact that he owed Jason big time got his ass out of the apartment and across town to the Bowery on a weekly basis. His little trips here though, to just sit and watch the world go by without him—these kept him sane when the silence and walls started closing in.

Maybe this was what he’d talk about with Harley tonight. They were still feeling each other out, with neither of them quite comfortable enough to truly open up yet. Their sessions currently revolved around the past and Dick’s experiences growing up in the shadow of the Bat. She’d come right out and said that Jason had started there with her, that it seemed to be easier for him this way.

After a bit of thought, Dick had to agree. Last week, he’d spent the time talking—more like venting—about what it was like to be a teenage Robin, the responsibilities of being the leader of the Teen Titans and well-respected for his actions and decisions only to return to Gotham where he was often treated like an irresponsible child.

“Leaving Gotham and eventually becoming Nightwing was the best thing I ever could have done for myself,” he’d told Harley. “For the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t caged and could finally spread my wings.”

“Ya know, Jason said somethin’ similar,” Harley had replied. “Not that I should be tellin’ ya that in the first place, but I think maybe when he gets home, you and him should have a little chit-chat about how becomin’ your own person was the best thing either of ya coulda done for yourselves.”

Annoyingly, she was right. Dick had studied enough psychology over the years to know this. It just galled, having to hear it from Harley Quinn rather than coming to the same conclusion himself.

Then again, there were a lot of things he told himself these days and look where all those conversations went—nowhere.

“Is this seat taken?” a lightly accented and all-too-familiar voice asked, tearing Dick from his thoughts and the book he wasn’t reading.

Great. Looked like his days of solitude were coming to an end.

“Sort of,” he answered Damian with a shrug. “It’s a leg rest.” 

What was he doing here? Was he on his own or was Bruce somehow involved? When it came to Damian Wayne—at least the Damian he knew these days—it was hard to tell. At times, he was so like his father it hurt just to look at him. 

The young man nodded and neatly swiped a chair from a nearby table before sitting down, ramrod straight and proper with both feet on the floor and his hands wrapped neatly around his mug of probably-not-coffee. He’d always preferred chai when they’d gone to places like this back when Dick was raising him. 

It struck Dick in that moment that Damian looked nearly as out of place here as he did, even if most of the people in the café were in the younger man’s age range. Damian was dressed the part, sure, but the way he carried himself, the way his eyes darted everywhere at once and didn’t miss a thing. 

Calculating. Assessing. 

Dick should know since he did the same thing everywhere he went. It took one to know one. 

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” Damian said after Dick made no move to start speaking.

“Well is a relative term,” he answered. “I have good days and bad days.” 

“What’s today?” 

Dick shifted and suppressed a wince. “It was a good day until a little bit ago. Overdid it on some stairs.” 

“By the subway station? I was driving past and caught a glimpse of you.” 

So that’s how he’d been found. It wasn’t as though he was trying to hide, but at the same time, he’d been attempting to be respectful of Jason’s privacy and not draw attention to himself. Apparently, he wasn’t doing a very good job if he’d been found this easily. 

Frustrated, Dick narrowed his eyes and took a sip from his iced tea. “Why are you here, Damian?” It came out harsher than he’d have liked, but it was too late now. 

“I’ve been worried about you,” Damian replied after a long moment. “I heard through Kara that you’d…stepped down.” 

Stepped down. What a nice way of saying he’d permanently sidelined himself. 

“What else could I do?” Dick shrugged again. “You’ve seen how I get around now. I can barely walk, let alone…” 

Fight. Fly.

“You stopped going to physical therapy.”

The flatness of the tone had Dick snapping. “I suppose you think it’s your job to check up on me and make sure I’m doing what Bruce says I’m supposed to? Or are you here to drag me back home where I can have the rest of my life sucked out of me?”

Damian’s shuttered expression broke. “No, Richard. No. I just… It pains me beyond belief to see you fall this far.”

“Yeah, well it pains me too. Literally.” Dick scrubbed a hand across his face. Seeing Damian was bringing back far too many memories that he’d rather keep under lock and key. He was already remembering and feeling too much today—hell, the last week even. So many memories were nearer to the surface than he’d like and his control wasn’t what it used to be. 

“I didn’t come here to start a fight.” Damian curled his hands tighter around his cup and averted his eyes. 

“Then why did you come here?” 

“I’m here… To say good-bye. I’ve decided it’s time for me to leave… For good.” 

The roaring in his ears was nothing as Dick’s entire world upended and crashed around him. 

He snagged Damian’s wrist and held it tightly, afraid he’d punctuate that statement by getting up and doing exactly that—leaving. It didn’t matter that it had been more than five years (seven years, three months, one week, and six days his brain whispered unhelpfully) since they’d been partners. Damian had been Robin to his Nightwing until the Justice League found the time-displaced Bruce and brought him home. 

Damian, who he’d taken in when he was barely seven years old after Talia had given him to Bruce. The anger and sadness from Jason’s death had nearly destroyed the Dark Knight, so she’d brought the young boy to his father in the mistaken belief that his own flesh and blood would pull him back from the brink. 

It hadn’t, which was how the child ended up with Dick, abandoned by both of his parents.

Dick, who’d raised him like a son, showering the boy with love and affection and teaching him the true meaning of being a hero. All the while, they’d stayed out of Gotham, sticking to New York with the Titans, then moving on to Blüdhaven on their own until the nuclear blast destroyed the city and sent them back to New York. Damian had been his …until Bruce returned and forced the teenager to choose between them.

Learn from the real Batman or stay with the replacement was what he’d said. The words had ignited a rage in Dick’s heart, one that still burned to this day. 

Dick Grayson was no one’s replacement. 

“Damian, what…? Why?”

“You… You were right. About Father and about… everything. I tried to learn. I tried to be the best son, to be the only one Father would ever need. But…” Damian choked slightly, the break a clear indication of the strong emotions he was struggling to contain. “But nothing I do is ever good enough. Every night I go out and try to be even a quarter of the hero you were, but…but I never am. This city doesn’t want a hero anymore and, in Father’s eyes, I am still the little murder-child raised by assassins who can never be trusted. I will never be anything more.”

As heartbreaking as it was to hear all this, it was territory Dick was more than familiar with. Damn Bruce and his inability to move on from the past. Damn him.

“I’m sorry. I really am,” he said, his own sadness and frustration leaching through. 

“You warned me. Barbara warned me. Even Todd did, in his own way.” Damian took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ve come to believe that the great legacy of my father is nothing more than a children’s bedtime story.”

Dick reached out and grasped Damian’s hand. “He didn’t used to be this way. Jason’s death—it broke him. Irreparably so. It took me a long time to realize that he truly loved Jason. He was a parent mourning a child, but… But he’s never been able to move on from the deaths of his own parents, so how could he possibly do the same with Jason?” 

“But Todd is alive and well,” Damian was quick to retort. “He’s not a corpse decomposing in the ground.” 

“No, he’s not. He’s out there doing the one thing neither of us have ever managed.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Living his life without Bruce breathing down his neck.” Dick couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of it all. Jason Todd, the Robin Who Died, was the one who’d taken the wings he’d been given and soared higher than them all. “And he’s pretty damned happy about it.”

Damian was silent for a time, thinking. None of what Dick had said was new to him, but given the current situation, it was apparently being looked at under a new lens. “Perhaps I should speak with Todd then, before making any travel plans.” 

The relief of hearing those words was tempered by what Dick said next. “He’s not in town right now. Barbara gave him some…work.”

It left a sour taste in his mouth, knowing that one of his oldest and dearest friends had hired his brother to kill someone. The Birds of Prey were a fearsome collective of female crime-fighters and heroes that did a great deal of good in the world. But there was also a dark side, one where Barbara made the toughest decision of them all and then set about making it happen. 

The Red Hood was one of her black-ops agents, that much Dick had known for a long time. He had the distinct feeling that, given the chance, the young man seated across from him could become another. His morality had always skewed gray rather than the crisp black and white of Batman. Then again, his own had shifted more along those lines too. 

It was pretty telling of how far he’d fallen that this didn’t disturb him as much as it would have five years ago.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Damian said with a sigh. “Though I suppose he needs the money after everything Father put him through recently.”

Dick saw the opening for what it was and ran with it. “How did all that happen? Jason thinks it was in retaliation for what happened to me, but the timing doesn’t quite work out—not with the way the FBI moves.” 

Damian took a sip from his cup and shrugged. “It was another of Father’s attempts to bring him back into the fold. He thought that if everything Todd had worked for came crashing down around him, he’d accept the olive branch Father intended to offer when he hit rock bottom. He was furious when Todd disappeared in the aftermath, then even more so when Barbara refused to help locate him—not that she helps Father all that much these days, as you well know.”

It took a moment for Dick to realize his jaw was practically resting on the table. “You have got to be kidding me. This is Jason. Since when does he ever beg for help? He’s even more stubborn than Bruce.”

“About as often as you do,” Damian answered. “Pennyworth even told Father he was delusional, but it’s not like Father listens to him. Or me,” he added with more than a note of bitterness. 

Dick shifted, frowning as his bad knee twinged in protest. He needed to get going before it locked up more, but he couldn’t leave Damian. Not like this. “Do you have a place to stay?” he asked. Jason wouldn’t like it if he learned his one last safe house was compromised, but these were extenuating circumstances he was fairly sure his brother would understand. “I don’t want you to go back to the manor.”

“I’ve been living out of the penthouse downtown for the last month. I didn’t want to leave without saying anything to you, but Barbara has been annoyingly reticent about your whereabouts.” Damian looked offended by that. 

“That’s because I’m living with Jason in the one place that survived the raid.” 

“I see.” His expression shifted, resigned and weary. “I don’t suppose you would want to stay with me instead?” he asked like he already knew the answer. 

Dick reached for Damian’s wrist, clasping it firmly the way he’d learned from his parents when the three of them flew over the center ring at Haly’s. It was the same grip he’d taught to Jason during the rare times he visited and took him up onto the aerialist equipment. It was the same one he’d taught to Damian in the gym at Titan’s Tower when the little boy was no older than Dick had been when his own parents fell.

It steadied something inside, something that had been swinging wildly back and forth without a net to catch him.

“I can’t,” he said, hating the shuddered look that skittered behind Damian’s green eyes. “I won’t go somewhere that Bruce might walk in at any moment. But, if you want to find a place for us to stay together for however long it takes for Jason to come home, I’m willing to do that much. I’d take you to his place, but I can’t betray his trust, not after everything he’s done for me.”

Damian took hold of Dick’s wrist, fingers wrapping solidly around it, and offered a small smile. “I understand. And I’d like that… A place without Father’s influence sounds utterly delightful.”

The thought of moving in with Damian, even temporarily, didn’t disturb him as much as Dick expected it to. His offer had been made on impulse, just like so many of his decisions over the course of his life. Some had resulted in utter shitshows that would make Jason and Harley laugh if he ever shared them, but this one… It felt right.

And if there was one thing Dick had learned, it was to trust his gut. Very rarely did his instincts prove him wrong.

“Good.” He finished his drink and reached for his crutches. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get going or I’ll be in a world of hurt here soon.”

“How do I get a hold of you when I find a place?” Damian asked, abandoning his cup in favor of standing and offering a steady arm in case Dick needed it in his own attempt to regain his feet. “The last number I have for you is out of service.”

Dick rattled off the number for the burner phone Jason had given him. “It’s prepaid through the end of the month,” he added. 

“Touching.” 

Satisfied that he wasn’t about to fall over, Damian picked up their cups and headed to the trash bin while Dick made his way to the door. A couple of teenage girls entered, not paying any attention to a man on crutches and let it close behind them. 

Rather than waiting on Damian, Dick adjusted his grip on one of the crutches and reached for the door himself. 

It swung open again, this time catching the base of his crutch and sending him staggering as his already precarious balance was knocked off kilter.

“Ohmigod, I’m so sorry!” came a young woman’s voice as she quickly grabbed hold of the crutch to keep it from sliding any further. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to…”

Dick blinked under the onslaught of rapid-fire apologies. The teenage girl in front of him couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen and looked to be going through a Goth phase, what with her black clothing and makeup. Funnily enough, the only bit of color were her bangs, which were dyed a brilliant red that reminded him of Jason’s helmet.

“I’m fine,” he was quick to reassure as he got himself situated. “Really, it’s okay.”

The girl gave him a onceover, her green eyes widening when she spotted the eye-patch. “Are you sure? I swear, my mom is gonna kill me if she finds out I ran into somebody again.”

Dick chuckled lightly. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not about to tell her, is it?” He spotted Damian approaching out of the corner of his good eye, face darkening like a thundercloud. “Seriously though, I’m fine. No harm, no foul.” 

From behind them, another girl called out, “Abby! Come on!” 

Damian was almost on them, his scowl so like Bruce’s that there was no mistaking this was his flesh and blood. 

The girl—Abby—must have taken note because she backed out of the way to hold open the door for Dick. “I really am sorry,” she said again as he hobbled his way out into the muggy afternoon sun. 

She released the door, disappearing inside, but not before Dick caught her ducking neatly under Damian’s outstretched arm as he reached out to catch it. 

The young man glared after her. “How rude. Are you okay, Richard?” 

“I’m fine. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened and I doubt it’ll be the last.” 

“Still. You’re already sore and that can’t have made it any better.” 

Dick bit back a sigh. This was why he didn’t enjoy being around people who’d known him as he once was. They coddled him. “Tell you what… I’ll let you drive me a couple of blocks, how’s that?” 

“Fine.”

 

---

  

It wasn’t until Dick was drying off from his shower that it suddenly struck him what else was familiar about the girl who’d run into him at the coffeeshop. 

The girl—her eyes were the same shade of green that Jason’s took on when he was lost in the throes of the Lazarus Pit. 

Holy crap. 

 

---

 

A week later found Dick back at the same little coffeeshop, pretending to read and sipping an iced tea. Damian was still trying to find a place for them to live temporarily. The fact it was taking even this long was clearly annoying him, but as Dick pointed out a few days ago, things moved a lot slower when trying to avoid the scrutiny of the Bat. 

Meanwhile, this left him with time to stew over his discovery. 

He was fairly certain he’d accidentally run into Jason’s daughter—or rather, she’d run into him. There was no mistaking the green of Abby’s eyes for anything other than what it was—the lurid green of someone intimately acquainted with a Lazarus Pit. It left an indelible mark on a person, as well as their descendants.

Dick had the distinct feeling the girl had never seen the inside of a Pit any more than Damian had, that genetics were what made her eyes their peculiar shade. Damian’s were similar, if not quite that bright.

What was just as fascinating was that Jason’s daughter was much older than he’d first thought. Jason was turning thirty-three next month, so that meant he’d been no older than sixteen when Abby was born, assuming Dick’s estimate of her age was correct. 

At sixteen, Jason was fresh out of the Lazarus Pit and hell-bent on revenge, or so Dick had gleaned over the years. There was a story here, one that he very much wanted to hear. Who was the mother? What had happened to turn Jason’s head? Was she even still in the picture? 

So many questions and he didn’t have a single answer to any of them. 

What was nice—surprising, even—was that he was vested enough to find out the answers. This little mystery was so much more interesting than figuring out where Jason’s drug money went. He would even go out on a limb here and say it was rekindling a fire he’d believed to be extinguished when he hung up his finger-stripes. 

It was a nice feeling, it really was. He hoped it would last.

Outside, the clouds grew darker as a midsummer storm brewed in the distance. The change in barometric pressure brought with it additional aches and pains, telling Dick he really should be heading back to Jason’s instead of sitting here waiting for someone who in all likelihood wouldn’t show up.

The bell above the coffeeshop door jingled, drawing his attention as it always did when someone entered or exited. He wanted it to be Abby, if only to get another look at her and see if she bore any resemblance to Jason besides the eyes. 

But the person who entered wasn’t a teenage Goth girl. In fact, it was another woman who was quite distinct in her own way and one that he knew rather well. 

One with whom he’d had a rather strained relationship since his own shooting even though she was quite possibly the one person in the whole world who could relate to what had happened to him.

Dick watched in silence as Barbara wheeled her way to the counter and placed her order. She looked well, and smartly dressed in a pair of khaki-colored crop pants and a printed blouse that disguised the muscle in her upper body. 

What was she doing here? It was too much of a coincidence for Oracle to randomly appear at a little coffeeshop in Coventry, especially when her main haunts were in Old Town. 

He bit down on his straw, peeved as he worked it out. Barbara knew very well his pride wouldn’t allow him to accept her help, at least directly. He wasn’t an idiot—he knew the money for his sessions with Harley came from her. Jason couldn’t afford it and there was no way either of them would accept such a payment from Bruce, assuming he even went along with it in the first place. Besides, half the fun of having Harley Quinn as his therapist was knowing how much it would piss Bruce off. 

As Barbara made her way over to his little corner, not even pretending to be surprised to see him here, the only conclusion Dick arrived at was that she was here because of Jason. News would be nice. It had been a month since his little brother disappeared to parts unknown.

“Dick,” she said with a bob of her head as she came to a stop and adjusted her wheelchair to slide under the table. 

“Babs,” he replied, taking in his oldest friend.

Up close, he was better able to see through the public façade. She looked tired, though some attempts had been made to hide it. Barbara had never needed much make-up, at least in his opinion, so the fact she wore it today was his first clue. It only happened when she dressed up or was a combination of stressed, not sleeping, and needing to put on a public face. 

They didn’t say anything else until after the barista brought her drink—a large cup of coffee—and left. 

“How are you doing?” Babs finally asked, hands wrapped around the cup as though she needed the warmth. 

“You mean you don’t know everything already?” 

“Not when your therapist is Harley. She doesn’t keep notes, digital or otherwise.” She took a slow sip of coffee, her blue gaze unwavering. “Besides, I’m not Bruce. What happens in that warehouse is between you and her, and no one else.”

Dick didn’t bother concealing his scowl. “You know where we meet.” This didn’t surprise him, not in the slightest. What got him was that she was admitting it. Why? 

“Of course. I make it my business, mostly so that it stays private. You need this, Dick. I refuse to let Bruce find out and take it away from you.”

“And the other part?”

Babs arched a finely sculpted brow. “The other what?” 

“You said mostly. What’s the other reason my therapy is your business?” There was always something else. Always.

“The other reason I learned the location is to make sure you get home safely. You’re borrowing that wreck Jason calls a truck, but you still have to park it a decent distance from the warehouse and I know there are stairs inside. Harley doesn’t linger when she leaves, so I make sure you have assistance available if you need it.”

It clicked who Barbara was referring to. She had eyes and ears everywhere, but there was only one local agent she’d trust with Dick’s secret. “Cassandra,” he said, flatly.

The Black Bat was one of the best field agents to have ever worked with the Birds of Prey. She had many talents, but what made her ideal to shadow a vigilante of Dick’s caliber was her incredible ability to remain utterly silent. He’d had no clue he was being watched when he left that warehouse—and he’d been on the alert each and every time. 

Therapy might be difficult to stomach some nights, but that didn’t erase decades of training and experience in situational awareness. Cassandra was one of the few people in the world who could do it.

Babs nodded and took another sip of her coffee. “Yes. She doesn’t listen in—she just makes sure you arrive and that you get back to the truck.”

Dick shifted in his chair, absorbing it all. A month ago, he’d have been furious at the invasion of his privacy. No one respected his wishes to just be left alone. But he knew now that he’d been wrong to close himself off like he had. It was thanks to the woman across from him that Jason had come sauntering down that pier when he had. 

The two of them might have been in cahoots—hell, they still were—but living with Jason had been good for him. Honestly, he hoped it had been good for his brother too. They’d had a chance to connect as adults, as equals, which was a damned sight better than how things had been while they were both under Bruce’s thumb. 

Jason had moved on and made something of himself. It was…inspiring.

Although, Dick could already hear his brothers, Babs, and even Harley saying that he’d done exactly that too. Nightwing was a hero and an inspiration to many. 

Maybe, just maybe, he’d have a chance to be that again.

Wow, Harley would be proud of him. She’d said he needed to work on thinking positively for a change.

Scrubbing the side of his face, Dick huffed a tired chuckle. “I suppose that’s better than the alternative,” he offered in lieu of a thank you. “There are more days than I care to acknowledge where even the steps into Jason’s apartment building are more than I can handle.” 

“I’m sure,” Barbara replied, her voice carefully neutral, which gave away the intent behind what she said next. “Have you considered returning to physical therapy?” 

He wasn’t surprised this was coming. He really wasn’t. “I’ve been starting to, but honestly? I really didn’t like who I was working with before—though I think part of that was probably because Bruce made the decisions about everything.” 

Just like he always did.

Babs nodded. “I had a feeling that was the case.” She reached into her small purse and retrieved a business card that she handed over to him. “When you’re ready, give this place a call and tell them you’re being referred to Dana Winters. I worked with her about three years ago for that issue I was having with my hip, and she was incredible—and a genuinely good person.” 

Dick distantly remembered her mentioning that—something to do with the way she’d been sitting. “Thank you,” he said and slid his wallet from his pocket to put the card away. He wasn’t ready to use it, not yet. But unlike the Dick Grayson of just weeks before, he was willing to accept it now.

“Are you planning to leave anytime soon?” Barbara asked, pointedly glancing outside where the wind had picked up and fat drops of rain were starting to spatter on the window.

“Not anymore. I’m depressed, not stupid.”

“Is there a particular reason you come to this coffeeshop all the time? There are two that are much closer to Jason’s apartment.” 

Dick cast her a wry look. “You mean the apartment no one is supposed to know about?” 

“The only ones who don’t know are Bruce and Damian,” Barbara said with a scoff. “Jason is utterly fantastic at flying under Bruce’s radar until suddenly he’s not, and that’s when things tend to go to hell.” 

Dick had to laugh at this because it was just so very true. But Jason had a damned good reason to keep this particular place a secret. The real question was, did Babs know it too? Considering her propensity for nosiness, the answer was yes, along with all kinds of additional details his brother hadn’t had the time to share before he’d been yanked away.

His curiosity was going to be the death of him one day, he just knew it. 

For now, he bit his tongue. Unless Barbara let something slip, he would play ignorant.

“Then it’s better that I get out of there sooner than later,” Dick replied. “The last thing I need is Jason disowning me for giving away his one last safe space to the world’s greatest asshole.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” Babs raised her cup in a mock toast. “If you don’t mind waiting, I can give you a ride when my business here is over. I do know where the building is, so Jason can’t scream at you about that.”

“Thanks.” Dick took a sip of his iced tea. “So what did bring you out here, aside from my oh-so-uncharming company?” 

“An appointment with an accountant, actually.” Barbara removed her glasses and held them in front of her face, apparently finding a smudge that needed to be wiped away. Those always drove her nuts. “I think the accounting firm I’m using for my company is up to something, so I thought having a second set of eyes would be a good thing.” 

Dick chuckled wryly. “They must be from Gotham, then.” 

“It takes one to catch one,” Babs agreed and put her glasses back on. “In fact, I think that might be him now.”

A harried looking young man walked into the coffeeshop, windblown and more than a little wet even with a blazer held over his head. Black hair fell across his forehead and he wiped it back revealing a pair of dark-framed glasses. He was dressed business casual, with a shirt, tie, and a vest of all things, paired with jeans. A messenger bag was slung over one shoulder, also wet from the rain now starting to pour outside, a staccato beat in the background.

The man looked around while righting his blazer, then headed in the direction of Dick’s table. Barbara wasn’t exactly a public figure anymore, but her picture was on her company website—that and her red hair always stood out in a room. 

“Ms. Gordon?” the man asked, holding out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Tim Drake.”

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed the different POV! I have so many snippets of Dick and Harley's therapy sessions written. When this fic is over, I think I might write some ficlets. There's way too much in this AU that is begging to be explored.

Chapter 14: On the Edge of Something...

Notes:

I wasn't planning to post this until around New Year's, but an absolutely lovely anon left me the most wonderful ask over on Tumblr that I'm still riding the warm fuzzies from several days later.

Hope you enjoy the start of Part Two!

There was something wrong with him. 

Very wrong. 

Tim cut through the water like a knife, each stroke and kick honed by years of practice. Swimming had always been a refuge for him. From the moment Dana first guided him into the pool to start his rehabilitation after the accident that took his parents’ lives and severely injured him, he’d taken to it like a duck to water.

The analogy wasn’t lost on him. 

But while his body was in perfect harmony, his mind was pure and utter chaos—and it was all because of one man. 

One man who’d taken Tim’s carefully cultivated life and turned it upside down. 

What annoyed him the most was that if Jason had just kept his damned helmet on, then he wouldn’t be feeling this way.

At all. Period. End of story. 

There was a reason why Tim never kissed his partners. The intimacy inherent in the gesture—it wasn’t him. It just wasn’t. He blew men in the showers at the gym because he got off on the risk and the size of their dicks, not because he wanted to be cuddled after. 

But he was digressing. 

The first kiss between him and Jason—the memory of it was enough to make Tim’s toes curl, even though weeks had passed during which he’d seen neither hide nor hair of the man. But this wasn’t what kept him up at night. It wasn’t what kept Tim from finding his usual form of release while here at the gym. 

No, it was their last kiss. The one that kept him awake until the wee hours of the morning, the one that featured in nearly every fantasy he had while he fucked himself with his toys and panted Jason’s name. 

He knew full well what it meant. 

That Jason—the Red Hood—was interested in something more than just their little arrangement.

And Tim… Tim wasn’t sure what the hell he wanted besides for the man to return safely to Gotham. The worst thing was—he genuinely missed him, which seriously, what the fuck? They’d hardly known each other a month, so how could he possibly be missing him? 

This was why Tim didn’t kiss people on the mouth. It made his brain start reading into every nuance, every gesture, every word they’d shared and wonder if, perhaps, this person was worth the effort of a relationship.

Because make no mistake, Jason was definitely after a relationship of some sort with him. A relationship. If there was one word his friends would use to describe him, it would almost unanimously be commitment-phobe. Hell, there was probably a picture of him beside the definition in the dictionary. 

Tim Drake did not do relationships. Just like he didn’t kiss people higher than their necks.

Here was the thing—since when was it a smart idea to enter a relationship with a crime lord? It wasn’t. It just wasn’t and by doing so, Tim’s lifespan would significantly shorten. It was already shorter than most because he lived in Gotham, but this was beside the point. No matter how many soft looks Jason cast his way, how much good food he made for him, how delicious his cock felt as it carved a path inside his body, it was a bad idea.

(But damn, did it feel so right.) 

Tim shied away from the thought because anything more meant feelings that would spiral out of control. When he loved, he loved deeply, passionately, and probably more than a little unhealthily.

It stemmed from his childhood, as did most things that formed people into the adults they became. Well-to-do as his parents were, he was often on display. The perfect son, the perfect heir. Always told where to go and how to dress. His early education was the best money could buy and his extracurricular activities were carefully chosen based on what his parents believed would be the most beneficial rather than any interest of Tim’s. 

He craved love and affection and clung to whoever offered him even a taste. 

Small wonder he turned out as he did, really. It had taken one singularly unhealthy relationship in college to learn his lesson—never let the other person take control of him or his life.

Everything he did, it was about control. 

And Jason, he…he made him lose that hard-earned control. 

Tim reached the pool wall and neatly flipped and turned in the water, then resumed his even strokes. 

Losing control wasn’t an option. It simply wasn’t. He was the one in charge here and it didn’t matter how much he wanted to be pinned down by Jason and fucked to within an inch of his life. 

It was time to take back his control. All he needed was some courage to get the balls to do it. And he knew exactly where and when to make that happen. 

His birthday party tomorrow night. If turning thirty wasn’t an excuse to get drunk with his friends, then he didn’t know what was.

 

---

 

“… And that’s how I managed to get my old boss fired on my last day at the office,” Tim finished his tale with a flourish.

Around the table, his friends laughed.

“Oh man, that’s hilarious,” said Tam, wiping a tear from her eye. Her hand came back clean with nary a smudge of her still-perfect eyeliner. “I always thought he was a moron.” 

She would know, considering she was being groomed for the role of Chief Operating Officer at Wayne Enterprises. Tim’s old employer was the independent accounting firm charged with making sure WE’s accounts were all above-board. He’d taken part in the annual audit for the last four years, which was how they’d met. 

“Yeah, well, apparently ass-kissing didn’t save his ass this time.” Tim shrugged and took another drink from the tall mug containing what might possibly be his new favorite craft beer.

Across the table, Bernard, his ex who still wanted to be friends with him, snorted and tried to cover it up with a wave of his hand. “And this is why I never got into the corporate world. It’s cutthroat.”

“Amen to that.” Beside Tim, Ives—his best friend since junior high school—raised his glass in a mock salute. “I will gladly stick to managing my comic shop.” 

“Speaking of comics, did my order arrive yet?” Zoanne—she and Tim had become great friends in high school—asked, peering around from Tim’s left at the still-scrawny redhead. “I really want to finish Fables before I’m stuck in intern hell again.” 

“I still can’t believe I managed to convince you to read that,” Tam said. 

“It’s a nice break from my research,” Zoanne replied with a shrug. “And a computer screen.” 

As his friends chatted around him, Tim sat back and enjoyed his beer, as well as the company. His thirtieth birthday was a good excuse to get everyone together—and to drink. Liquid courage and all that, which he desperately needed if he was going to pull off his little plan later tonight. 

He hadn’t been to a gay club since he moved back to Gotham five years ago and while thirty was—in his opinion—too old to actually dance with anyone, there was always the bar where he could nurse a drink and reconsider his life choices. 

Finishing his beer, Tim eyed the tall glass and debated if he wanted another. He was already feeling the effects, lightweight as he was. But the beer buzz never lasted long unless he kept it up, which he needed to do if he wanted to go through with his plans later. 

Besides, if he stayed sober, he might do something stupid—like convince himself that he should just take the easy way out tonight and fuck Bernard instead. That sounded very much like something sober Tim would talk himself into while in his current frustrated state of avoiding a relationship with Jason. 

Right, and that was going so well too. Not even the beer could chase those thoughts away.

Well, there was one way to solve that problem. 

Catching the waiter’s eye, Tim returned his attention to his friends. “Who wants another round?”

 

---

 

Four rounds later—or rather, it was four for him because some people had to work the next day—Tim waited outside the brewery while Bernard made sure Zoanne’s Uber driver wasn’t a total creep before letting her inside the car. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if his friend decided otherwise. About all he was good for right now was flopping on them like a limp noodle.

So instead, he propped up the wall and fumbled with his phone, checking the status of his own ride. Bernard’s needed to get here quick. He wasn’t sure if he could lie convincingly about going home while this drunk. 

“You okay there, Tim?”

Tim blinked owlishly at Bernard. “Yeah,” he said after a long moment. “Just enjoying the buzz.”

This made the man laugh. “I think you waved bye-bye to the buzzed stage two rounds ago. I figured you would have a couple of beers tonight, but wow. You really put them away.” He leaned against the wall beside him. 

Under the streetlights, Bernard looked so wholesome and pretty. He still had the boyish good looks that had served him well in high school and his smiles were always genuine, at least around Tim. He was quick, smart, and able to keep up with Tim’s often sharp wit, which was always appealing. They’d worked so well together—until Tim fucked up. 

In one of his more self-destructive moments, he’d done exactly what he was about to do tonight—gone out to a club where he got drunk and fucked the first guy who looked like he could bench-press him.

Come to think of it, the guy in his hazy memory kind of reminded him of Jason… If Jason had bleach blonde hair spiked up in a way that screamed the nineties. 

A car pulled up to the curb, with another one almost immediately behind it. 

Tim offered a weak smile. It was now or never. “Guess those are our rides.”

“I guess so.” An arm draped across his shoulders and pulled him into a loose hug. “Happy birthday, Tim. Thanks for inviting me out—and for footing the bill even though you really didn’t have to.”

“Trust fund baby, remember?”

“Right.” Bernard hugged him one more time, then guided him toward one of the cars. “Think you can text me when you get home, just so I know you didn’t break your neck on those front stairs?”

Tim chuckled. “A guy slips on those things one time.”

“That was ice, not beer.” Bernard opened the car door for him and watched as Tim settled himself inside. “Sleep well, okay?”

“I will.”

Just not right away. He still had plans for tonight that involved very little sleeping and a lot of railings.

 

---

 

The bass pulsed through Tim’s veins like a second heartbeat as he wove and stumbled his way across the edge of the dance floor to the bar at the back of the club. His buzz had only intensified during the ride here, so he doubted it would take more than a single shot and a few come hither stares to get him what he wanted. 

He wasn’t quite a twink anymore, but he was still pretty, dammit. 

At the bar, he ordered a shot of overpriced whiskey and paid cash. It was rare he drank the stuff, but the burn should help clear his mind enough to start prowling for prospective hunks of meat with big sticks. 

With a deft movement that belied his current state, Tim knocked back the glass. It was just as horrible as he expected and his eyes watered as he tried not to gag. Unfortunately, the after-effects weren’t what he’d hoped for as the brain fog of true drunkenness settled in.

Dammit. Maybe he should have another. Second time was the charm, right? Or was it the third?

Tim gestured for another and meticulously plucked another couple of bills from the money clip he’d had the forethought to bring tonight instead of his wallet. 

The bartender swapped the cash for another shot glass and walked away. He was cute, and had some very nice arms, but he wasn’t what Tim was looking for. 

What he wanted was someone who could fold him in half and use him like a fuck toy. Jason could do that. Would he do it as himself though or as the Red Hood?

The Red Hood sounded more fun. He’d manhandle Tim into whatever position he wanted and then drop him on that cock…

In his pants, Tim’s dick twitched. He looked down and glared. “We are not jerking off to Jason tonight, got it? Someone else is gonna fuck us stupid.”

It dawned on him just how ridiculous he sounded, standing there at the bar talking to his dick. Wow, he must be drunk. 

Good. After all the effort he’d gone through to get this shit-faced, it was nice to see it was paying off. 

He leaned against the bar and cast his gaze out over the dance floor. Maybe it was the lighting or maybe it was his slightly blurred vision, but the only hunks of meat that met his extremely high standards were the bouncers. 

What the fuck? Did he come on the wrong night? It was just his luck, seriously. 

“Tim.”

What? Huh? No one here knew his name. Or they shouldn’t. He wasn’t even carded when he entered, which was just insulting. He’d turned thirty, not forty. 

Tim turned and stared, jaw dropping at the sight of Bernard standing just out of reach. To say he blue-screened was an understatement. He’d been caught red-handed by the one person who might be able to talk some sense into him. 

Maybe if he turned around and pretended he didn’t see his ex, then he’d just go away.

Trying to do that turned out to be impossible when Bernard closed the distance between them and took hold of Tim’s shoulder. “Tim, you need to stop.”

“No, I don’t.” Tim jerked his arm like a mulish child. “I know what I’m doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s my birthday.” Tim picked up the shot he’d ordered from the counter and held it up in a mock salute. “And I want to get railed.”

Bernard looked like he wanted to snatch the glass and dump the contents on Tim’s head. To say he was unamused was an understatement. “Do you have any idea how drunk you are right now?”

“That,” Tim stumbled as he tried to raise the glass to his lips and spilled half the cheap-ass whiskey on his shirt, but he didn’t stop talking, “is the point.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Tim nodded firmly and squinted at the glass to make sure it stopped moving on him. “If I wasn’t drunk, then I couldn’t do this. I’ve talked me out of it many times now.”

Bernard reached for the tumbler and held it steady, only to swipe it away and finish it for him. Wow, rude. “You should listen to sober you. And to me. You don’t want to have sex here in some filthy bathroom or be put in a glory hole in some backroom.”

Tim gaped. He hadn’t even thought about a glory hole! Oh, that might solve all kinds of problems. “Do you think they have one here?” he asked, more than a little eagerly.

It was a long moment before Bernard smiled brightly and held out his hand. “If you come with me, we can find out.”

Tim took it like an eager little puppy and let himself be led across the club. They skirted the dance floor and some private booths where people looked like they were having a great time. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to get fucked in the most raw and filthy way possible because then he might—just might —forget he was ever fucked by the Red Hood.

His thoughts were filled by the possibilities, so he didn’t notice Bernard had led him straight outside until everything around him quieted to the chatter of people waiting in line and the traffic on the street.

That was when he started to struggle. “No!” Tim whined and tugged at the hand Bernard refused to let go. “I don’t wanna go home! I wanna get fucked.”

“Tim,” Bernard warned, not unlike a parent scolding a recalcitrant child. “If you don’t want to go home, then come home with me. I’ll even fuck you if that’s what you really want.”

It wasn’t, not by a longshot. Bernard had a nice dick, but it wasn’t anything like Jason’s. Over the last several weeks, there were more times than Tim cared to admit where he wished he had one of those clone-a-willy kits and had the foresight to make a cast of Jason’s cock. He was spoiled for life. There was no other cock for him. 

He could feel his face crumble at the thought and tears stung at his eyes. He’d never be able to get off with another guy again—he just knew it. 

“Tim?” Bernard reached out gently and brushed Tim’s bangs back. “We don’t have to fuck if you don’t want to. I just want to get you away from here.”

There were so many things Tim wanted to say to that, but the only one that made it past his lips was, “Okay.” 

 

---

 

The next morning, Tim woke up slowly with his head pounding and his mouth feeling like something had died inside it. At least, he thought it was morning. It could be afternoon for all he knew.

Good thing he’d cleared his schedule for today. He’d pay for it tomorrow, but that was a problem for future Tim and his already overbooked calendar. 

With a pained sigh, he blinked his eyes open. 

The room was dim, but not completely dark, that much he could make out. Tim had no memory of what happened to his glasses, so he was pretty much running blind here. Gingerly, he rolled over, not wanting the throbbing in his head to make its way farther south. 

There was a nightstand beside the bed. A digital clock sat on it, the numbers illuminating the area with a blue light. Squinting, he made out two ones, what was possibly a three, and maybe a six. The lack of a little dot off to the side indicated it was still morning.

Okay, that was good.

Since the first movement hadn’t made him sick, Tim took a chance on sitting up. The world lurched and the bedsheet fell away, revealing he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Once his head stopped rocking, a quick hand under the rest of the sheet indicated he wasn’t wearing his boxers either. 

Flashes of last night started to replay as his brain came back online. 

His friends. Beer. The club. Bernard appearing out of nowhere and taking him home… 

Shit. 

They’d had sex. Didn’t they?

Tim was naked, but it wasn’t like Bernard hadn’t seen him without clothes on before, so that didn’t mean anything. At least, he was pretty sure. Gingerly, he reached behind his balls and quested a little further back to find—nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Either Bernard had cleaned him up really good or they hadn’t had sex at all. 

He honestly wasn’t sure how to feel about that considering what his mission had been the night before. For now, he decided not to feel anything. Numbness was the best medicine here.

On the bright side, Tim was pretty sure he knew where his glasses were. 

He found them folded up on the nightstand beside the clock and put them on. As the world came back into focus, the bedroom door opened and Bernard walked in. 

Dammit. So much for the hope that the other man had work this morning and had left him to sleep it off. 

“Good morning,” Bernard said, voice pitched low. “How’s the head?”

“Still attached,” Tim muttered. “Unfortunately.”

“I’ve never seen you drink like that before.” The man took a seat on the side of his bed and leaned over to turn on a small lamp on the nightstand. The light wasn’t bright, but Tim hissed all the same, which had Bernard chuckling as he handed over a bottle of cold Gatorade. “Here, I figured you’d want this.” 

What Tim really wanted was the toilet. His bladder was screaming at him. “Gimme a minute.” Carefully, he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom.

The world lurched enough that by the time he got there, his stomach was a goner. Vomiting was the worst thing ever as far as he was concerned, but damn if it didn’t help. 

He leaned against the tub and stared at the toilet he’d just worshiped. The taste of death was even stronger now, but since he wasn’t actively in the process of dying, it would go away with time—and some watered-down mouthwash. Of course, the strong mint flavor was going to pair fantastically with the lemon-lime Gatorade. 

Ugh, there were so many decisions he was regretting right now. At least if he’d fucked a stranger, they wouldn’t be lying in wait to pounce on him with a game of Fifty Questions while he was still hungover.

Time to suck it up and deal with the consequences.  

He cleaned up and relieved himself, then returned to the bedroom where Bernard was still seated on the bed, waiting. 

Bernard tossed him a clean pair of boxers. “We need to talk,” he said. 

“Do we?” Tim hedged as he shook out the fabric and gingerly leaned over to put them on.

“Yeah, we do.” Bernard bit his lip, a sure sign he felt like he was walking on thin ice, but he still handed over the Gatorade when Tim sat beside him. “Who’s Jason?”

Tim nearly dropped the bottle. “Who?” he asked, trying and failing to hide his fumble. 

“You heard me. You said his name and cried last night before finally falling asleep.” 

“I did not.” Fuck, did he? It wasn’t like he remembered everything that had happened last night. He took a sip from the sports drink to try and buy some time. It tasted precisely as awful as he thought it would be. 

“Tim,” Bernard said warningly. “I’ve known you for a long time. I have never seen you that drunk before. I’ve also never seen you that unconcerned for your own safety. You got excited about getting put in a fucking glory hole!”

That caught his attention. “I did what?” Tim asked, trying and failing to remember anything about that. 

“Yeah, you did.” Bernard shook his head. “If I had to guess, you were trying to self-destruct last night and it had nothing to do with you turning thirty. So what’s going on?” 

“Nothing, I just…”  

“Just what?” Bernard placed a hand over Tim’s and squeezed lightly. “You’re going to stay here until you spill the beans. I hid your clothes and your phone too.” 

“Jerk,” Tim muttered, but there was no heat to it, though by all rights he should be mad. But it was also Bernard, and he had a very difficult time getting truly upset with his ex-boyfriend. Annoyed and frustrated, yes. But mad? No.

Not when it sounded like he’d swept in like a knight in shining armor and saved his ass from something monumentally stupid.

Literally. 

He took another swig from the bottle, this one slightly better even with the lingering minty fresh taste from the mouthwash. “I just… I just can’t get Jason out of my head,” Tim said in a rush. If he paused, the words would dry up, he just knew it. “And I’ve been trying. But every time I go to the gym for a swim, nothing else interests me. I’ll see cute guys at lunch or at a coffee shop, guys I wouldn’t usually hesitate to flirt with, and there’s nothing. All I can think about is him.” 

“So last night was what? An attempt to fuck him out of your head?” Bernard asked, his blue gaze searching as much as his words were.  

Tim sighed and flopped back on the bed, the cold bottle resting on his stomach. Sweat glistened down the sides, reminding him that he very much needed a shower after last night. “Yeah,” he said after a long moment. “I didn’t think you’d follow me.”

Bernard looked down at him and shook his head, pity in his eyes. “Your ride didn’t go in the direction it should have if you were going home. I had my driver follow you, just in case. And now I’m really glad I trusted my gut.”

“Yeah, well, you’re an investigative reporter. That’s what you do.” Fortunately or unfortunately, Tim still wasn’t sure. He was tired and just numb from everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.

“It is what I do,” Bernard agreed. He reached for Tim’s free hand and gave it a squeeze. “You know you have a problem, right?” 

He did. His problem’s name was Jason, last name still unknown, who was also in parts unknown with a who-the-fuck-even-knew return date. 

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Jason,” Bernard said, firm and expectant. “Seriously, I've never seen you this hung up on a guy before—not even when you were with me.”

Tim wanted to crawl back under the covers and avoid this conversation forever. But Bernard knew him too well, which was precisely why he'd confiscated his phone and hidden his clothes. Unless Tim wanted to streak his way home, he was stuck.  

“…We met about three or four months ago,” he found himself saying. “He saved my life.”

No need to mention it was his smart mouth that had gotten him into that situation in the first place.  

Bernard's eyes widened. “What? What happened?” 

“Wrong place at the wrong time,” Tim offered. “I was doing one of my pro bono jobs in the Bowery and, well, one thing led to another and I had a gun in my face.”  

“Was this when you broke your cheekbone?” Bernard interrupted.  

“Yeah. How'd you know?” Tim was pretty sure he'd never mentioned it to him. It wasn't like they saw each other regularly and it was easy to avoid certain topics in texts. 

“Ives told me.” Bernard frowned. “So this Jason guy was the one who saved your ass that night?” 

“He was.” 

“Are you sure this isn't some kind of savior complex? I mean, that was a really scary thing to have happen and—” 

“Absolutely not.” Tim’s eyes flashed as he looked up. “It's nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” 

“It's…” It was complicated didn't even begin to describe the situation. “He frustrates the shit out of me. Drives me up the damned wall to the point where I either want to kick his ass or fuck him against said wall. But then he’ll give me this look like I'm the most precious person in the world and I just…”  

That was the expression on Jason's face the last time he'd seen him. So raw and open and Tim was under no impression that he wasn’t mirroring it right back at him. He squeezed his eyes closed as tears suddenly pricked at the corners. 

All he wanted was confirmation Jason was still alive, wherever he was. Was that too much to ask for? 

“Where was he last night?” Bernard asked, gently as he apparently picked up on the fact this was a sore subject. 

“Out of town for work,” Tim said once he collected himself enough to come up with a convincing enough lie. “He’s with some sort of private security firm and has been on a long-term assignment for about five weeks now. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since he left.” 

There, that sounded good. It was even kind of true, if you twisted it around and squinted a bit. 

“I hate to play devil’s advocate here, but are you sure that’s what he’s doing?” Bernard’s expression was full of concern and worry.

Tim nodded, or tried to since he was still lying flat on the bed. “I am.” 

There was no mistaking the pain in Jason’s eyes when they parted. 

He sighed and handed over the Gatorade so he could remove his glasses and wipe his eyes. “I’m worried about him,” he admitted. “I knew when he left that he’d be completely out of contact, but… I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.”

There, he said it. 

“Oh my god, did Tim Drake just admit to a feeling?” Bernard teased, trying to lighten the mood. 

Tim accepted it like the lifeline it was. “Yeah, I did.” He shot a glare at the man. “I’m not so emotionally constipated I don’t recognize them for what they are.” 

“No, you just run away as fast as you can and hope they don’t catch up to you.”

“Fair, but here’s another one for you. I think I might actually be in love with him.” 

Much to his surprise, the world didn’t end with his admission. Which was a shame because he kind of expected it to. 

Him? In love? 

Impossible. 

Was it?

 

Notes:

Oh boy. Tim really hit rock bottom here, didn't he? He even admitted to FEELINGS.

Chapter 15: Honey, I'm Home

Notes:

As promised from over on Tumblr, have a new chapter for the new year! I'm hoping to update regularly again--probably every 4-6 weeks. Fingers crossed!

Jason shifted in the comfortably padded passenger seat, reclining as far as it could go. There was a bed at the back of the small jet, which was tempting—so very tempting—but he had absolutely zero doubts that if he were to go completely horizontal, it would be sometime next week before he woke up again. 

Exhausted didn’t even begin to describe the bone-deep weariness that seeped through every ounce of his being. 

Thank fuck the Birds of Prey traveled in style because he genuinely wasn’t sure what would have happened if he’d had to travel like a normal person between Buenos Aires and New York. 

The last few months had been the most challenging he’d experienced in a long time. Weeks of careful planning, of blending in and living his cover story all so he could get close enough to his targets. It was times like these that Jason wanted to nominate Alfred for sainthood—he’d never have made it without the lessons learned from the old thespian during his Robin days. 

What was worse, what kept him up at night and gnawed at his gut, was the near-constant fear hovering over his shoulder that he’d be caught and taken out himself. If he was lucky, his corpse might be dumped in some alley where maybe some kind soul would find him and report his body to the police. Maybe it would even be in good enough condition a fingerprint could be lifted or a DNA sample pulled. He wasn’t in any database, but a search would ping Oracle and reveal his final moments. 

In the past, it hadn’t bothered him, but this particular job made the fear take root and burrow its way deep in his heart. As he’d stepped onto the plane to return home, Jason knew he’d never take another job like this again. His baby girl meant far too much to him. 

He was a shit dad, there was no mistaking that, but at least as the Red Hood he could do something to make Gotham a better place to raise a family—a better place for his own family. His adage of controlling crime instead of trying to stop it made so much more sense than Bruce’s flawed belief system. Human nature was what it was—there were always going to be those who thought they could con or fight the system. The zealots who countered that the system was inherently flawed to begin with and needed to be rebuilt—well, they weren’t wrong either.

But even in a new system, human nature would take over. 

And someone like the Red Hood would be needed to keep them in line.

Jason sighed and cracked open an eye as the jet shuddered in some sudden turbulence. He must be tired if he was getting all maudlin like this. If he were being honest with himself, the last thing he wanted to do was put on his hood when he returned home. All he wanted was sleep and to see his daughter. Her seventeenth birthday was just a few short weeks away in early October and he already had plans to spoil her rotten, even if it meant Steph screeching in his ear. 

At least he wasn’t dumb enough to get her a puppy. Or maybe he should because it would keep his baby girl occupied and her nose out of his business, whenever he decided to put the hood on again. 

Because he would, eventually.

A small chime pinged overhead as the intercom switched on. “You awake back there, handsome?” asked Zinda. The famous aviator was known for her skills in a cockpit, as well as being a crack shot with a gun. Jason could attest to her skills—they’d gone drinking one night after a previous mission and set up some targets. Not only had he lost, but he’d also been drunk under the table. 

Lady Blackhawk sure knew how to put away the booze.

Jason rolled onto his back and gazed vacantly at the ceiling where the intercom was. “Yeah. Why?” 

“I’m starting our descent into Metropolis. We’ll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes.” 

“Metropolis?” 

“Yeah, I know.” Zinda sounded apologetic. “After all you’ve been through, you must want your own bed pretty bad.” 

Truer words had never been spoken. “You can say that again.”

“Roger that. Now get your seat up and buckle in. I’m gonna try and beat this storm.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Zinda proved why she was one of the best in the business as she landed amidst sheets of rain and a strong wind that even Superman would blink twice at. She might not have won the race against the storm, but she wasn’t letting a little thing like the weather stop her. 

Jason didn’t bother with getting up until the plane rolled to a complete stop. The jet might be wide enough for Barbie to wheel her way around with ease, but that didn’t mean it was built for people of his height. Stretching was a bitch, especially since he had a lovely new cut along his ribs that would add a new scar to the roadmap that was his body. 

He picked up the lone backpack that was the entirety of his luggage and made his way across the cabin. “Can I unlock the hatch?” he called out. 

“Sure, if you want to get wet!” Zinda said brightly as she exited the cockpit. Even after all the years Jason had known her, she still wore the same black skirt and leather jacket, her blonde curls only somewhat contained by a black cap emblazoned with the Blackhawk crest. Her only concession to age was lowering her hemline a few inches. “The car with the boss lady will be here in a minute.” 

“Babs is picking me up?”

Zinda shrugged. “It’s not like she doesn’t know how to drive.” 

That was fair. Jason just wished he now didn’t have to sit through the two hour drive between Metropolis and Gotham—though he was pretty sure he knew why Barbara had arranged it this way.

They’d be doing his debrief in the car. 

Fun.

 

---

 

Jason made sure to show off a jaw-cracking yawn as he buckled into the passenger seat of the black SUV Barbara rolled up in. 

“Your exhaustion is duly noted,” she said with a quirk to her lips. “I’ve got hot water in a thermos and some Alfred-approved teas in the backseat.” 

“Has there ever been coffee in that thermos?” If there was one thing he hated, it was hot water laced with the taste of coffee. Yuck.

“No, it’s as pure as the winter snow.” 

“Then I accept your offering.” Jason reclined the seat and twisted around to find the makeshift tea set while Barbara started driving. “Before we have our little chat, tell me what’s been going on at home. It’s been three months since I’ve heard a damned thing.” 

“Everyone is still alive,” she answered, amusement flashing in her eyes. 

“Gee, that’s helpful.”

“Sorry, it’s just fun to tease you.” Barbara paused to make a left turn out of the airport and onto the expressway ramp. “Abby and Stephanie are doing well. Your daughter has been sporting red bangs since you left.”

“Do I even want to know how you know this?” Jason wasn’t quite expecting this level of detail about his daughter, though it really shouldn’t be surprising considering who was driving the SUV. 

Oracle knew all.

“Steph and I have lunch together every couple of weeks.”

Jason nearly spilled the water he’d just poured into the lid of the thermos. “You what?” 

“We have lunch together.” Barbara’s tone was distinctly amused. “She’s been worried about you.” 

“That’s a first.” Steph had made her thoughts on his line of work clear more than once. 

“To be fair, I think her worry stems more from how Abby has been behaving since you left. She’s been in quite the funk and it’s apparently impacting her grades at school.” 

Jason finished sorting his tea, absorbing that bit of news. Seeing his ugly mug should be enough to turn things around. If not, then he’d cross that bridge with Steph when they got to it. Grades didn’t mean shit if his daughter wasn’t happy. “Before we go any further, I think you should know that I’ve decided—” 

“—Not to send you out on long term assignments like this again?” Barbara finished for him without even missing a beat. “I decided the same thing too.” 

Well then. That was one thing he didn’t have to worry about anymore. “Good. So what’s Dickwad been up to? He still seeing Harley?” 

“Dick moved in with Damian about six weeks ago and yes, he’s still seeing Harley weekly.” 

“What the hell?” Jason blinked, thinking perhaps he’d misheard. “Damian?”

Barbara nodded. “Yep. The kid finally saw the light and moved out of the Manor. He wants to leave Gotham entirely, but Dick talked him into staying so he could have a chat with you.”

“Me?” The statement took Jason aback. What the hell did the Demon Brat of Gotham want to talk to him about? 

“Yes, you. If I had to guess, I think Dick is trying to set you up with a partner.” Barbara sounded more than a little amused by this. 

This was coming way too fast and he did not have the right number of brain cells firing to process any of it. “Yeah, we’ll see about that,” was what he offered instead.

“Might be good for you—and Damian,” Barbara replied. “His moral compass has always aligned closely to yours. Besides…” She cast him a glance that a well-timed streetlight allowed him to see. “You need the help, if you’re going to rebuild. Tim is good, but Gotham’s streets will eat him alive.”

Jason’s head snapped up. He’d forgotten Barbara knew about Tim.

Tim, whose blue eyes and oh-so-fuckable mouth he’d been trying his hardest not to think about for the last three months. What he planned to do to his number cruncher when he got back to Gotham had fueled his spank bank, and boy oh boy, did he have some ideas . 

There was a kink talk coming up in his very near future, preferably after a few rounds of Tim bouncing on his dick.

Barbara kept going. “Not that I don’t think he couldn’t hold his own if he were to receive some training… But with that mouth of his, that’s what will wind up getting him in trouble.” 

No arguments there.

“Too late for that. His mouth is how we met in the first place.” Jason took a sip of tea, a lovely chai mix that was perfect for a stormy night like this. Then his brain caught up with Barbara’s words and he turned to stare. “How on earth do you know that?”

“I hired him,” came the answer he least expected. What the shit? “You know I run a legitimate business, but with everything I have going on, I used a third-party accounting company I vetted six ways to Sunday before even hiring them.”

It didn’t take a detective to see where this was going. “And they shanked you,” Jason said with a smirk.

The all-seeing Oracle didn’t seem too happy. “The accountant I was working with retired and her replacement seemed competent enough… Until my software caught some discrepancies.”

“I thought you said they did all the number crunching for you?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have fail-safes in place for when I get busy.” Barbara’s hands tightened briefly on the wheel before relaxing. “Anyway, I hired Tim as a second set of eyes. I figured since he fucked you over and is now trying reverse the damage, he has the right credentials.” 

This was all coming too fast. Jason really wished he’d taken that nap on the plane now. Under different circumstances, he’d be furious about his number cruncher being poached like this. But right now, all the energy he could muster was involved with holding his cup and not spilling hot tea over himself. Besides, Barbie’s logic was impeccable—Tim really was the best at what he did. 

“So did he? Unfuck it for you, that is,” he asked instead of vocalizing any of his other thoughts. 

Barbara’s grin was downright vicious. “He did and wrapped up everything I need to sue with a nice pretty bow. That guy is good.”

“Damn right he is.” While he was pleased Tim had done a good job for Babs, she was still mostly on the opposite side of the fence from where Jason roamed. He was suspicious by nature when it came to anything offered by the woman beside him, even if it came with a hefty paycheck. What plans did she have for Tim—and by extension, him? 

Whatever Barbara was up to, he had to make sure he had a better counteroffer prepared ahead of time. After all, he had no plans to share his number cruncher. Not with Babs, and not with anyone. 

 

---

 

Jason had fallen into a doze when the SUV came to a stop outside a nondescript apartment building. The rain was still falling, which was why it took a moment to realize where he was.

Abby and Stephanie lived here. 

“I thought you’d want to stop by here first,” Barbara said, resting her hands lightly on the steering wheel. “There’s another backpack behind your seat with a change of clothes and some toiletries so you can stay the night.” 

“Steph will never let me sleep over,” Jason scoffed. But oh, did he want to. He wanted to pass out on the couch while watching a movie with his little girl and wake up tomorrow morning to make her breakfast before she left for school. Or maybe Steph would let her skip a day and they could play video games at his place, and then get lunch at their favorite food truck.

Stuff they always did together. Call him a sap, but he loved being a dad.

Barbara reached for her phone, swiped at the screen, and handed it to him. “See for yourself.” 

Jason’s hands were shaking as he read the most recent messages between her and Steph. 

Guess who I’m on my way to pick up in Metropolis?  

Unless he’s on the verge of death, bring him here. I’ll even let him stay the night.

Tears filled his eyes. He and Steph didn’t have the best relationship, so this was entirely unexpected. “And here I thought she didn’t like me,” he tried to joke.

“She likes you plenty,” Babs responded. “She just doesn’t like what you do and the influence you have over Abby.” 

Jason nodded, then twisted around to reach for the other backpack on the floor behind him. “Then the world hasn’t gone completely sideways.”

“Give it a few days. I’m sure something will come up.” 

Fair enough. This was Gotham after all.

 

---

 

When Stephanie opened the apartment door, she just shook her head. “You look like hell.”

“Good, because I feel like it too.”

She chuckled, then wrapped him in a hug. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” Jason sighed into her loose hair. It was dry, so today must have been a day off. “Where’s Abby?”

“In her room pretending she doesn’t have calculus homework.” Steph drew back, a smile playing on the corners of her lips. “You should go tell her she doesn’t have to go to school tomorrow.”

Jason cocked a brow. “Really? Who are you and what did you do with Stephanie Brown?” 

Steph snorted and rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. As soon as you open that bedroom door, she’ll be clinging to you like a baby koala. Besides, if I didn’t let her stay home, she’d be playing hooky anyway.”

“Hey, she doesn’t get that from me. I loved school.” This was true. When circumstances allowed, he never missed a day. 

Setting his bags down, Jason crossed the living room and went down the short hall to knock on his daughter’s door. Odds were likely she had her earbuds in and music on, which would explain why she hadn’t come running when he first knocked on the apartment door. He waited a moment and didn’t hear anything, then tapped louder.

“What?” Abby called out after a moment.

Taking this as the signal he could open the door, he did just enough to lean in.

His daughter was facing away from him on her bed, lying on her stomach with her feet in the air, and dressed in her pajamas. There was a magazine of some sort propped up against her pillows, which still held her full attention despite the door opening.

“Just thought you should know your mom said you can skip school tomorrow,” Jason said, waiting with no small amount of expectation. 

Abby didn’t disappoint. 

With a shriek, she all but fell off the bed as she scrambled to get up. “Dad! Oh my god, Dad!” Legs flailing, she stumbled as she hit the floor, then raced to throw herself at him. “Dad, you’re home!”

Tears streamed from her brilliant green eyes.

“I’m home, baby girl,” he said into her mess of damp black hair. “I’m home.”

 

---

  

The night progressed almost exactly as Jason anticipated save for one particular hitch after his shower. 

“You want me to sleep where?”

Stephanie rolled her eyes. “You heard me. I’m not that mean to let you sleep on the sofa your first night back in town.”

“Thanks, but…” 

But it was Steph’s bed she was offering up—with her in it. Theirs was a strange relationship to be sure, but they’d never shared that close a space. Well, they had once and the product of that interaction was laughing at him and shoving pillows into his arms.

“Think of it like a slumber party,” Abby grinned, eyes blazing in amusement. “Mom won’t bite.” 

So that was how Jason found himself wrangled into sleeping in his sort-of-ex’s bed with a pillow wedged between them. “This is weird,” he said, lying on his back with an arm over his eyes.

“Only if you let it be,” Steph answered as she settled in on her side of the bed. “Besides, this is the only way I’ll have a chance to speak with you privately before work tomorrow.”

Jason dropped his arm and cracked open an eye. The only light came from a dim lamp on the nightstand beside Steph. “What’s going on?” 

“Don’t leave like that again,” she said in a voice harder than stone. “I know you told Abby you had to go away for some work, but she’s a smart kid and was able to read between the lines. She knows in theory what you do, but this was the first time she’s ever come face-to-face with it.” 

Not quite, but Jason wasn’t about to tell her that. He liked his balls where they were, thanks. 

“How did she react?” he asked instead. 

Steph snorted. “She was glued to the news for the first two weeks before I told her that what you did likely wasn’t going to be on national TV. After that, she spiraled into a funk, so I wish I hadn’t said anything. She got you a birthday present, you know. Thought that maybe you’d be home in time for her to give it to you.” 

Someone might as well have cut his heart out with a spoon. It hurt, hearing how much pain he’d caused his baby girl. What hurt even worse was the thought that he might do it again in the future.

“If it’s any consolation, I won’t be taking any more contracts like that—not for that long and not that far away.” 

“Good.” Steph switched off the light, sending the room into a semi-darkness broken only by the streetlights outside. “If you ever hurt Abby like that again, I’ll take her away from here. Don’t think I won’t.” 

Now that hurt too, but considering the circumstances, it wasn’t entirely unexpected either. And, since confessions in the dark were so much easier… “I wish you would, sometimes. This city—it’s no place to raise a family.”

A slender hand sneaked under the pillow between them and groped around until it found his own. “I know,” Steph agreed. “I tried to leave when Abby was a baby. I always ended up coming back. Gotham… she takes a piece of you the moment you’re born and never gives it up, you know?” 

Jason squeezed her hand, so much smaller, but—in the ways that truly mattered—just as strong as his own. Hers were the hands of a healer, not a brute like him. “Yeah, I know.”

 

---

  

The next morning, Jason would have loved to sleep longer, but Stephanie’s alarm woke them both up. Once his thoughts assembled themselves into some form of coherency, he asked, “Want me to make some breakfast?” 

“I won’t say no.” 

So this was how he found himself a short time later making coffee and omelets in the apartment’s small kitchen.

He’d be hard-pressed to think of a more content moment in his life, especially when Abby snuck under his arm to inspect the pan. “’Morning, Dad.”

“G’morning, baby girl.”

Yeah, life was good.

 

---

 

The time Jason spent with his daughter that day was a balm for his weary soul. They spent the morning running some errands—grocery shopping mostly, because his apartment had jack shit in the fridge. At least Dickie had cleaned it out before he left.

For lunch, they hunted down the food truck that served Jason’s favorite chili dogs. Between those and the loaded fries, they were stuffed afterward. Rather than sit around, they headed to Robinson Park and wandered around. The afternoon was warm, but not uncomfortably so. There was a dustiness in the air that reminded Jason fall was on the way.

It also reminded him that Abby’s birthday was coming up soon.

“Whaddya want for your birthday?” he asked out of the blue. They were seated on the swings in a playground mercifully empty of children. He liked kids, but he didn’t want them running around and screaming during his time with his own daughter. 

Abby shrugged her black denim-clad shoulders. Her makeup seemed lighter today, at least to his eyes. “There’re a few video games I want.”

There didn’t seem to be any enthusiasm to the request.

Jason cocked his head. “Okay. Doesn’t seem like you’re that excited about them though.”

Green eyes flickered over to him. “I am. It’s just…”

“Just what, baby girl?”

“I dunno. I used to get so excited about my birthday and now it’s like whatever. It’s a day where I get cake and some presents—which is cool—but it’s not like I’m a kid anymore.” 

“Wow, I didn’t realize you were sixteen going on forty,” Jason joked. 

That earned him a small laugh. “I kinda felt the same way last year, but Mom was making a big deal about sweet sixteen, so I just played along.” Abby’s gaze landed back on him. “And I know this year Mom will blame this funk on you, so I’ll just pretend again in front of her.” 

“You know neither of us want you to pretend to be something you’re not.” 

Abby sighed and kicked off the ground to send the swing rocking back and forth. “I know. But I also like to see Mom happy, which my birthday always seems to make her.” 

Jason honestly didn’t know how to navigate any of this. “Well, then what do you want to do for your birthday?” 

The answer was long in coming and when it came, Abby’s words weren’t what he expected to hear at all. “I didn’t hear you and Mom arguing last night.”

What did that have to do with anything? Jason’s eyes narrowed, baffled as always by the minds of teenage girls. “What does my asking about your birthday have anything to do with me and your mom? And for your information, there was a pillow between us, so that helped in keeping the comments and cold feet to a minimum.”

Sort of. He did wake up with Steph’s hand still in his. But that didn’t mean a thing besides the fact they were both tired.

Abby’s expression fell even more. “Oh.”

Jason had a feeling he was walking on shaky ground here, but he was damned if he knew why. “Why does our not arguing rate an ‘oh’ and that look on your face?”

His daughter kept her eyes averted when she eventually answered. “I just thought… Maybe since you two weren’t arguing for once that you were getting along better. Y’know, distance makes the heart grow fonder or whatever.”

Oh, fuck. 

Jason blew out a gusty breath, trying to find the right words. “Abby, you know your mom and I aren’t like that. We were never in a relationship. We were never friends.”

“I know. I’m just an accident,” she all but spat.

He reached over and grabbed hold of the swing, tugging so Abby faced him. “ You are the best thing to ever happen to me. And don’t you ever fucking think otherwise.” Swearing wouldn’t be earning him father of the year points, but whatever. “I would love to give you a normal life, with parents who loved each other and you, and a house out in the suburbs away from this shithole. But it would all be a lie and I could never do that to you.”

A small tear beaded up in the corner of Abby’s eye and as she nodded, it tracked down her cheek. “I know, Dad. I know. Just… Do you think we could go all out for dinner somewhere kind of nice for my birthday and just pretend for the night?”

Jason wanted to punch something, starting with himself. Fuck, but he hated seeing his daughter cry—what was worse was that it was because of him. 

He and Steph needed to have a talk about this. Big time. Since when had Abby had aspirations of the two of them getting together? Probably for a while, now that he thought about it. No wonder she’d looked so gleeful last night when she all but slammed her mom’s bedroom door closed behind them. 

For now, he just nodded. Whatever the outcome of his conversation with Steph, the three of them would be going out to dinner. 

“Well, I can’t guarantee everything will be sunshine and roses, but I can promise you your mom and I won’t bicker in front of you.” 

Abby beamed at him and wiped the tear from her cheek. She must have some really good makeup because her eyeliner and mascara were still immaculate. “I’ll take that.”

“Good.” Jason stood up and offered a hand to his daughter. “Come on, we’re going shopping.” 

“For what?” 

“Your video games, but I also need some new clothes if we’re going out anywhere nice.” He gestured at his ripped jeans and faded t-shirt. “This is about all I’ve got.” 

The grin grew bigger. “You mean I get to pick out clothes for you?”

Jason knew he was going to regret this, but after what he’d just heard, he was willing to do anything to make his baby girl smile again. “Yeah. But I reserve the right to veto anything I really don’t like.” 

Abby jumped off the swing and took his hand. “Fair. I know just where we should go.” 

 

---

 

Later that evening, Jason was regretting this particular life choice. He’d gone into it believing what he’d seen on TV was just Hollywood exaggeration, but nope. Abby hit the ground running the moment they entered the mall and didn’t stop until his arms were piled high. She’d even managed to sneak in a few things of her own besides the video games, not that he’d have said no. 

There was money in his bank account again; of course he wasn’t about to say no. 

Abby had been smiling the whole time too. 

Upon arriving at his apartment, he left the bags by the front door to deal with tomorrow. For now, the shower was calling to him. The walls in this building might be paper-thin, but damn, did it have good water pressure. 

Afterward, he flopped down on the freshly made bed. Dick had stripped it and washed the sheets before he’d left, apparently. Rather nice of him, but when all Jason wanted to do was sleep, it was a pain in the ass to make the bed up again. 

Settling in to the familiar white noise of the world outside, his thoughts slowly turned to Tim. Now that he was home, it was time to relax and let his imagination take flight.

He started by replaying his favorite memories of the sharp-tongued man with the most gorgeous blue eyes he’d ever seen.

Tim sitting on the floor sorting receipts, shirt gaping ever so slightly when he’d lean over. 

Tim staring him down with a challenging look as Jason read over the most ridiculous contract in the world. 

Tim completely naked and sucking his cock, staring up at him firm in the knowledge that he was the one in control. 

Tim bouncing on his cock with his head thrown back and making the prettiest noises in the world as he held on for the railing of a lifetime. 

Under the sheets, his cock twitched as it always did when Jason relieved that particular memory. Now that he was home, it was high time to make it happen again, this time without the presence of his hood. 

Because he’d be damned if he missed a single moment of fucking Tim ever again.

Idly, Jason trailed a hand down his abdomen and into the wiry hair around his cock. Perhaps he should trim it up a bit, make things all nice and neat for when Tim’s mouth wrapped around him here very soon. 

He stroked himself a few times, nice and loose because honestly, he was tired and wasn’t really feeling the effort to jerk off. Perhaps in the morning, when the light was hazy through the curtains and he was half-hard already. 

It would be easy to fantasize Tim hiding under the sheets and waking him up by licking trails up and down his cock.

Almost without him realizing it, his grip firmed and he rolled his hips into a weak thrust. 

Ah, fuck it. Might as well rub one out now. 

Jason reached for the nightstand drawer where his lube was stashed.

He’d just snagged the bottle when his phone rang. 

Startled, he dropped it back into the drawer and glared at the name showing on the screen, not that the ringtone hadn’t given it away already. 

Barbara. 

“What?” he asked in lieu of a proper greeting. He was tired and slightly horny, sue him. 

“How soon can you get to the Bowery?” Barbara asked without any greeting of her own.

“I just laid down to go to bed. I’m not going anywhere unless you give me a good reason why.” 

“Tim’s mouth is getting him in trouble again.”

“Fuck.”

 

Notes:

Okay, the domestic fluff is over. Next time, it's some action.

Chapter 16: What Goes Around, Comes Around

“You want me to do what?” 

“I want you to come with me for back up,” Bernard repeated. “You know the Bowery better than I do.” 

Tim wasn’t sure how to take that and instead took another large bite from his sandwich to chew it over. They were having lunch together at a sandwich shop he’d done some work for. “How do you figure?” he finally asked. 

“You do work there all the time,” came the quick answer. 

“Yeah, but I stick to the main streets and don’t go wandering down strange alleys by myself.” 

“You don’t have to go down any alleys,” Bernard reassured. “I just need someone else with me because the source I’m meeting with is more than a little sketch.” 

Source. Ugh, Tim could see where this was going now. Might as well ask the obvious to get it out of the way. “What’s your article about this time? Some politician slumming it on the wrong side of the tracks?” He took a sip from his iced tea. 

“The Red Hood.” 

Tim choked and tea came spewing out of his nose. Ow. “What the fuck?”

This was honestly the last thing he was expecting. Although to be fair, considering what Bernard did for a living, it was entirely appropriate for him to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

Bernard was laughing as he handed over some napkins. “That’s quite the reaction there, Tim. Care to explain why?” 

“No,” he said, more than a little testy as he wiped his face and inspected his tie. At least it was dark already, so it wouldn’t show the spots. Dammit, why the hell was his friend writing about the Red Hood? The whole topic was hitting way too close for comfort. 

“I dunno.” Bernard leaned in even as Tim leaned back. “My spidey-senses are tingling. Have you met the Red Hood before?” 

There was a safe answer and there was a stupid answer—both of which involved lying to an investigative reporter who knew him too well. “It’s hard to work in the Bowery and not hear stories,” he hedged.

“Stories don’t cause you to spew tea out your nose.” 

Tired of being on the defensive, Tim opted to turn the question around. “Why are you writing about the Red Hood? I thought you were obsessed with Batman?” 

Batman, who’d murdered the former police commissioner and got away with it, and yet was still a member of the Justice League. The story there was epic, or so Bernard had been saying for years. 

Tim honestly didn’t care one way or the other. He was of the opinion all that spandex had to be cutting off circulation, which in turn led to poor decision making—like throwing themselves off high buildings. 

From the look on Bernard’s face, he knew exactly what Tim was attempting. But instead of pushing his own questions, he just shrugged easily. “I am. But I heard an interesting rumor a couple weeks ago and the more I’ve dug, the more I’m inclined to believe it’s true.” 

Tim was almost afraid to ask. “Which is?” 

“That the Red Hood is either dead or has left Gotham completely.” 

A stab of pain lanced through his chest. Bernard had no idea how true his words were. The Red Hood was gone and no one knew when he’d be back. The letter Jason left behind, the one Tim was only supposed to open after four months had passed with no word, weighed on him more and more with each passing day. 

It had been almost three months since Jason left. Three. Fucking. Months. Tim had decided he’d be generous and wait until November first before opening the envelope tucked away beneath the false bottom in the drawer housing his overworked toy collection. 

He intended to have some serious words when—not if, but when—Jason returned. First and foremost, he wanted to take the guy out for dinner, just to prove he wasn’t that desperate to be bent over and railed to within an inch of his life. 

No, that would happen after dinner. 

He must have been silent for too long because Bernard leaned in again, peering closely at him. “You do know something, don’t you? Holy shit, Tim. Do you actually know the Red Hood?” 

Fuck. 

Tim scrubbed a hand across his face. Only years of practice kept his glasses from flying. “No,” he said after a moment, pointedly glancing around the crowded deli. “But I know someone who does.”

Bernard took the hint and stuffed his sandwich into his mouth, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

As Tim picked at his own lunch, appetite utterly gone but going through the motions anyway, he wondered what the hell he could say that would get his friend off his back. Internally sighing, he mentally kicked himself for the slip-up. This was going to bite him in the ass, he just knew it.

 

---

 

He managed to evade Bernard for the rest of the afternoon, citing work as the reason he bailed so quickly. It wasn’t un-entirely true—he did have an appointment with Barbara Gordon, his highest profile client besides the Red Hood. 

But it was a routine appointment where the red-headed woman inspected his report and compared it against one she had prepared herself. Tim was still baffled why she felt she needed an accountant in the first place when she clearly knew her way around the same software he used. He chalked it up to just wanting a second set of eyes, especially after the mess he’d cleaned up. 

Afterward, he stopped by the grocery store and picked up a couple of fresh meal kits. Now that he was thirty, he was determined to A) learn how to cook better and B) decrease the frequency of his take-out consumption. Yes, he could simply hire a private chef, but he stubbornly held on to the belief Jason might take offense given he’d all but claimed the job before he fucked off to god knew where. 

Really, it should have come as no surprise when Bernard popped up out of nowhere to follow Tim up the front steps to his brownstone. 

“I didn’t think you’d be gone this long.” 

Tim glared. “What are you doing?” 

“Following upon a lead that’s a damn sight safer than the other one I have.” 

It was hard to argue with that. 

“Bernard, just let it go. I’m not talking.” 

“Yeah, you are.” Bernard waited as Tim tapped in his code to unlock the door and followed him inside. “You said you know someone who knows the Red Hood, which is all well and good. But I still think you actually know him too.” 

Tim stalked down the hall to the kitchen, leaving Bernard to lock up behind them. There were no number of warnings he could give that would stop his friend from pursuing his story once he had the scent. So maybe a different tactic might work. “No one really knows the Red Hood,” he called out in his wake. “He either finds you useful or you’ve pissed him off somehow and he appears to tell you exactly that—and shoot you if you’re not lucky.” 

“That so?” Bernard all but fell into the kitchen, rushing for the crumb Tim had offered. “Does he find you useful then?” 

Tim almost dropped his groceries. Looked like that bright idea had imploded in his face. “What?” 

“You’re an accountant, Tim,” Bernard pointed out the obvious. “Even a guy like the Red Hood needs to pay taxes. That’s how the FBI finally took down Capone.” 

“That was also almost a hundred years ago. There’s this thing called tax software now that millions of Americans use between January and April every year. Some of it’s even free.” 

“There is so much more to what you do than just punching numbers and filling in the blanks.” 

“Thank you for noticing.” 

Bernard kept pushing. “But that doesn’t explain what you just said about the Red Hood. How do you know that?” 

“Because I have like a dozen small business clients in the Bowery?” Tim made sure to hit the incredulous note to really sell the tone he was taking. “People talk and I listen.” 

This was actually true, especially since they didn’t realize he was listening. It wasn’t like he set out to eavesdrop—it just happened. 

“Okay, so then have you heard anything recently about the Red Hood?” Bernard tried, changing tracks. 

Tim shrugged and opened the fridge to put his dinner away. “Just that no one has really seen much of him since the FBI raid—he wasn’t caught though. That would have been all over the news.” 

“Yeah, it would have.” Bernard sighed and pulled out his phone. “Well, since you were no help, looks like I still have to go to the Bowery and pay for information.” 

“That’s stupid. I told you what you wanted.” 

“You didn’t give me anything I didn’t already know.” 

The thought of his friend wandering in the Bowery alone asking questions in all the wrong places was enough to send Tim’s stomach lurching. He could just tell him the truth and save themselves both the trouble, but… 

But the last thing Tim wanted was for Bernard to see just how fucked up he really was. Well, he had some idea already what with the whole glory hole incident—because if that wasn’t rock bottom, then what was? Still, it had nothing on the fact the Red Hood had fucked him right here in this very kitchen. 

The Red Hood who was also Jason, who was quite possibly the first person he’d fallen in love with in his adult life. 

There he was, thinking about the L-word again. He really needed to stop doing that. 

Tim closed the fridge and leaned against the door, already regretting the words about to come out of his mouth. “I’m not going to let you go to the Bowery alone.” 

Bernard’s face lit up. “Really? Thanks, Tim!” 

“You owe me for this.” Tim shook his head, annoyed with himself for failing to talk his friend out of this. “So where are you meeting your source?” 

“Some bar called Mike’s.” 

For some reason, the name of the oh-so-familiar bar didn’t make him feel any better.

 

---

 

A few hours later, Tim walked into the bar with Bernard hot on his heels. He hadn’t been by since the night the Red Hood signed his ridiculous contract. Now that he thought about it, the designated time frame had passed. Whenever Hood returned, he needed to have a few words with him about how woefully underpaid he’d been for all the work he’d done—and still continued to do for that matter. 

Those youth centers didn’t fund themselves and the non-profit he’d started didn’t run itself either. 

Rochelle looked up from a conversation she’d been having when the door opened, her wary expression turning into a genuine smile when she recognized him. “Tim! Man, I haven’t seen you in a hot sec.” 

“Hey, Roche,” Tim grinned in return. “Long time, no see.” 

“I thought this place was called Mike’s?” Bernard whispered as they made their way to the bar. 

“It is. Mike was Rochelle’s uncle,” Tim explained. “She inherited the place when he passed away earlier in the year.” 

“Oooh, I see.” 

They took their seats on what Tim was fairly sure were new barstools—or at least reupholstered ones. It filled him with no small amount of pride that he’d had a hand in this. Looking around, he saw other little touches that modernized the place without taking away from the old bar vibe. There was a new TV over the bar and another one in the back by the pool table, and the lighting had been updated. Nothing major, but he liked it. 

“The place is looking good,” he said when Rochelle came and laid down some cardboard coasters that had seen better days. 

“I’ve got you to thank for that,” she answered. “Who’s your friend?” Her dark-eyed gaze cut to the ray of sunshine that was Bernard with his bright blue eyes and blonde hair. 

“Has Ives ever mentioned Bernard before?” Tim asked. “The three of us went to high school together.” 

“Oh, the conspiracy theorist!” 

Bernard had the grace to laugh at the outburst. “Yeah, I did go a little overboard back then,” he chuckled ruefully. “I’m a reporter now.” 

“Just means you’re still nosy,” Tim said with an eye roll.

Rochelle grinned at the banter. “Well, welcome, Bernard. What’ll it be?” 

“What have you got on tap?”

They ordered their beers and Tim idly started watching the football game playing on TV. He’d grown up a Gotham Knights fan, which hadn’t changed over the years despite the team’s mixed record. This looked like a replay of last weekend’s game. 

“Here you go,” Rochelle announced and placed two tall glasses in front of him and Bernard. “Anything else I can get you…” she trailed off as the bar door opened again and another man entered. 

Tim took quick note of her less-than-thrilled reaction and glanced over. He didn’t recognize the man, who appeared to be in his mid-twenties with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee framing his mouth. He was dressed for the neighborhood, so there was nothing ostentatious. But when he stopped at the bar and rested his hands on it, his shirt sleeve rose to reveal a rather smart looking watch that cost more than what most people around here made in two months. 

“I’ll have the usual,” the guy said, flashing a smirk that looked downright evil to Tim’s eyes. He headed over to a booth in the corner that had a clear view of everything and everyone in the bar. 

Rochelle didn’t say a word and instead just filled two large pitchers and put five glasses on a tray. She took them over to the corner and returned to the bar, clearly unsettled. 

Tim caught her attention. “What’s going on?” 

She shook herself out of the little trance she seemed to be in, and her eyes widened. “Shit. Tim, you need to leave.” 

“Why?” 

Bernard perked up too, catching whiff of drama. 

“That guy is Marco. He works for Jaime.” 

Tim’s cheek twinged from the memory of being struck with a gun barrel. “Jaime? As in the Jaime who broke my cheekbone?” 

“Yeah.” Rochelle was almost shaking. “He’s been comin’ around again recently, ever since it’s kinda become obvious the Red Hood is gone. Marco comes in first, scopes out the place, then sends Jaime the all-clear. From what I’ve heard, he’s been doin’ this all over the neighborhood. No one wants a fight, so we just put up with it.” 

Bernard looked like a puppy wriggling in excitement. “You know the Red Hood?”

Tim wanted to smack him and did the next best thing, elbowing him in the ribs, earning a quiet oof in return. “Not now,” he bit out before turning his attention back to Rochelle. “I thought Jason warned Jaime not to come back here?” 

He sure remembered the threat. The voice it was delivered in was very close to the voice Jason used when he was fucking Tim, so needless to say, it made an impact. 

“Kinda hard to enforce that when he’s not around.” Rochelle shrugged hopelessly. “He gave me a number to call if shit really hits the fan, but so far, it’s just Jaime and his gang lurking in the corner for an hour or two and drinking beer.” She grabbed hold of Tim’s hand, clutching it tightly. “This is why you’ve gotta go. If he sees you…” 

“What did you say to this guy?” Bernard asked, gaze flicking back and forth between Tim and Rochelle. 

“What makes you think I said something?” 

“Because your mouth moves faster than your brain,” Bernard deadpanned. 

Even Rochelle snorted a laugh at that. “That’s exactly what happened. To be fair, he was also trying to defend me at the time.” 

“I hate you both.” Despite the urgency of the situation, Tim was glad to have lightened the mood a bit. “How long do I have before Jaime arrives?” 

“Maybe five minutes?” 

“Shit.” He looked at Bernard. “How long before your source should be getting here?” 

His friend started tapping uncomfortably at the bar. “So about that… The guy said his name was Jaime.” 

“Motherfucker.” Tim pushed back from the bar and stood. “I’m just gonna go hide in the office then. Roche, give me the key please.” 

She unhooked her keys from the belt loop on her jeans. “Here. Tim… If I call that number Jason gave me, do you think he’ll answer?” 

It hurt to even say it. “No. But try anyway. At this point, it’s the only option we’ve got.”

Bernard grabbed hold of his arm before he went very far. Over his shoulder, Tim caught sight of Rochelle speaking hurriedly into her phone. “Tim, is this the same Jason who…?” 

Who he admitted to having fallen in love with the day after the disaster that was his thirtieth birthday? Who he still missed so desperately it hurt and was half convinced he’d drop his pants first and ask questions later when he finally showed up again? 

Tim also knew what pieces his investigative reporter friend would start putting together here if he wasn’t careful. But lying wasn’t an option, not when Bernard would be staying at the bar and likely chatting up Rochelle while he hid. 

Fuck. 

He looked his friend square in the eyes, at the earnestness and concern warring with each other. “Yes.” 

“Oh, we are so going to have a nice long talk when we get out of here,” Bernard warned. “Starting with why you lied to me.” His gaze took on a calculating look. “Though I’m starting to think I might know why.” 

Double shit fuck. 

Tim really should have just stayed home today. 

“Look, I have a really good reason—” 

He was cut off as the bar door slammed open and Jaime came marching in like he owned the place, just like he had that first night. Three other guys followed him in, each with their own little swagger. 

Goddammit. 

The man was still burly and bearded, but what caught Tim’s attention was the brown leather jacket he wore, seam straining across the shoulders. 

It took everything he had not to laugh. 

What a piece of fucking work, trying to emulate the Red Hood like that. How the hell was he selling it? That he worked for Hood now and was one of his enforcers while he was gone? 

Jason would not be pleased, that much he was sure of—if he were to find out about it that traitorous little voice in the back of Tim’s mind whispered. He might not, after all. He might be dead. 

Which meant Tim had to get himself out of this mess on his own. 

First thing first, hide behind Bernard without making it look like he was hiding. 

His friend caught on quickly and spun around, planting his hands on his hips to make himself look wider and stood up straight as he could. Their heights were pretty evenly matched, so Tim tried to shrink down. 

“Hola, mija!” Jaime called out. “We’re celebratin’ tonight, so get us some shot glasses and a bottle of tequila—the good stuff.”

Rochelle lowered her phone, hand visibly shaking. “Sure. Gimme a sec. You guys want anything from the kitchen?” she asked.

She was trying to buy him time. Tim swore right then and there he’d nominate her for sainthood if he made it out of here in one piece. Carefully, he started inching away from behind Bernard. 

“Yeah, how ‘bout some chips with that pico you been makin’?”

“Sure.”

Jaime’s focus remained on the bar, and for a hot second, Tim thought he had a chance. Maybe Lady Luck would smile on him for once in his life.

But then the burly man started looking around, taking in who was here with him.

Tim could practically hear the countdown in the back of his mind.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

“You,” Jaime all but hissed when his gaze landed on Tim, who froze like a deer in the headlights.

He was keenly aware that things weren’t going to end well for him unless he watched his mouth. “Hello, Jaime. Long time, no see.”

Bernard cast a worried look over his shoulder, then stepped forward. “Jaime?” he asked, extending his hand and offering up what Tim knew was his million-watt grin that made him look like a harmless idiot. “I’m Bernard Dowd from the Gotham Gazette. You asked me to meet you here?” 

Jaime’s attention flickered briefly to him before settling back on Tim. “Thought I told you I didn’t wanna see your face around here anymore.”

“You did.”

“Then what’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m with him?” Tim jabbed a thumb in Bernard’s direction. “He doesn’t know the neighborhood.”

There was a twitch of the thick black beard that might have been a smirk. “I don’t think you do either. If you did, you wouldn’t be back here—not after what I did to your pretty boy face.”

“Funny, that’s not how I remember it. Your ass was on the floor after how many hits? One? Two?” Dammit. So much for watching his brain-to-mouth filter. 

He could already imagine the wince on Bernard’s face. 

“You little cocksucker,” Jaime spat, rage flushing what was visible of his cheeks. Someone clearly didn’t like being made to look weak in front of his crew. “Think you’re all high and mighty because you sucked the right cock?” 

Tim bit back his first response. Yay for self-preservation instincts kicking in. “What makes you think I did?” he asked instead, taking a minute step back. Whatever was about to happen wouldn’t be pretty and he didn’t want to drag Bernard down too—though to be fair, if there was a fight, he wouldn’t be the only one in it. His friend was loyal like that. 

“Pretty mouth like yours is good for only one thing.” Jaime cupped his junk in case the point wasn’t clear. “And I bet you sucked Jason’s plenty.”

Only once, unfortunately.

“Never saw him again after that night, so I wouldn’t know,” Tim lied without missing a beat. “Now, if I was going to suck cock around here, it sure as hell won’t belong to someone at the bottom of the food chain like you.” 

That was probably the wrong thing to say. 

But the expected reaction didn’t come. Instead, Jaime’s lips twisted into a smirk that would do the Joker proud. “Bottom of the food chain?” he scoffed. “There ain’t no one around here higher than me.” 

The guys who’d followed Jaime fanned out behind him and the one in the booth rose to his feet. 

Shit. This didn’t look good. Time to start weighing options, such as they were. There wouldn’t be a rescue from an unexpected savior. 

Not this time. 

“The Red Hood won’t like hearing that.” Tim kept his voice steady. 

The smirk grew. “Hood who?” Jaime’s gaze grew predatory. “Ain’t no more Red Hood. I took care of him myself.” 

For the second time that night, Tim had to hold back his laughter. “That so?” He shook his head. “And here I thought he had to go take care of some business elsewhere for a while.” 

Bernard’s shoulders stiffened and Tim replayed what he’d just said. Oh, he was going to get it later—if there was a later. He really wanted there to be a later because the alternative wasn’t exactly how he planned to leave this life—not to some lowlife piece of shit with an over-inflated ego. 

“I don’t know where you heard that, but it’s a lie.” Jaime thumped his chest. “He’s dead. I shot him. Put two right between the eyes.”

Liar liar, pants on fire.

“What, did you take his jacket too? Might want to let the seams out.” 

Bernard groaned quietly, clearly wondering where the hell Tim’s self-preservation instincts had fucked off to after their brief appearance. “Tim…” he warned.

But Jaime’s eyes had turned cold, dark obsidian gazing out across the bar. “Mijos,” he said in a voice that was just as glacial. “Let’s take this outside. Give you boys more room to teach this cocksucker who runs these streets.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Tim did the only thing he could. 

He raced to the back wall where the pool cues hung and grabbed one. It wasn’t the best weapon, but between that and the keys he wove between his fingers so that the metal tips stuck out, they were all he had. He refused to go down without a fight. 

It didn’t last very long, even with Bernard jumping in with Rochelle’s baseball bat. 

The pool cue broke on the first swing across one goon’s thick forearm. Tim stabbed at him with the piece he still held, but it was knocked from his hand. He slashed at the guy’s face with the keys and drew blood. 

Another guy rushed him from the side and Tim’s spine made friends with the side of the pool table. His head cracked against the faded green felt and the slate underneath. 

For a brief second, his world went black. 

On instinct, he lashed out with a kick to whoever was in front of him with all the power over a decade of swimming had given him. 

His foot hit something soft that gave way easily under the pressure and his assailant screamed like a little girl. 

He tried rolling to the right and his vision swam. Then he was grabbed and hurled off the table, landing hard on his side across the frame of the pinball machine. Lights flashed as it lit up, jangling loudly like he’d just won the game. 

Tim slid off with a grunt, pain bright and hot along his ribs. Miraculously, his glasses were still on. 

There were two guys on the floor, one crying and sobbing while curled up in a fetal position. The other was cursing and clutching his knee. Bernard stood over him with the bat. 

“Tim!” Bernard called out. “Come on, we need to get outta here.” 

“Where’s—” Tim barely managed to wheeze before he spotted Jaime. 

There was a flash of light and then a sharp crack as the gun fired. 

The glass on the pinball machine behind him shattered under the impact, silencing the cacophony. Either he was really lucky or Jaime was a shitty shot.

Distantly, he heard Rochelle screaming and shouts as the other bar patrons—who’d all decided to sit this one out, apparently—ran for the door. 

“Mijos!” Jaime shouted over the din. “I said let’s take this outside. You don’t wanna fuck up our favorite bar, do ya?” 

“Hold on a sec!” Bernard widened his stance and held the bat firmly. “I think you’re missing out on a very important fact here.”

Jaime didn’t seem impressed. “And what’s that?” 

“You know what this guy does for a living, right?” 

“He’s a numbers guy.” 

“Right. A numbers guy who’s one of the best there is and has even worked with the FBI on some cases. I might be wrong here, but even crime lords need someone to keep track of their money for them.” 

If Tim were in any other position, he might have found this funny because holy crap was Bernard hitting the nail on the head. As it was, he added it to his mental Shit to Worry About Later list. 

Still, it gave him an opening that might actually save his sorry ass. 

Tim staggered forward, narrowly missing pitching face-first onto the floor. His head hurt and he thought he might hurl. 

Oh. Concussion. So that’s what it felt like. 

Jaime sniggered at him. “Got somethin’ to say, cabrón?”

It took another moment before Tim found the breath he needed. “Crime lords do need number crunchers,” he said, using Jason’s nickname for him. “They need them especially when they’re trying to rebuild from an FBI raid.” 

The bar was silent as the implication sank in. 

Bernard was the first to break it. “Tim,” he breathed, eyes wide as saucers. “Are you…?” 

Tim refused to even look at him, ashamed at being caught out like this. “I know Hood’s organization—from the financial perspective—inside and out.”

“Really?” Jaime asked, sounding more than a little intrigued. “I figured the FBI left him high and dry, but you’re sayin’ there’s still some money layin’ around?”

More like his money, but even concussed, Tim wasn’t about to reveal that. “Enough to run day-to-day operations before he fucked off to wherever he is now,” he slurred with some bitterness. 

“I told you, I killed him,” Jaime snapped. “You don’t listen very well, do you?”

“If I listened, do you think I’d even be here in the first place?”

There was that beard twitch again. “Nah, you’d be sucking cock downtown. So tell me, what kinda money we talkin’ about here?”

Tim blinked hard as dark spots started dotting his vision. Was he bleeding? Where? He rubbed the back of his head and his hand came back wet. 

Oh. He was bleeding. Wow. He hadn’t bled like this in years, not since the accident…

“Hey, cocksucker. I asked you a question.”

So much blood. He’d been pinned in the backseat while the front of the car where his parents were was crushed into things that didn’t resemble human beings anymore. He didn’t see what happened to his dad, but the memory of his mom and the metal rod in her head was still fodder for his nightmares.

“Cocksucker!”

Tim looked up from his hand and tried not to sway. “If you killed him, then you’d know there’s nothing left.” His voice sounded distant even to him. “No one’s around to collect. You don’t know how to run a business very well, do you?” 

That was the wrong thing to say. 

Jaime scowled and gestured with the gun at the front door. “Outside. All of you. Including you, mija,” he added for Rochelle, who was wiping tears from her cheeks. “Gonna show you what happens to people who get in my way.” 

There was no fight in Tim as Jaime’s two remaining goons grabbed hold of his arms and yanked him forward, heedless of his head. The pain was blinding and waves of nausea churned in his stomach. He caught Bernard’s eyes for a second, silently pleading for his understanding, if not forgiveness. No one knew him better—it wouldn’t take him long to figure out why Tim had gone and done what he did. 

Mostly though, he was sorry he wouldn’t get to see Jason again. 

He was going to need to find a new number cruncher. 

Outside, Tim was flung—rather unceremoniously or so he thought—onto the sidewalk. His glasses flew from his face and he landed awkwardly on the rough pavement. He felt a sharp crunch in his left wrist. 

Oh joy. Another broken bone courtesy of this asshole. 

A booted foot kicked at his already sore ribs and fire burned up and down his side as something gave way that probably shouldn’t have. His lungs tightened and it became harder to breathe. There was a second kick, this time along his back, followed by another in his ribs.

He felt it when they gave way.

Tears welled up in his eyes and Tim curled up as best he could into a little protective ball. Or he tried because it only seemed to make the pain worse. 

Black stars spotted his vision. Dimly, he was aware Jaime was speaking again like some villain in a B-rated movie. 

But unlike the movies, there wouldn’t be a hero arriving in a nick of time to rescue the damsel in distress. Jason wasn’t here to save him.

There was a roaring in his ears as it became harder to breathe. Looked like blunt force trauma was finally winning out after everything his body had been subjected to. Good. He’d much rather pass out first than go through being shot. 

The world dimmed even more and Tim felt oddly warm, like a soft fuzzy blanket was cocooning him here at the end. Shouts erupted as the roaring came to a stop and gunshots pierced the woolen muddledness of his mind. 

But nothing hit him.

His eyelids were deadweights he struggled to lift—not that it would do any good without his glasses. 

Then a heavy boot landed inches from his face, followed by the familiar crack of plastic and polycarbonate lenses giving way. 

“What the flying fuck is going on?” a new voice added to the din, deep and growly and mechanized.

That voice. It pierced Tim’s hazy cloud and he struggled to look up. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his head, enough to finally send him spiraling down into darkness’s warm embrace. 

But before he lost consciousness, he could have sworn he’d seen a flash of red.

 

Notes:

Good thing February is a short month, huh? :D

Chapter 17: Taking Care of Business

Notes:

I hope you enjoy the special treat at the end.

The moment Jason spotted Tim lying on the ground with a gun pointed at him, the tidal wave of green he’d been riding since the moment he got Babs’s phone call crashed around him. But unlike last time, he embraced it. 

The Red Hood in the throes of a Lazarus Pit rage was capable of anything. Cunning, vicious, and more than a little trigger-happy—this was the foundation his reputation was built on. 

And it was about time the Bowery and Crime Alley remembered it. 

Firing off two warning shots of his own, Jason skidded to a stop in a move that would do Hollywood proud, taking out two of the guys standing over his number cruncher. All eyes were on him as he cut the engine and dismounted. A crack of plastic came from under his boot. 

Shit. 

Distantly, he could already hear Tim bitching about breaking another pair of glasses. Whatever, that was a problem for another day. 

“What the flying fuck is going on?” he growled, squaring his shoulders and looming like only someone raised by the fucking Batman could. 

At his feet, Tim let out a quiet sigh as he passed out. Damn, but he did not look good. Blood smeared his cheeks and one of his eyes swelling shut. This alone wasn’t necessarily bad, but a puddle was starting to form beneath his head.

Head wounds bled like a bitch, but the fact he had one and had passed out meant he either had lost a lot of blood inside already or he’d been struck in the skull. Blood could be replaced and wounds stitched up, but concussions or worse weren’t quite so easy to recover from.

If Tim died… 

“I’ve got a bus enroute,” came Oracle’s voice in his ear, drawing Jason from the dark path his thoughts had started down. “ETA is four minutes."  

Meaning Jason had four minutes to make life miserable for whoever dared do this to his number cruncher before medics arrived. The best thing he could do for Tim right now was not touch him. Which meant he had business to take care of. 

Taking in the scene, he saw Rochelle and some blonde man standing at the entrance of the bar. Both were clearly a combination of petrified and relieved at the sight of him.

Then his gaze landed on a man he wasn’t entirely unsurprised to see. “You.”

A gun was in his hand, safety off, before he even registered it. Two steps forward and the barrel was pressed against Jaime’s forehead. The piece of shit was so unnerved he dropped his own gun. 

Good. 

“You can’t be here,” Jaime said, sweat beading like bullets along his greasy brow. “You’re dead.” 

“Oh, I’m alive and well,” Jason replied. “Just had to take care of a little out-of-town business.” 

There was a sharp gasp from the blonde man standing beside Rochelle.

Interesting. He’d have to deal with him later. 

“But what I’m curious about,” Jason continued conversationally, like he was taking a stroll in the park, “is what the fuck you’re doing here. Last I heard, you were warned to stay away from this place.” 

He’d delivered quite the beat-down to reinforce the message too.

Jaime’s eyes were wild, darting every which way as he tried to look everywhere but at Jason. 

“I’m waiting,” he growled.

“IheardyouweredeadsoIdidn’tthinkitmatteredanymore.” The words spilled out in a barely comprehensible rush. 

“I heard you were dead,” Jason parroted back, mocking. “I was dead and buried once before. Woke up in the ground in my nice little Sunday suit and dug my way out with my bare-fucking-hands. What makes you think death will stick a second time?” 

The wail of sirens echoed down the street. 

Time to move this party elsewhere.

Jason turned his attention briefly to Rochelle. “Go with Drake and call me if it looks like he’s not gonna make it.” 

“I’m going with him,” Blondie said quickly, squaring his own shoulders as he stepped forward to face Jason. “Tim’s my friend.” 

There wasn’t time to question it. 

“Fine. Then call Rochelle and she’ll pass on the message.” Jason spared a last glance down at Tim. This was not how he’d envisioned his homecoming, not by a longshot. That pretty mouth shouldn’t be stained red with blood. Green swirled luridly at the edge of his vision, reminding him of what had been taken away. 

If Tim died… No. No, he wouldn’t. But if he did… 

His gaze landed back on Jaime. He wasn’t letting this slide. It was time to remind people who was in charge around here. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” came the oh-so-intelligent response. 

“Down that alley.” Jason jerked his head to the right. “You first.”

The alleys of the Bowery were a warren that only those who grew up in them navigated with ease. Odds were likely the cops would be called when the EMTs saw Tim, and the last thing he wanted were a bunch of GCPD officers interfering in his business. 

These were his streets, not theirs. 

He directed Jaime with curt directions, taking a left here or a right there. They crossed a few streets and vanished once again in the darkness between buildings. The smell of the alleys was the smell of Gotham, managing to permeate through the filter on his hood. Disgusting though it was, it was also the scent of home. 

They were on the edge of Crime Alley by the time he told Jaime to stop. The alleys here formed an intersection known as the Crossroad that was frequented by many people of varying walks of life over the course of the day or night. Addicts, dealers, prostitutes, the homeless, as well as the hopeless—they’d all see the message he was about to leave. 

“Kneel,” Jason ordered, voice cold as ice.

Jaime whimpered, but did as he was told. “I’m sorry,” he tried. “I didn’t know he was one of your guys. I never woulda touched him if I did.”

“You thought I was dead, so I find that hard to believe. If you were smart, you’d have used him. He’s a smart guy and very good with numbers.” Jason stalked around the man and used the barrel of the gun to tilt his chin up. Tears were dripping down Jaime’s cheeks and into his beard. “But you’re not smart, are you? You’re nothing more than a fuckin’ bully who’s so scared shitless that he’s about to piss himself.”

 “No. Yes. I dunno!” Jaime wailed. “Please, Hood. Gimme a chance. I’ll tell ya whatever you wanna know about what’s been goin’ on since you left.” 

A quiet footstep drew Jason’s attention away from the babbling going on in front of him. It could be anyone and while he wasn’t exactly opposed to a witness for what he was about to do, it depended on who it was.

From the shadows emerged a tall figure dressed in close-fitting black clothes that concealed everything. Gloved hands appeared and tugged the hood from their head, revealing a rather familiar masked face. 

Damian. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason snarled. Assistance of the batty kind was even less welcome than the cops. 

“Oracle sent me,” Damian answered, nonplussed by his reception. “Said you might need some back-up.” 

“Oh really? And since when does Baby Batman go around helping the Red Hood?” Too late Jason remembered what Barbara had told him last night, about how the kid had left Bruce—finally—and was shacking up with Dickie until… 

Until he had a chance to speak with him. 

Dammit. 

“When he’s no longer living in the shadow of his father.” 

“Well, it’s nice to see you grew a few brain cells finally, but I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’ here, so if you don’t mind fucking off, then you won’t have to tell the big bird what you did tonight.” 

“This man hurt someone who works for you, no?” Damian asked like Jason hadn’t said anything at all. “Someone important.” 

“Your point?” 

“My point is, I see nothing wrong with what you are doing. You protect your own… And you avenge your own.” The words were said so simply and plainly, it almost sounded like Damian was taking a walk in the park rather than standing in the middle of the Crossroad on a moonless September night. 

Jason narrowed his eyes. Suspicious didn’t even begin to describe how he felt about Damian’s little proclamation. This was the kid who gave up the good life with Dick to learn at the knee of the most paranoid and broken man on Earth. And now he wanted to tag along with him? “You’re fucked up, you know that, kid?” 

“No more than you are.” Damian flipped the lenses of his mask up to reveal green eyes that reminded him so much of Abby’s…and his own. “These are why Father will never trust me. I feel like he has selective amnesia when it comes to yours. The Lazarus Pit has marked us in ways I doubt either of us will ever fully understand.” 

“I’ll agree with you on that point.” Jason turned back to Jaime, who’d stopped sniveling and was listening rather intently to their little conversation. “But it’s also what helps me when I have to do this.” 

He pulled the trigger. 

Jaime slumped forward, then fell to the side revealing the rather large hole in the back of his head. Blood and brain matter carpeted the alley behind him. 

To his surprise, Damian didn’t even flinch. He simply nodded and flipped his mask’s lenses back down. “An eye for an eye is what I was taught as a child,” he said, still calm as could be. “Nightwing tried to teach me otherwise, but it never seemed to fit quite right.” 

“That so?” This was interesting. He’d just killed a man and here he was standing with the demon brat talking over the body. Somehow, Jason doubted this was how Barbara and Dick had wanted him to bond with the kid. 

Damian nodded. “I assume this man did more than beat up the wrong person?” 

“He’s pissed me off before. Not enough to warrant an execution like this, but considering what I walked in on, I had to leave a message.” Jason shrugged and holstered his gun. 

“And what message is that?” 

“That the Red Hood is back and he’s fucking pissed.”

 

---

 

As the Pit rage receded, the urge for a smoke grew strong. Jason didn’t exactly feel like company, but now seemed as good a time as any to have his little chat with the baby bat. The earlier comment about his eyes intrigued him—not that he was about to admit it. 

Besides, it would be a good distraction from what was happening with Tim. Sitting around waiting in an ER would give away a little too much about the nature of their relationship, such as it was. 

Jason didn’t trust Gotham rooftops any more than he did alleys, not with the drone technology Barbie and Bruce had access to, so he led Damian through the maze to finally emerge in the most unlikely of places—the pier at Sheldon Park. This late, the park was all but empty, and those who were lurking about took one look at the Red Hood and fucked off like they were never there in the first place. 

The wind was cold and strong tonight, and the waves crashed on the levees protecting this part of the city. But the sky was clear, so if anyone was trying to listen in, they’d have to get in close and risk detection.

Removing his hood, Jason fumbled around with his jacket, trying and failing to remember if he’d even left a pack of cigarettes in the pockets before he’d left. He hit jackpot and removed a squished pack.

Then he cursed when he remembered his lighter was dead and he’d meant to buy a new one before, well, everything. 

“Here,” Damian said, the faint scratch and hiss of catching phosphorus punctuating his statement. The small flame was cupped protectively against the wind. 

“Thanks,” Jason muttered, leaning in. The paper caught with an ever-so-faint sizzle and he inhaled, slow and measured. 

It was complete and utter crap compared to what he’d smoked off and on in Argentina, but he wasn’t after the taste. He wanted the soothing rush of nicotine along with the familiar comfort of smoke and ash. 

“You’re calming down faster than I expected,” Damian eventually, leaning with his back to the railing to face the city behind them. “Your eyes aren’t green.” 

“Therapy helps with that,” Jason answered, his gaze on the dark water in front of him. 

“You went to therapy?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised. Who do you think convinced Dickie to go?” 

Damian shrugged minutely. “I must admit, Dr. Quinzel would not be my first choice, but she also makes the most sense given our line of work.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I figured too.” Jason took another puff and held it in his lungs before exhaling slowly. Might as well get this over with. “Look, I know Barbie and Dick want me to tell you to stay, that you can do what you want and be your own person and all, but I’ll be honest—leaving Gotham and all the shit here might be the best thing for you.”

“How do you figure?” the kid asked, clearly taken aback. 

“Only way to spread your wings and fly is to escape your cage.” Jason sighed and glanced up at the sky. The exhaustion was catching up with him, leaving him even shorter-tempered than usual. “I still curse your mother for what she did to me, but I’m also grateful for the different opportunities she gave me too. Yeah, a lot of my plans when I came back here were half-baked, but I was also a dumbass teenager with an overinflated sense of drama.” 

Damian snickered. “I wonder where you got it from?” 

“Gee, I wonder?” The irony wasn’t lost on him. They were all drama queens, especially when running on fumes and readying themselves for a Hail Mary attempt to come out on top. “My point is, spending time away from this place is good for the soul.” 

“Is that why you work for Oracle in certain capacities now?” 

“Yeah. The money’s good too. Better than what you’ll find on the dark web and at least I know her moral compass aligns rather closely to my own.” Jason flicked some ash into the darkness. “Which that came as a fucking surprise, the first time she asked me to kill someone for her.” 

Damian sighed with all the impatience of the young man Jason used to be. “You’re not really helping me make a decision here.” 

“What do you want me to say? That I’ll take you on as my apprentice and make you number two of a crime organization I have to rebuild from the ground up thanks to dear old Dad?” Jason turned and glared. “You’re what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? It’s high time you get out there and figure shit out for yourself instead of living life by someone else’s expectations and standards. Dick did it, I did it, you sure as fuck can do it too.” 

“But Batman is supposed to be my legacy,” Damian growled, fists clenching as his calm veneer finally cracked.

“Great. That’s just dandy. But is Batman who you think you should be or is it who you truly are?” 

The answer was a long time coming. “I don’t know.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

 

---

 

The ER wasn’t a place Jason wanted to spend time at, not with the blonde pretty boy likely still there, so he did the next best thing and returned to the bar. 

Everything was closed and locked up, but when he snuck in through the back, he saw Rochelle sitting at the bar with a bottle of whiskey at her elbow and her phone in her hand.

Between the Pit rage and his conversation with Damian, a shot sounded fan-fucking-tastic.

Removing his hood, he set it on the kitchen counter, unstrapped the holsters from his thighs, then shoved his gloves into a jacket pocket. It was the best he could do, he figured as he ran fingers through his hair to give it some semblance of life. 

Rochelle looked up when he emerged from the kitchen, startled by his entry. Her dark eyes were wet and she wiped her cheeks with her free hand. “Jason,” she greeted him with a weak smile. “I’m so glad you’re back.” 

“Me too,” he answered, taking a seat in the corner where the bar curved toward the wall. “How is he?”

No need to clarify who.

“He’s being prepped for surgery.” Rochelle sniffed and handed over her phone, then set the whiskey in easy reach between them. “Bernard is still there with him. He lied and said he was Tim’s fiancé so he could stay.” 

“This the blonde guy I heard about?” Jason accepted the phone and started scrolling through the text thread that had just started tonight. There were a few pictures of Tim in the ambulance, where some attempt had been made to clean the blood from his face so the oxygen mask wouldn’t slip. 

He looked awful. Swelling had settled in, giving him a puffy appearance that would only grow worse once the bruises purpled. 

There was no way that pretty mouth would be taking a cock any time soon. 

Fuck, but Jason should have texted him earlier. Or just showed up on his doorstep because if the way they’d left things off was any indication, Tim would have jumped him the moment he opened the damned door.

“Yeah.” Rochelle reached for the bottle and took a swig, wincing as she did. Someone apparently didn’t drink the hard stuff very often. “He said Tim’s got some broken ribs and one of them is puncturing his spleen.”

“You can live without a spleen,” Jason offered as he read through everything. “He’ll just have to take a fucking horse pill of an antibiotic until his body catches up.” 

“Still…” Rochelle shook her head. “I feel like this is all my fault. I should have told him to leave as soon as he walked in with that reporter friend of his.” 

Jason was torn as to which revelation he wanted to pounce on first. Since when did Tim know a reporter? Was it the blonde guy who apparently knew him well enough to claim to be a fiancé and get away with it? Considering Tim’s proclivities, they couldn’t be that close, right? 

Goddammit. While the worst of the Lazarus Pit-induced rage had receded, the lingering effects were clearly making the green-eyed monster raise its ugly little head. These weren’t the questions he should be asking. He needed to think with his head, not his dick.

“What exactly did happen?” he asked, handing the phone back to Rochelle. “I heard it all second hand from Hood.” 

“One fucked up thing after another.” She told him how Tim had arrived with Bernard, who apparently was a reporter, and how things were fine at first. Then she backtracked a bit and explained what Jaime had been up to, starting about a month or so after he’d left when it became obvious neither Hood nor Jason were around anymore. “And then Marco showed up. Everything happened kinda fast after that. Tim tried to go hide in the office, but Bernard stopped him to talk about something, and then Jaime walked in.” 

Jason had to consciously control his urge to punch the wall. Whoever this Bernard was, he was now at the top of his shit-list. Tim would have made it to safety if he hadn’t been distracted. 

He could only hope the pretty boy realized it and planned to wallow accordingly. If he wasn’t, then that was something Jason could fix rather quickly with a few well-placed punches. 

Hell, he might just do it anyway.

“Hood took care of him,” he said in a level tone. “Left a rather pointed message at the Crossroad.”

A broken sob escaped Rochelle’s throat and she knuckled her eyes. “Oh my god, Jason,” she hiccuped. “You have no idea how relieved that makes me. Fuck, I feel like a horrible person for sayin’ that but I don’t care. That man scared the shit outta me and then he almost killed Tim…” She shook her head sharply and took a deep swig from the whiskey bottle, then all but slammed it on the counter. “I don’t care. I’m glad he’s dead. And you can tell Hood I said that—and you can also tell him he’s not allowed to go away like that ever again. We need him around here.”

It was heart-warming to hear that, despite the fact he’d just murdered a man a few short hours ago. “Hood takes care of his own,” Jason replied. “People talk shit about him all the time, but they don’t get it. They’re not from around here.”

Rochelle nodded. “No, they’re not. Which is funny because Tim—he didn’t grow up on these streets. He didn’t see what it was like before the Red Hood started cleaning shit up. Hell, I’m pretty sure he grew up with a silver fucking spoon in his mouth. But he gets it. He’d never have signed that contract with Hood if he didn’t believe in him.”

Now that was interesting, seeing how Tim was perceived around here. He most certainly didn’t belong, not with his little—okay massive—trust fund, swanky downtown office, and his dry-cleaned shirts and ties. But instead of coasting along and just living the easy life, he was going out and putting his skills to good use for others who might not otherwise be able to afford them. He was helping people in his own way—just like Jason was. 

And it was by combining their unique skill-sets that they were going to make Crime Alley, the Bowery, and the East End a better place. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Jason said, grabbing the whiskey and taking a quick swig. “To the Bowery’s favorite number cruncher.”

A grin broke out on Rochelle’s face and she took the bottle from him. “To Tim.” Her phone chimed as she finished her sip and she lowered it to read. “Seems like the plan is to save Tim’s spleen if they can, but it’ll come out if they can’t. And then they’re gonna pin his ribs back together. I didn’t know you could do that.” 

“Yeah, they tend to do that when there’s a complete break—or it’s messy.” 

“He broke his wrist too. And he’s concussed.” 

Somehow, Jason was sure the wrist would annoy Tim more than anything else. He wouldn’t be seeing the gym or the pool for a while with an injury like that—not that he would be without a spleen or a concussion either. No, the only dick he’d be getting while he was laid up belonged to one man and one man only. 

Him. 

Rochelle’s chuckle tore him from his musings. “Bernard just said Tim was muttering about his glasses getting stepped on again.” 

Jason remembered the crunch from earlier and snorted. “Those things are turnin’ into a running gag, I swear.” 

Not to mention he was sure he’d be given a bill to replace them—again. 

Maybe this time he’d actually pay it.

 

---

 

There was a sweet spot when a person could walk into Gotham Mercy Hospital and not be given a second glance or waylaid by security. It was early when Jason arrived via the emergency room entrance, exhausted and haggard from his long night. He looked just like any number of people seated in the lobby, waiting on their loved ones. 

But unlike them, he knew the override code for every door in the building and didn’t hesitate to use it. He walked with purpose and kept his head up. Sure, his clothing didn’t scream that he was on staff, but plenty of people here kept a change of clothes for after their shifts if they weren’t dead on their feet. 

Thanks to his own judicious hacking, he knew Tim was currently in an overflow unit used for observation until a bed on the main med/surg unit opened up later in the morning. It was in the bowels of the hospital’s main floor with nary a window to be seen. 

Jason slipped into the dark, curtained room, noting the cramped space, the quiet beeping of the heart monitor Tim was hooked up to, and how he was propped up in the hospital bed. Now that he was here, all the fear and worry he’d kept bottled up since Barbie’s call had an outlet—and it didn’t escape his notice that he was feeling a lot more than he should for a man who was supposedly just an employee. 

Then again, no one else made him see green quite the way his number cruncher did. 

Speaking of, Tim was a mess. The blood had mostly been cleaned from his face, revealing some smaller cuts and scrapes. A lovely shade of purple had taken over the area around his nose and went upward, making it look like he was sporting two black eyes. Jason couldn’t see it, but given what he remembered of the back of Tim’s head, there was undoubtedly a bandage there—along with a haircut that would need to be evened out in a couple of weeks. There was a heavy cast on Tim’s left wrist, which rested on top of the thin hospital blankets drawn up to his chest. 

Honestly, if he didn’t know Tim had come out of surgery hours before, he would never have been able to tell. He just looked like he’d had the shit beaten out of him. 

Jason sighed and carefully clasped Tim’s uninjured hand, gripping ever so softly. This was his fault, ultimately. If he’d just taken care of Jaime permanently back in April when he and Tim first met, then none of this would have happened. 

At the same time, Jaime—while obnoxious as hell—hadn’t done anything at that point to warrant a death sentence. Say what you would about the Red Hood, but he tried very hard not to kill indiscriminately these days. That behavior belonged to a younger and brasher Red Hood who was fresh out of the Pit and hadn’t discovered therapy yet.

How could he have known what would happen? He couldn’t, plain and simple. While he did heal faster than the average person and rarely got sick, that didn’t mean seeing the future was in his diverse skill set. The Pit only enhanced what was already there.

Still, he knew the guilt would be following him for weeks. 

“You sure know how to get into trouble when I’m not around, don’t you?” Jason murmured, not expecting an answer. 

To his surprise, Tim stirred. Heavy-lidded blue eyes blinked sleepily, unfocused and unseeing. He shifted minutely and winced, head falling heavily to the side. The pain had him blinking harder as his vision cleared. “Jason?” he whispered in a voice that sounded and probably felt like sandpaper. 

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Tim grunted quietly. “Thirsty.” 

A cup full of half-melted ice sat on the tray table on the other side of the bed. Jason reached over to snag it, then fished a couple of the chips out. “Open wide.”

Tim made a valiant effort, but his lips barely parted thanks to the swelling. Still, once the ice hit his tongue, he gave a satisfied little groan. “More?” 

“Whatever you want.” Jason took a seat in the small chair beside the bed and placed another chip of ice in Tim’s mouth. 

The cup was almost empty when Tim spoke again. “Am I dreaming?” he asked hazily through what was no doubt the fading anesthesia from his surgery. 

“You mean did you dream about getting the shit beaten out of you or the fact that I’m here?” 

“I know I got the shit beaten out of me.” Tim tried to scrunch his nose and winced when he couldn’t. “Everything fucking hurts.”

Jason chuckled and set the cup aside, then took careful hold of Tim’s good hand again with both of his. “You’re not dreaming that I’m here.” 

“Shoulda known this wasn’t a dream.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“In my dreams, you’re fucking my brains out.” 

Jason barely managed to suppress his laughter, so what came out was the most unromantic snort instead. But it was enough to bring some light to Tim’s eyes, so he’d call that a win. “Yeah, you’re gonna need medical clearance for what I’m plannin’ to do to you.” 

A quiet huff followed by a sharp cough was Tim’s response, which immediately resulted in a louder and more pained wheeze. 

Laughter was a bitch with broken ribs. He would know, he’d had enough of them over the years. 

“See?” Jason couldn’t help saying. “Gotta be able to breathe deep and hold that breath before I’m letting you anywhere near my cock.” 

“Asshole.”

“Yeah, I’m not going near there either.” Jason gave Tim’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Go back to sleep. You’re gonna need all the rest you can get.” 

Tim sighed and what little life there was to him faded as he sagged back into the hospital bed. “Jay?” 

“Yeah?”

“Is he…” Tim swallowed and forced his eyes back open to look at him. “Is Jaime…?” 

“He’s never gonna bother you or anyone else ever again,” Jason answered in a voice like steel. “The Red Hood is back and takes care of his own.” 

That must have been enough for his number cruncher because the tension he’d been carrying—that Jason had believed to be from pain—bled out and he relaxed completely into his pillow. “Stay?” he whispered. 

Jason could think of any number of reasons why he shouldn’t, the most notable being that he wasn’t even supposed to be here in the first place.

But he made no move to stand or let go of Tim’s hand, not even when Tim’s eyes closed and he fell into a fitful sleep.

 

Notes:

A certain someone opened commissions just before the holidays last year and I reached out. I hope you guys enjoy this lovely commission as much as I do!!!

Chapter 18: Two Truths and a Lie

Notes:

Sorry for the delay! For those who don't follow me on Tumblr or are on Discord with me, I was having some RL issues at the beginning of April and then RL decided to really throw me a curveball over Easter. On the bright side, I got to have a nice refresher course in post-op recovery, which I've incorporated into this chapter and the next one. But on the flip side, I am now down yet another organ. The new joke in my family is that the Easter Bunny left me jellybeans in the wrong place.

Anyway, enough about that. I'm back, I'm getting better every day, and I used my downtime to work on Accountant once I got through the first week's brain fog. Enjoy!

“Honey, careful. You can’t lift more than ten pounds, remember?” 

Tim tried not to roll his eyes at Dana, but it was hard. All the little restrictions he had to deal with since his hospital discharge were getting old fast, even if they were warranted. “It’s two cartons of almond milk and this is my good side. And it definitely weighs less than ten pounds.” 

Dana had no such compunctions about hiding her eye roll as she took the bag from him and made her way up the front steps of Tim’s brownstone. “Yes, but you’re also not supposed to strain yourself. You get those headaches anytime your heart rate goes up.” 

Stupid concussion. He’d honestly thought dealing with all his little surgery incisions would be the biggest pain in his ass, but no. His double surgeries and the cast on his broken wrist had nothing on the level of agony he felt from his concussion-induced migraines if he so much as strained when he had to take a number two. Life would be so much easier if he could just sleep through his entire recovery period, but no. 

At least he had follow-up appointments this week. One with his surgeon and the other with his neurologist. He was more excited about the latter since he wasn’t allowed to take any of his usual migraine medications until he saw Dr. Franklin. It was just his luck that she’d been on vacation since he was released from the hospital.  

Tim grumbled and followed his foster mom up the stairs laden with a few of the lighter grocery bags instead. This was the first time he’d been home in almost two weeks—he’d spent six days in the hospital, then the last week staying with Dana who fussed over him like she had when she’d first taken him in when he was thirteen. 

It was kind of nice, but he also couldn’t get away with anything under her watchful eye. 

“When is your garbage pick-up?” Dana asked as she made her way down the hall toward the kitchen. “I bet you’ve got a few things that have gone bad.” 

“Wednesday,” Tim answered, kicking off his loafers in the foyer and stepping into his slippers. They felt nice, like a fuzzy hug on his feet. 

“Okay, so two more days. Are the trash bins still out back?” 

“Yeah.”

Tim caught up with her as she opened the fridge door.

“Oh,” she said with some surprise. 

“What?” he asked, setting his bags on the counter. “There shouldn’t be anything old enough in there to gain sentience yet.” 

Dana laughed and stepped aside. “See for yourself.”

Confused, Tim took a look inside his fridge. “Huh,” was all he could come up with at the neatly stacked and labeled containers of food. They were even dated and had reheating instructions on them. 

“Since when do you cook like this?” Dana asked, laughing. “I’m starting to think I should come over more often.” 

“I don’t,” he said, then opened the freezer for good measure. There were more resealable containers tucked away. Curiouser and curiouser… 

Then it hit him. 

Jason. 

Jason—who he hadn’t heard from at all since he first woke up in the hospital—was a stress cook that made really delicious food out of the most simple of ingredients. He was the only person who would have done this. He was the only person who could have done this.

The thought of the Red Hood parading around in his kitchen with oven mitts and an apron on, hood and all, was enough to make Tim smile. 

Of course, it would be a much more fun scenario if the oven mitts and apron were all Jason was wearing. 

He had to give his brain a mental kick before it could wander too far down that path. Erections meant elevated heart rates which led to stupidly insane headaches. He should know—he’d tried, okay? 

“So who made all of this then?” Dana pulled out a container labeled chickpea curry and gave it a closer inspection.

Dammit. Tim hadn’t intended to say anything about Jason yet, knowing it would get her hopes up like it always did when he admitted to dating someone. She dreamed that he’d settle down some day, that he’d finally be happy.

But he really hated lying to her too, so this left him with few options.

“His name is Jason,” he started off slowly, retreating to the counter where he’d left his bags. “He’s a really good cook.”

True to form, Dana latched on like a dog with a bone, her big blue eyes bright with excitement. “You don’t let just anyone have a door code,” she said leadingly.

Honestly, Tim was pretty sure Jason was either using his own or had some hacker level override on the brownstone’s alarm system. “Yeah, I don’t,” is what he replied with instead. “Jason is… It’s complicated.”

To say the least. 

Dana’s smile faded. “He an old boyfriend?” 

Tim was quick to shake his head. “No, he’s actually new. Sort of? We haven’t figured it out yet. He’s been away for work until just recently.” 

The lie he’d fabricated for Bernard rolled easily off his tongue. At least he didn’t have to think of a new one. 

“What awful timing.” Dana shook her head, her blonde hair glinting in the overhead light. “This looks like he’s either feeling guilty for not being there that night or that he just wants to take care of you.” 

Chuckling, Tim started removing some fresh fruit from the bag. “Knowing him, it could go either way.” 

“Well, if you two stay together for any length of time, I’d like to meet him—if only to say thank you for all this.” Dana put the container away and closed the fridge. “Neither of us are much good in the kitchen, even though we try. This is a lot of work.” 

It sure was. 

What would really blow her mind though was if she ever found out all of this had been made by the Red Hood.

 

---

 

After a reheated lunch courtesy of Jason’s efforts in the kitchen, Tim finally shooed Dana out the door. He loved her, he really did, but after being mother-henned for a week, he was ready for some peace and quiet. 

The stairs were an invitation to a headache, so he made his way back to the kitchen. When he’d bought the brownstone, there was an oddly placed walk-in closet on the wall closest to his small yard, adjacent to the backdoor. He’d gutted his new home and had it remodeled top to bottom—including the closet which he’d had turned into a small reading room. A new window added some natural light and he was set. The room wasn’t big enough for a bed, but it did have an overstuffed recliner, a cozy blanket, and some throw pillows. There was a small table and reading lamp for when it was dark. 

Tim didn’t use the room as much as he’d hoped, but now, boy was he glad he had it. Easy access to the kitchen for his ice packs and the half-bathroom was just down the hall. He’d only need to brave two flights of stairs when he needed a shower, which wouldn’t be for another day or so. 

Settling into the armchair, he reclined it to his liking using the remote and adjusted the ice pack for the back of his neck. The concussion gave him the most problems, seriously. Everything else felt minor by comparison, although he was certain he’d be singing a different tune the next time he got sick. His doctor had warned him it would take a while for his body to compensate for his lost spleen. 

Idly, he stared out the window at the uninspiring view of his rear neighbor’s brownstone. All the chasing around this morning had made him physically tired, but his mind was racing. 

A lot had happened since the night Jaime had his guys beat the shit out of him—and a lot of it he still hadn’t had the chance to process. 

First and foremost, Jason was back. He’d saved his life and for that, Tim owed him a million blowjobs, at least. Not that he was in any condition to do that, nor would he be until the side effects of his concussion abated. Most of the swelling had gone down and his bruises had faded into a lovely mottled shade of putrid yellow. 

There was no way in hell his heart rate wouldn’t go up at the sight of Jason’s dick. Hell, it probably would next time he laid eyes on the man, which was bad enough. 

Worth it though. 

Honestly, he’d thought Jason was a dream when he woke up in the hospital after his first surgery. What convinced him otherwise was when he woke up again later, his spare glasses were sitting on the table that swung over his bed, along with his phone charger. No one else he knew would have been able to get those, not that quickly. Dana was the only person with a code for the door and she’d been freaking out when she arrived mid-morning after he’d messaged her. 

His memory was spotty about what had transpired. Sure, he knew the big picture, but it was all the little details that were escaping him. Truth be told, Tim was okay with that. He didn’t exactly want to remember the sound his head made when it went splat or the crunch when boots had met his ribs. 

The aftereffects were bad enough, thanks. 

But there was one memory he clung to, one he was a thousand percent certain was real. 

A heavy boot planting itself right in front of his face—crushing his glasses in the process—and the flash of red before he’d closed his eyes. Given the circumstances, Tim was more than willing to forgo any bitching he’d normally do about Jason breaking his glasses again.

Because Jason had rescued him—had saved him like some damsel in distress. 

The phone call neither Tim nor Rochelle believed would result in anything had made it to the one person they needed most. When had Jason returned? Had he been back for very long? 

Tim was willing to bet half his trust fund it hadn’t been. He wasn’t conceited enough to believe Jason would come see him first, but he was fairly sure he was near the top of the list—if only from a money perspective and to see what was going on with it.  

Jason’s return was reassuring on so many levels that Tim didn’t want to unpack yet, but in the short-term, what allowed him to sleep at night was the knowledge that Jaime wouldn’t ever be able to hurt anyone again. 

He shied away from the word dead. It was easier to process this way, thinking that the man who’d been responsible for his injuries had just vanished from the streets and that was that. Deep down, however, he knew.

Jaime was dead. The Red Hood—Jason—had killed him for what he’d done. 

The man who’d thoughtfully brought his spare glasses and phone charger, who’d made all the food sitting in his fridge, who’d no doubt cleaned out said fridge first and taken out the trash, had killed for him.  

It wasn’t exactly a boost to his ego, but at the same time, it didn’t bother him either—not as much as it probably should. What happened, it went deeper than just a business relationship. Given what he knew about Hood already, it was safe to assume he was more than willing to protect his own or those who proved useful to him. He didn’t kill indiscriminately. Each time he pulled that trigger, there was a reason.

A purpose. A message.

And in this case, the message wasn’t just don’t fuck with Tim Drake. No, it was I’m back and I’m reclaiming what’s mine.

It was kind of nice to feel like he belonged to someone, even if it was Gotham’s most notorious crime lord. Even moreso, he had a purpose he’d never had before. Sure, it was easy to say Tim’s job consisted of unfucking what he’d done to Jason’s criminal empire. But it was more than that now. What he’d started with the East Side Project, it was growing and, given a bit more time, would become so much more than just a front for moving laundered money back into the community. 

This was Tim’s project now—and it was all thanks to the Red Hood. 

He had never really thought of himself as a person who got all fired up over truth and justice. He’d been broken in more ways than the physical the day his parents died. Ives, who had been his best friend since they started middle school together, had commented on it once. Said he was more cynical and there was an edge to him that had never been there before. 

As he’d grown older, the edge only became more pronounced—a fact Tim fully acknowledged. It had only been in the last few years he’d started going sporadically to counseling again. 

Even though he wasn’t a regular, it had helped and was why he wasn’t fully on the path of self-destruction he’d been on in his late teens and early twenties. Despite what his grades might have indicated, you could be a total raging dumpster fire of a human being and still put out straight A’s. 

He’d moved on with his life and, honestly, he was mostly okay with how he’d turned out. 

He had a good job, owned his own home, had more money than he really knew what to do with, enjoyed a rather unusual social life, and he paid his taxes. 

And then he met Jason and his whole world turned upside down—and at the same time, he’d been given the chance to do and be a part of something so much more.

It was kind of hard to be mad about that. 

Tim sighed and removed his glasses to set them on the end table. A headache was starting to brew, no doubt because of his growing frustration over why, if he were a morally upright citizen, he felt no guilt whatsoever about Jaime’s death. 

When it came down to it, Jason made the choice—him or Jaime—and had chosen him.

End of story. 

As he tugged his blanket up and closed his eyes, it finally clicked what was bothering him about it all. 

It wasn’t his lack of guilt. No, it was the fact he wasn’t bothered at all by Jason’s actions—not the ones last week, or the ones last month, or even in the last decade. The Red Hood had a reputation and a well-deserved one at that. 

Or did he? Tim thought back to the night they’d met and how Rochelle had treated him. He was just one of the guys, shooting the breeze as he drank his beer and watched everyone and everything around him. Nothing special to see here, nope, no siree. Jason was just one of the guys—who happened to have a rep for being close to the Red Hood. 

If Jason went around doing business as himself and leaned on Hood’s violent rep to get things done, then wasn’t that the smarter way to get things done? Because if there was one thing Tim knew with absolute certainty, it was that Jason was far from stupid. 

He was dangerously intelligent and just as charismatic. Add in what he was capable of physically, and the answer became clear to see.

Hood acted when he had to and Jason took care of the rest. Easy peasy. 

Tim sighed and shifted to relieve some pressure on his pinned-together ribs where his spleen used to be. 

Seriously, what was his life even?

 

---

  

The following afternoon, Tim was in the midst of an internal debate about whether he was ready to brave the staircase to take a shower when the doorbell rang. 

Sighing, he lowered the controller he was still trying to figure out how to use with a cast on from the Gamestation he’d had Dana retrieve from his game room. Company wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities given his spleenless ass had to wear a mask around other people. 

Speaking of which, where did he put them? 

The doorbell rang again. 

“Shit.” Tim picked up his phone and swiped at the screen to open his security app to see who was outside. When he wasn’t dead on his feet or hungover, he actually used it. 

Bernard stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels like he was still in high school and waiting for a date.

Tim should know, he’d seen this move plenty of times when the two of them were dating. 

Truthfully, he didn’t feel up for company—especially Bernard’s because there was only one thing he’d want to talk about and it just so happened to be the very last thing Tim felt like discussing. But if he didn’t do it now, then his friend would return, quite possibly with reinforcements. 

With another sigh, he tapped on the microphone. “Hey. Give me a minute. I’m moving a lot slower than usual.” 

“Is this a bad time?” Bernard asked, his hopeful puppy look falling. 

“I don’t have a headache, so that’s a win.” Tim cast about for his mask and found it sitting on the side table where he kept his keys. It was too practical a spot for him to have left it, so Dana must have placed a few around the house. 

Carefully, he eased himself off the sofa. The incisions from his two surgeries—one for his spleen and the other to pin his ribs into place after one started poking a lung—didn’t pull much anymore, but he was still achingly aware of the tape and glue keeping things closed. 

He padded across the living room and snagged the mask as he entered the foyer. They were a necessary evil. With his immune system shot all to hell, he’d need to keep them around, especially when he wandered outside this coming winter. 

Apparently the need for a mask was a surprise to Bernard, if his expression was anything to go by when Tim opened the door. 

“Damn, I didn’t even think…” he floundered. “Do you want me to wear one too?” 

Tim shrugged. “Up to you. It’s better if you do, but if not, just don’t get too close. I’m on antibiotics, but no need to tempt fate.” 

“Do you have any spares?” 

“You know, that’s a good question. I think Dana said she’d left some, but I’ll be damned if I can remember where.” Tim stood aside to let his friend pass by, then closed and locked the door behind him. 

“How are you doing?” Bernard asked, following along through the foyer and into the living room. “Looks like the bruising is almost gone.” 

The last time Tim had seen Bernard was the day he’d been released from the hospital just over a week ago when his bruises were still a lovely putrid shade of green. 

“Adjusting,” he answered as he resumed his seat on the sofa and wrapped his blanket around him. He had a feeling he’d need the illusory armor considering this was an unannounced visit. “The headaches are the worst part now. As soon as my heart rate goes up, I’ll start getting one. I thought my migraines were bad, but these are so much worse.” 

Bernard winced. He knew Tim’s history with migraines. “Does anything help?”

“Dark, white noise, and my ice packs take the edge off, but otherwise I have to ride them out since I can’t take my migraine meds yet. It’s hard to tell if those would even do any good. These feel different.” Which really sucked and was something he planned to speak with his neurologist about at their appointment in a few days. 

“Oh man. I’m sorry.” Bernard took a seat in the dark leather armchair and set his messenger bag on the floor beside him. His lips were red and slightly swollen, which either meant someone had a new partner or he was biting them again. The latter was a nervous habit he’d never quite grown out of. “Are you allowed to drive yet?”

“Yes, since I’m not on narcotics anymore.” The one thing that helped with his headaches and he was finally out of those pills. “But since I don’t like driving during the day when all the assholes are out, it doesn’t do me any good.”

Bernard started chuckling. “Do you need me to drive you to your appointments?”

Tim wouldn’t say no. “You just want the excuse to drive my new car.”

He’d bought an SUV not long after Jason left. Ostensibly, it was for all the case files and boxes of receipts he’d lug around for work, but if push came to shove, he could hide a body in the trunk. Not that he believed this would ever be the case, but he liked to plan ahead. 

“Yeah,” Bernard grinned. “So is that a yes?”

Tim nodded. “That’s a yes. Thank you. I was just going to use an Uber.”

“Like you need to be exposed to more crap than you should be. I can’t do much, but I can at least help in this way.” Blowing out a breath, Bernard’s mood sobered. “Look, I know I said this before, but we were at the hospital and you were pretty high on pain meds, but I am so so sorry about everything. If I hadn’t stopped you, then Jaime would never have spotted you and none of this would have happened.” 

This was something Tim did remember about that night. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But what’s done is done.”

Bernard shot him a quizzical look. “You’re a lot more mellow about this than I was expecting.”

“Honestly, I don’t really remember all that much.” Tim idly plucked at the seam on the blanket, trying to figure out what to say next. “It’s like I know what happened, but at the same time, it’s all fuzzy—kinda like how things are without my glasses. I feel like I was there and not there at the same time.” 

Bernard’s eyes were as expressive as ever. And by the narrow cast to them, it was clear he wasn’t entirely pleased by this revelation. “So you don’t remember what you said?” he asked, leadingly. 

“No?” Tim wasn’t sure where this was going. “Although I’m pretty sure I said something to piss off Jaime. That seems like something I would have done—and it’s what I did the night we met that put me on his shit list in the first place.”

His answer didn’t seem to make his friend any happier. In fact, it looked like it was doing the opposite. 

“Rochelle told me more about that—the night you and Jaime met,” Bernard clarified. “She said you met Jason that night too.”

“Yeah.” Tim chuckled ruefully at the memory. “I went from wanting to get railed across the pool table to getting pistol-whipped in less than five minutes.”

“Jason seems like he’s pretty impressive, physically.”

“He is, but I’ve told you that before.” 

Bernard’s lips thinned. “When we were at the bar, did you know someone would answer the phone? For the call Rochelle made, I mean.”

The change of topic was enough to give Tim whiplash. “What?”

“When you told Rochelle to make that call, did you know someone would answer the phone?”

Tim had a feeling he was on thin ice here, but he’d be damned if he could figure out why. “No. She was calling the number that…” Oh shit. There went his lie about what Jason did for a living. He needed to be careful with how he proceeded. “That Jason gives out whenever there’s trouble and you need a hand.”

“I heard you tell her you didn’t think anyone would answer.”

“Did I?” For the first time, he wished he remembered all the details from that fateful night. 

“But you said she should call anyway.”

“There was a snowball’s chance in hell that someone would answer,” Tim answered, starting to feel and sound more than a little testy over what was apparently an interrogation. “I figured it would go to voicemail.”

“Because you already knew Jason was out of town and wouldn’t answer.”

“Right.” He’d kissed him right over there in the foyer before he’d vanished out of Gotham and his life for three fucking months.

Bernard leaned forward. “But someone does show up. The Red Hood.”

“Bet that made you happy.”

“It did, mostly because he came out of fucking nowhere and saved your life. Jaime was standing over you and was about to shoot.” Bernard gripped his knees so hard his knuckles went white. “I’d never been more scared and felt more useless in my entire life. I thought I was going to lose you and then…”

Rather than saying anything, Tim waited for him to collect himself. There were tears in those big blue eyes and he’d never done well in the face of tears. 

“...and then the Red Hood crashes in like some kind of avenging angel,” Bernard shook his head and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I understood then why people in the East End speak of him the way they do. To them, he’s their hero even though he’s also a crime lord who ought to be behind bars.” His gaze hardened. “What I don’t understand is why you’re working for him.”

Tim’s world narrowed into one singular tunnel as everything else lit up around him. This was bad. This was so bad. When had Bernard figured it out? Did he know Jason and Hood were the same person? From the way he was talking, odds were likely he did, and oh fuck, this was bad.

Creeping up in the wake of his racing heart and skyrocketing stress levels were the beginnings of a headache that would no doubt be a doozy.

He was suddenly glad for the mask over his mouth that at least shielded some of his reactions from the man who knew him so well. “What makes you think that?” he managed to ask. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Bernard all but spat in disbelief. “You think you can lie your way out of this?”

“Lie my way out of what?” Tim countered. “I told you I did some work in the Bowery and yes, Rochelle was one of my clients. But nowhere in there is any leap of logic that says I’m working for the Red Hood.”

“You said at the bar, right before Jaime dragged you outside, that you worked for the Red Hood. In fact, your exact words were I know Hood’s organization—from the financial perspective—inside and out.” 

Shit. Oh shit. 

Tim’s mind raced as he struggled to remember. But the fog over that night was thick and the glimpses he managed after his head cracked against the pool table were nebulous at best—not that this would save him in the face of Bernard’s accusation. 

“I don’t… I don’t remember saying that,” Tim tried, but Bernard cut him off.

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t you dare lie to me, not about this.”

“I’m not! ” Tim snarled in return. “I already told you my memories of that night are fuzzy. Or did you miss the part where I apparently cracked my head open on a pool table?” 

Bernard’s mouth snapped shut, lips thinning even more as he bit back his retort. “I swear to god, you’d better not be lying,” he said after a pregnant pause. 

“I swear on Dana, I’m not!” The living room was starting to become too bright, even though the curtains were mostly closed. The only light came from the anime screensaver on the wall-mounted TV and from the back of the house where his kitchen blinds were open. Tim took a deep breath to try and bring his breathing and racing heart under control.

Bernard breathed heavily out his nose. “You told Jaime you worked for the Red Hood after I made the suggestion he might find you useful, given your day job.”

Logically, it made sense.

“Then you staggered up and agreed with me, said that even crime lords need number crunchers—especially after they’ve been raided by the FBI.”

That made even more sense.

“Now, I figure you were either trying to save your ass or you were telling the truth.” Bernard sighed and shook his head. He sounded as exhausted as Tim now felt. “But there were too many little pieces that just fell into place. You weren’t lying. You were telling the truth.”

It hurt too much to lie anymore. 

Tim closed his eyes against the light and the stabbing pain. “I was.”

“Oh my god.”

That summed it up nicely.

“Tim, I—You have to know what kind of reputation the Red Hood has—what he’s capable of.” 

“I do.” Short sentences he could manage. Tim cracked open an eye in time to see Bernard reach into the messenger bag at his feet and toss a folded-over page of what was probably the Gotham Gazette onto the sofa. 

It landed just close enough that he could make out the small headline. 

Body Found in Crime Alley Identified

Beneath it was a grainy booking photo of Jaime from a previous arrest. 

“He killed him,” Bernard said, punctuating every word. “The Red Hood killed him. According to the autopsy report, the back of his head was blown to pieces. You know what does that? A really big fucking gun, which he had two of. TWO. I’m pretty sure those guns aren’t even legal in this country.” 

Tim raised his head to catch his friend’s gaze. “Do you honestly expect me to feel guilty after what Jaime did to me? That if I had to choose, I’d pick him over me?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. And don’t change the subject,” Bernard tacked on. “You’re working for the Red Hood. You’re working for a guy who’s capable of this.” He jabbed a finger at the newspaper, eyes wide with unveiled concern. “So I ask—What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Plenty.” Tim closed his eyes against the strobing lights that now danced across his vision. Damn, but he needed his ice pack and fast. He took a deep breath, in and out, trying to calm down. The mask got in the way and he shoved it down. Thinking straight was never a strong suit of his when in the throes of a migraine and unfortunately, Bernard knew it. 

“I know that. I’ve known that for a long time. It’s why we broke up in the first place.”

“Then you also know I don’t do anything unless I have a good reason for it.” There was no way in hell he would ever admit he’d said yes because he was bored and that the Red Hood had the cock of a freaking god. Nope, never happening. 

“But the Red Hood?” Bernard asked like it made absolutely no sense whatsoever. “Nobody even knows exactly how many people he’s killed over the years. He’s the meanest and most vicious crime lord Gotham has ever seen save for Black Mask.” 

Tim knew all of this. He really did. But he also knew a roguish smirk and cocky attitude that melted away to reveal a man with a kind smile and a heart that was probably three sizes too big for the chest containing it. This was the Red Hood he knew. 

And suddenly, the right words came to him. 

“He is so much more than that,” he said quietly against the throbbing pain. He forced his eyes open to reinforce his point. “I only worked for him for about two weeks before he left. But it was eye-opening to see where all that drug money really goes, even when he didn’t have a lot of it left.” 

Bernard latched on to the scent of a story with all the tenacity of a bloodhound. “Where?” 

Tim shook his head and instantly regretted it as an icepick bored into the back of his skull and a roaring started up in his ears, pulsing in time with his heart. Goddamn concussion. This was going to be a doozy. “Back into his community.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and sagged into the sofa, trying to steady his breathing. It sounded loud and harsh to his ears, like he’d just been running a marathon. Damn, but he wished he remembered exactly what he’d said at the bar that night. He was used to being blind as a bat, but he was literally running in the dark here. 

Something cold touched the side of his face and Tim jerked. Another flash of pain had him wincing. 

“Here,” said Bernard quietly. “It’s the cold gel-pack you put over your eyes. I found it in the freezer.” 

“Thanks,” Tim muttered. He removed his glasses and handed them over in exchange for the cooling mask. It was a bandaid for a gaping wound for all the good it would do, but as the gel-pack settled over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, the numbing tingle had him letting out a little sigh of pained relief. 

“You’re sweating,” Bernard said, voice distant over the roar.

“Happens sometimes.” He really didn’t want to lie here on the sofa where he’d wake up a sweaty and sticky mess later, but the effort to make his way back to his little reading room seemed monumental. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

“Haven’t you done enough?” It slipped out because of course his filter—what little he had of one—had fucked off to go cower in a dark corner. 

“Geez, Tim. I’m sorry. I know you said you were still dealing with side effects from the concussion, but I didn’t realize they were this bad. If I had, I wouldn’t have—” 

“Yeah, you would. You’re a reporter and I’m your hot story.” 

“You’re a hot mess,” Bernard retorted. “And even though I’m pissed as all hell at you, you’re still my friend and I want to help.” 

“Fine.” Tim raised his good hand in the general direction Bernard’s voice was coming from. “Help me to my reading room. My other ice pack is drying in the sink and needs to be refilled.”

It was from the hospital and was pretty useful even though it was wearing out quickly. 

By the time Bernard got him settled and retrieved the ice pack for his neck, Tim was about ready to pass out. It was a vicious cycle—the pain kept his heart racing despite his efforts to calm himself and use those stupid breathing exercises that worked so infrequently he might as well be breathing normally for all the good they did. Ice was the only thing that took the edge off until he managed to fall asleep. 

A bump against the side of the chair roused Tim enough to notice Bernard reaching under the blanket to gingerly take his hand. “Hmm?”

“I really am sorry,” Bernard said in a low tone, his thumb brushing over the back of Tim’s knuckles. “I shouldn’t have pushed like that.” 

“Hmm.” He didn’t especially feel like being vocal anymore. 

“It’s just… There’s this Jason guy you’re hung up on and now I find out you were involved with the Red Hood. Then at the bar, I find out Jason was the guy who saved you from Jaime—and with the way the Red Hood came roaring in to save you from him again, I just… I can’t help but wonder if they’re one and the same.” 

Panic roused Tim from his stupor, as did a memory of shelving that exact thought to worry about later. How the hell had he forgotten that?  

Did he say anything? Did he keep quiet? What the hell should he do? He’d already fucking told Bernard he thought he was in the L-word-that-shall-not-be-said with Jason and just urgh. Fuck his life. Seriously.

There were two ways out of this. One, he could just pretend to pass out and pretend he never heard a thing, which would be really easy considering the icepick still stabbing at his brain. Or two… he could tell the truth because he was fucking tired of lying. 

Tim squeezed Bernard’s hand. “I’ve thought the same thing. I just haven’t had the balls to ask.” 

Wow. He said it. Holy shit. 

Bernard chuckled. “Plausible deniability?” 

“Something like that. Though I’m pretty sure he knows I know and is just dicking me around because he thinks it’s funny.” 

“Wow. You make it sound like the Red Hood is a real person.” 

Tim shifted closer to Bernard and felt the brush of denim against the sliver of his cheek. “That’s because he is. Did you know he stress cooks? Everything in my fridge and freezer, he made.” 

“Yeah?” Bernard sighed and Tim could just see him shaking his head incredulously. “That is so hard to believe.” 

“He’s also got the dick of a god.” 

“Now that isn’t too hard to believe.”

 

Chapter 19: A Little TLC

Notes:

I know I'm late, but work is a bitchy bitch.

Also, I was waiting for a last minute treat to add to this chapter, so enjoy!

“You look like shit,” Jason offered as he waltzed into Ozzy’s office on the top floor of the Iceberg Lounge. He sat down in front of the desk and put his feet up, mostly to piss the old geezer off. The last place he wanted to be was here, but given the fact most of the criminal enterprises in the city were managed by him or the Penguin, meetings like this were a necessary evil. 

But since he’d been out of town for a few months and only back on his feet for a few weeks following the raid, it begged the question of why the old bird was calling a meeting. The message Jason had sent with Jaime’s death hadn’t been aimed at the Penguin, after all. 

Ozzy waved his fancy-ass cigarette holder breezily and coughed, sounding like he was squawking and hacking up a lung at the same time. His color, already off, grayed. “Shut it, kid.”

Jason snorted. No one called him kid anymore except this asshat. “Might want to lay off the cigarettes, old man. Those things might kill you one day.”

“Too late,” Ozzy wheezed and gestured to something unseen behind his desk. “Can’t go anywhere without this.” He held up a nasal cannula.

“Shit, I hope that valve is turned off.” Oxygen and fire made for one big boom.

“Not how I plan to go out.” Ozzy stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and leaned back in his chair. “In fact, that’s part of why I want to talk to you tonight.”

“You want me to kill you?” It would be both a pleasure and a mercy to plant one between those cold beady eyes. 

“Amongst other things.” The Penguin coughed again, thick and wet, and fiddled with the nasal cannula, setting it back up so he could get the O2 he clearly needed. “Stage four lung cancer, kid. Doctors give me until the end of the year, tops.”

Jason was starting to see where this whole meeting was going. Ozzy wanted to talk succession. “Sorry to hear that.”

“No, you’re not, but I appreciate the platitude.”

“Okay, you got me there. Seriously though, if you want me to take you out before shit gets real bad, I will. I’ll even go all Hollywood for you and engrave your name on the bullet.” The Penguin liked drama, so why not? It wasn’t like Jason would have to shoot very far.

“Yeah, I like that.” Ozzy nodded, seemingly pleased with the offer. “But that’s not what I really want to discuss tonight.”

“Oh?”

Ozzy wheezed through a chuckle. “In fact, you could say I’ve got an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Like I haven’t heard that line before.”

 

---

 

The offer was a doozy, that much was for sure. So much so that as soon as Jason left the Iceberg Lounge, he went home, showered to get all the stink of stale cigarette smoke off him, and made a beeline to Tim’s.

He sure hoped his number cruncher was awake because he sure as fuck needed to pick his brain. 

For the last week, Jason had made sure to stop by and check on Tim at night, even if the other man didn’t know it. The blonde woman he was staying with was apparently his old foster mom, which was pretty freaking cool in Jason’s book. His own experience with the foster system had been less than stellar, but here was a person who’d gone and done it right. 

Tim was home now, and when Jason checked on him last night, he’d been asleep in a small reading nook at the back of the brownstone on the first floor. He was all tucked in and cozy, so Jason had left without a word. 

Sneaking in involved entering through an upstairs window. The large bedroom was dark save for the usual nightlights illuminating the way to the ensuite bathroom. 

From the look of things, Tim hadn’t slept in his bed since arriving home yesterday. The dark blue duvet was still neatly folded from when Jason had made the bed a week ago and the sheets were too crisp for someone running around with a broken wing.

He frowned and made his way down the stairs.

There wasn’t any sign of life in the game room on the second level either. In fact, it was completely dark here too. Was Tim living entirely on the first floor? Why? Broken ribs were a bitch, but if you took it slow, stairs weren’t much of a problem—especially when there were pins holding the bone in place. It could be he was having problems with his surgery incisions. They were small, but plentiful from what Jason had found in Tim’s chart. 

But even after two surgeries, Tim should be walking around. It was good for him. 

As he hit the main floor, it dawned him. 

It wasn’t the broken ribs or his surgical wounds that were causing Tim problems with the stairs—it was his concussion. 

Why else would he look like death warmed over as he staggered his way down the hall, his good hand planted firmly on the wall with each shaky step while sweating buckets? 

So much for picking his brain. 

“Good fucking lord,” Jason breathed as he caught hold of Tim before he hurt himself some more. Gingerly, he brushed back his damp bangs, noting the clamminess to Tim’s skin, to get a look at his eyes. 

First off, Tim wasn’t wearing his glasses, which begged the question of where the hell they even were. Secondly, how dare those eyes look so good even with the pupils all blown out and glassy like he’d just been righteously fucked. And third… “What the hell are you doing? You look like death warmed over.”

“Headache,” came the slurred answer. “Wanna shower.”

“Your shower is up two flights of stairs.”

“Yeah.” Tim let out a long breath, then face planted into Jason’s chest and the t-shirt he wore beneath his jacket. “Today sucked,” he offered, voice muffled. 

Jason just stared in bemusement as his number cruncher tried to bury his face between his pecs. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Tim rooted around for another moment, then planted his chin on Jason’s sternum to stare. “Hi,” he said, regarding him with those gorgeous eyes. “Where have you been?” 

“Here and there. I’ve been keeping tabs on you though.” 

“And raiding my kitchen.”

“You had food that needed to be cooked. I’m not sorry.” He wasn’t, especially since it meant he could make healthy meals for the man in his arms. 

Tim sighed and blinked slowly against the glassiness in his eyes. “This isn’t how I thought things would play out when you finally came back.” 

The words were clearer than Jason expected, given how fucked up the man looked. 

“Me neither,” he said, catching hold of him by the waist and placing a tender kiss on the top of his head. “I had plans.” 

“Did they involve bending me over the nearest surface and fucking me so hard I wouldn’t be able to walk straight?” 

And up against the wall, on the kitchen counter, in the shower, and pretty much every horizontal surface they could find. Nice to see they were on the same page here. 

Jason ruefully chuckled. “Somethin’ like that.”

Tim nodded carefully, then winced and let out a small grunt as he closed his eyes again. “I got a headache,” he announced, repeating his earlier statement.

“From your concussion?” 

“Yeah. Bad day.” 

“So you’ve said.” Jason gave Tim an assessing look and made a decision. In the back of his mind, he could hear Steph saying mother hen mode, activated. “I’m gonna take pity on you and carry you upstairs. Don’t get sick on me.” 

With that, he scooped his number cruncher into his arms, mindful of his left side and the freshly pinned ribs which no longer protected a spleen. 

“Oh,” was Tim’s only reaction before he buried his face into Jason’s shoulder. “This is nice.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it. You’re heavier than you look.” 

“I’m a swimmer,” Tim muttered, sounding a little defensive. “I have muscle.” 

Jason laughed to himself as he made his way back down the hall toward the staircase. Someone was turning out to be a riot when he wasn’t feeling well. “You sure do.”

Tim was quiet all the way upstairs—so quiet Jason was starting to think he’d fallen asleep despite his proclamation for wanting a shower. The sweating had stopped now that he wasn’t overdoing it, so that was good. Worse came to worst, he’d just lay him out on the bed, strip him down, and give him a quick sponge bath. 

Now that he thought about it, that would be easiest. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about Tim slipping and cracking his head again in the shower. 

Jason didn’t quite make it to the bed before Tim started fussing. 

“No. Shower.”

“Are you even able to stand?” Then another thought occurred to him. “Is your cast waterproof? Or do you have a cover for it?” 

“Waterproof.” Tim made a futile kick which did absolutely nothing to induce Jason into letting him go. “Got it two days ago.” 

“Nice.” Deciding it was probably better to let Tim see how stupid an idea it was to shower, Jason made his way to the bathroom that took up the back third of the floor. “That mean you can swim?” 

“Depends on the headaches.” Tim sighed and pressed his face back into Jason’s shoulder. “And my immune system. I never thought I’d miss my spleen.” 

“You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.”

“Yeah.”

In the dim glow cast by the nightlights, Tim’s bathroom reminded Jason a lot of what he’d seen in the family wing at Wayne Manor—just on a much more modern scale of whites and various shades of gray in a stonework design. There was an infinity bathtub sitting in front of the windows, which were glazed over for privacy. That would be fun to use at some point. 

The shower was opposite the floating cabinets and sinks. It rather conveniently didn’t have a door, but it did have a solid half-wall and glass above that. What was really smart was the built-in seat, which was easily accessible by the hand-held shower attachment. The main showerhead was a rainwater type and perfect if a person was able to stand up right—which Tim wasn’t. 

Jason set the man on the toilet. It was the one place in the bathroom where if he bit it, he wouldn’t land wrong.

“Don’t gotta pee,” Tim whined as Jason knelt to remove his slippers. “I did that downstairs.” 

“Good. But you don’t want to shower with these sweaty clothes on, do you?” Seriously, taking care of Tim was nothing like taking care of Abby when she was sick—she just wanted to curl up and be left alone. 

Which, now that he thought about it, was a lot like what he did. 

Tim gave a pained sigh, then started trying to take his shirt off. Of course, he managed to get lost in it, which made Jason chuckle. 

“Stop that,” he chided and took hold of the sleeves. “Are you allowed to raise your arms?” 

“Not above my shoulders.” 

“Okay. Gimme a second then.” It took a bit of wriggling, but Jason managed to pull the shirt over Tim’s head, then guide his arms out. 

There was a gauze pad taped over the front of Tim’s abdomen that he wasn’t expecting—and a second one on his left side. The three other small incisions were still taped up and, in the dim light, appeared to be healing just fine. 

“You haven’t been cleared to take those off yet?” he asked, gently running fingers over Tim’s taped side when he didn’t respond. 

“Appointment is tomorrow,” Tim sighed and slumped forward. “They can come off in the shower.” 

“And fresh ones put on after?” Jason finished when his number cruncher didn’t. 

“Yeah.” 

“Lucky for you, I’m good at this sort of thing.” 

“Yay.” Tim didn’t sound too enthused. 

“Where are your clean ones?”

“…Downstairs bathroom.” 

Jason huffed a sigh. Of course they were. “Okay. I’m gonna wash my hands and get these off you.” 

“’kay.” 

Tim didn’t bite it while he washed up at the sink and used the nice hand soap he’d never bother to buy unless it was on extreme discount. 

Returning to the toilet, he figured it would be easier to remove the gauze if Tim were standing, so Jason carefully hauled him back to his feet. “Let me know if anything hurts,” he said, crouching down for a better angle. 

A hand settled onto his head and gripped his hair. “My head hurts,” Tim announced, like that was news. 

“Yeah, I know, pretty bird.” Jason plucked at the gauze tape and it came up easily, revealing another piece of tape over a small incision in Tim’s belly button. The gauze was completely clean, so why it was still in use was a mystery. “Just a little bit longer and I’ll get you tucked into bed.” 

“Are you gonna fuck me to sleep?” 

The question came out of nowhere and Jason startled. “Seriously? You can barely stand, let alone form a coherent sentence. No, I’m not gonna fuck you tonight.” 

There was an honest-to-god pout on Tim’s lips. “It might help with my headache.”

The logic was sound—endorphin rush and all that—but Jason still wasn’t buying it. “If you behave, maybe I’ll give you a hand-job.” 

Maybe. He doubted Tim would stay awake in the shower, so the vague promise didn’t cost him anything. Shifting slightly, he prodded at Tim’s left side and pulled the tape up there. Whoever had put the gauze on had done a good job of securing it. 

Tim offered a faint grunt in reply, so Jason hoped he’d drop the subject. 

This gauze pad concealed a larger incision that was also neatly taped and looking good as well. Tossing the used gauze in the small trash bin, he took Tim’s hand and guided him to the sink where he readied a toothbrush. “Brush your teeth while I get the water going and warmed up for you.” 

The glare tossed his way was highly unamused, but Tim jerked the toothbrush from him and managed to get it in his mouth without hurting himself. 

Someone was apparently pissy about not getting his way. 

Whatever. Jason could live with that. 

Venturing into the shower, it took a moment to figure out the various knobs and handles. Tim apparently liked his water hot given the placement, but Jason didn’t think a sauna would help him tonight. Besides, really hot water wasn’t good for glued surgical incisions. He got the water going on the hand-held shower head and aimed it at the tiled seat. 

“Oh, good. You figured it out.” 

The voice surprised Jason and he cast a look over his shoulder to see Tim leaning against the entrance of the shower. He’d kicked off his boxers at some point and was absently running his good hand through the wiry curls at the base of his soft dick. 

It shouldn’t be hot in the slightest, not with the dull glaze in his eyes and the slackness of his expression, but Jason’s mouth watered at the sight. 

Sue him, he hadn’t had sex in months and it wasn’t his fault the last time he did, it had been mind-blowing enough he’d lost track of half of it because the fucking Pit took over. Fuck but he needed to get laid again—preferably this by man who really knew his way around a cock. “Yeah. Now come here and sit down.”

Tim wobbled forward on weak legs, extending his good arm to Jason so he could help him sit and not go splat. He closed his eyes and sighed so loudly it could be heard over the sound of the running water. “Fuck, I missed this.”

“I can see why. Got a nice set-up here.” 

“Paid through the ass for it.” 

Jason chuckled. “I bet. Worth it?” 

“Oh yeah.” 

Tim didn’t look like he was moving anytime soon, so Jason stepped out of the shower. “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“’kay.” 

He was downstairs in a flash, finding the clean gauze and tape right where Tim said they would be. On impulse, he detoured to the kitchen and turned on the light, spotting what he’d hoped to find on the counter—Tim’s prescription meds. Given the amount of pain his number cruncher was in, there had to be something he could take… 

But there was nothing. 

The only meds were a horsepill of an antibiotic, a prescription multivitamin, and an open packet of sublingual anti-nausea tablets. 

Jason stood there and frowned. It made sense, logically speaking. Tim had been out of the hospital for two weeks now, so if he’d had pain pills, he would have finished them already. Doctors didn’t exactly prescribe them like candy anymore these days—and he knew all too well what happened when people got addicted to them. 

Still, given the amount of obvious pain Tim was in, he should have something. 

Biting his lip, Jason took a quick look in the fridge to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. Nothing. On impulse, he then waved his hand over the top of the motion-activated sensor on the trash can. 

“Jackpot,” he muttered, spotting a discarded pill bottle at the bottom of the mostly empty bag. 

Carefully, he picked it out and held it up to read. 

It was Tim’s prescription pain meds—including the name, the dose, and the frequency. Given that the bottle had originally had five days worth of pills at most, the fact it was just discarded today—or maybe yesterday—someone had stretched it out. 

A plan was forming in the back of his mind for what he was doing after he left here tonight. But first, he needed to check a few things with Tim. 

Jason chucked the bottle back in the trash and re-washed his hands at the kitchen sink. Retrieving the gauze and tape, he was back upstairs in no time. 

When he entered the bathroom, there was an acidic tang in the air he knew all too well. Sighing, he set the items on the counter and then went to poke his head into the shower. 

Tim looked like he hadn’t even moved, but the scent of bile was stronger here. 

“Hey,” Jason checked in a low voice. “You alright?”

“No,” came the raspy reply. 

“Got sick, didn’t ya?” 

Tim sighed and shifted minutely. “Yeah. I got sick earlier too, so there wasn’t much to come up.” 

“I bet.” Jason cast about, wondering exactly how much he should even move Tim at this point. But after getting sick like that, possibly on himself, he really did need to be soaped down. “Do you think you can wash yourself or do you need help?”

It was a loaded question, given how Tim had wanted him to fuck him to sleep earlier. Getting his hands on his number cruncher would be nice, but at this point, he would much rather make sure Tim would be waking up in the morning rather than getting his dick wet. 

“Help,” Tim mumbled in reply, unmoving. 

Jason eyed the hand-held showerhead and how it was mostly just raining down on one side. It could be angled closer, but then the water might directly rain down on Tim’s incisions, which was a no-no until the surgeon said otherwise. The only option was to get Tim standing and under the overhead shower—which meant Jason not only had to support him, but would also be getting very wet in the process unless he stripped down too. 

He sighed and wondered how this was his life. The first time he got to be completely naked with his number cruncher—and sharing a shower at that—one of them had to be utterly out of commission. 

Not fair. 

Without saying a word, Jason got undressed, then stepped into the shower and padded around Tim to fiddle with the knobs on the far wall. He didn’t like his water quite this hot, so he made an adjustment, then switched on the main showerhead. 

The change in water flow had Tim cracking open an eye. Given how bad his eyesight was, as well as how dim the bathroom lights were, Jason wasn’t sure exactly how much he could see.

Then the other eye opened and he squinted, trying to bring things into focus. “You’re naked,” he pronounced after a moment.

“I don’t have any clothes here,” Jason answered, casting a glance at the little recess in the wall where the toiletries were stored. 

“Did you decide to fuck me after all?” 

The hopeful note in Tim’s voice was enough to make Jason want to laugh. Boy, his number cruncher sure had a one-track mind. “I’m not exactly a fan of fucking someone who’s just vomited all over himself.” 

“Oh.” His disappointment was obvious. “If I don’t get sick while you help me clean up, will you do it then?” 

This time, Jason did laugh out loud. “Tim, I’m not gonna fuck you until you have a doctor’s note stating you’re allowed to do it again—and it better be real because I know how fucking thirsty you are.” 

“I just want my headache to go away.” 

Jason saw the opening he needed and went for it. He knelt in front of Tim and gently took his hands—cast and all—kissing them before tangling their fingers together. “When was the last time you had any pain meds for this? The good stuff, not over-the-counter.” 

Tim was watching him through slitted eyes. “Yesterday,” he said. “Supposed to be for post-op discomfort.” 

“And for your concussion?” 

“Yeah. Said I’d need to see my neurologist before I can take my migraine meds again.” 

“Makes sense.” Jason carefully massaged Tim’s knuckles, rubbing the skin in slow circles. “Have you?” 

“She’s been on vacation until this week. I go on Wednesday.” 

It was Monday night. He still had a full day to get through before he’d be cleared to resume his usual meds. 

Slowly, Jason stood, keeping hold of Tim’s hands. “That sucks. You think your surgeon might prescribe more?” 

Odds were low, but he figured he’d ask. 

Tim yawned, then grimaced at a flash of pain. “Probably not.” 

“Need a ride?” Going with, Jason could at least keep Tim from hiding or downplaying the amount of pain he was genuinely in. 

“No, Bernard is taking me. Maybe. I should check.” 

Green flashed around the edge of Jason’s vision at the mention of the other man’s name and he had to fight to keep his hands from clenching tight around Tim’s. Motherfucker, it was amazing how he could go to seeing green in nothing flat around his number cruncher.

Besides that, he still needed to have a chat with this guy—a reporter who’d been investigating the Red Hood’s disappearance according to what Rochelle had let drop. Him appearing out of nowhere to save Tim’s ass had probably raised more than a few questions, which Jason had no intention of answering. What he needed to do was figure out the likelihood of the guy proceeding with his story. The problem was, he hadn’t decided if he should do it as himself or as the Red Hood. Both presented different problems—namely his exact relationship with Tim and why he gave so much of a fuck about him. 

As he had each time this particular thought arose, Jason shoved it aside and focused on what was going on right now. He’d deal with Bernard sooner or later. 

“That’s nice,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Better get you clean for the doctor then.” 

Carefully, he prodded Tim to stand, guiding him to his feet with a gentle tug on his good hand and taking his weight when he staggered. “Easy there,” Jason said, wrapping a hand around Tim’s waist to keep him steady. 

“Not getting sick.” Tim sounded more than a little stubborn about it. 

“Great. I don’t like getting puked on.” Jason walked them forward a couple of steps and under the water streaming down from above. “All you gotta do is just stand here and I’ll take care of the rest.” 

“’kay.” 

Washing Tim proved to be a painfully arousing experience. All the little noises he made as his hair was washed were pornographic and it didn’t help matters that Jason had positioned him against his front so he could lean if he needed to—which he was. His ass pressed directly over Jason’s cock, which was growing harder by the second. Shampoo and soap suds slicked the way and if Jason wasn’t careful, he’d be gliding between those cheeks in no time. 

Rather tellingly though, Tim was utterly soft when he dared to bring the soap between his legs. 

Jason took a careful hold of Tim’s flaccid dick and soaped it up, then gave it a few light strokes. “I think your body is trying to tell ya something.” 

Tim sighed and rested his head against Jason’s shoulder. “Traitor.” 

“Me or your cock?” 

“Both.” Someone sounded more than a little put out by it, which made Jason chuckle.

“Bet I could massage your prostate and you’d barely twitch.” 

“Will you?” 

“No.” 

“You can fuck my thighs if you want.” Tim wriggled ever so slightly and Jason’s cock slid right between his cheeks. 

He bit back a groan and nearly dropped the overpriced bar of soap. “Too much jostling," he bit out as his dick was surrounded by warmth. “Gotta watch your ribs.” 

Oh, Jason was so jerking off once he got Tim tucked away in bed. A wet and soapy Tim was the stuff dreams were made of—it would be even better if he could kneel and turn those big blue eyes on him as he took his cock down his throat. 

With a growl, he took a step back and made quick work of washing Tim’s neck and shoulders. The suds trailed down his spine and over the globes of his ass where Jason’s cock was still nestled. 

He stared, entranced at the sight. His dick was red at this point, flush and full and ready to go, which was a sharp contrast to Tim’s pale skin. All he had to do was take hold of Tim’s hips and he could fuck him right here, gliding back and forth over Tim’s hole. He could paint this ass white and his number cruncher would just stand here encouraging him. 

But if he took an inch, then Tim would take a mile and figure out some way to bend over and get fucked the way he wanted to be. 

Jason’s dick protested as he drew away from that glorious ass, holding Tim at arm’s length so that he stood alone under the spray. It was for the best, really. Eventually his cock would agree with him—a healed Tim who could ride him into oblivion was a lot better than one who could barely stand and might puke again if he moved the wrong way. 

But oh, was it tempting. When Tim was able to have more athletic sex again, they would be revisiting this shower—and often. 

“You okay?” Jason asked, gently guiding the other man to turn around so he could inspect his handiwork. He took note of Tim’s still soft length and mentally patted himself on the back for the right decision. 

The mind might be willing, but the body sure as hell wasn’t. 

Tim glared sullenly at him through a mess of wet black hair that clung to his forehead. “You didn’t fuck me.” 

“I said I wouldn’t.” 

“But you’re hard. I felt it.” 

“Just because I got a boner doesn’t mean I gotta act on it.” 

Pouting, Tim’s gaze dropped and Jason wondered again just how much he could see. “I can suck you—” 

“No.” He tapped the end of Tim’s nose and watched as his eyes crossed. “It might not seem like it now, but you’ll thank me for it later.” 

“That’s what you think.”

 

Notes:

Thank you, CoffeexRage! https://twitter.com/CoffeexRage

Chapter 20: Back in Business

Notes:

To everyone who left a comment on the previous chapter, thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the little extra extra there at the end.

To say Tim woke up in a fog the following morning was an understatement. Yesterday’s headache had been a doozy without his meds to stem the tide. 

It was all Bernard’s fault and he was definitely going to be giving his friend a piece of his mind next time he saw him—which wasn’t going to be anytime soon even if it did mean he had to find his own way to the doctor. Tim didn’t exactly blame Bernard for what happened—that he hadn’t come over with the intention of sending him into a blind stupor of pain. 

But that didn’t mean he wanted to see him again anytime soon. Driving himself seemed like a surefire way to repeat yesterday afternoon, so he’d need to get an Uber and let someone else deal with Gotham traffic. 

Plan in place, Tim opened his eyes and nearly flew into a panic because it was dark—way too dark to be anywhere downstairs unless it was the middle of the night. But then the gentle blue of his nightlights revealed familiar blurs of furniture that were only found in his bedroom.

What? 

How did he get up here? The last thing he remembered clearly was Bernard and their argument, which had happened downstairs. And given the state that had left him, navigating two flights of stairs was impossible.

Right? 

Tim shifted, taking note of pillows cocooning him from either side and the fact he was propped up on still more pillows to ease the pressure on his healing ribs. A familiar mass laid across his legs, calm and soothing—it was his weighted blanket, which he couldn’t even lift right now given his weight restrictions. 

What the fuck happened last night? 

Also, where were his glasses? 

Tim threw back the sheet covering him with his good hand and chucked a pillow to the side so he could sit up all the way and carefully swung around to rest his feet on the floor. Cautiously, he reached for the nightstand closest to him and his fingers bumped into the familiar frames—which were folded, something he never did unless he was swapping them out for sunglasses and putting them in the case. 

Did Bernard do all this? How? While his friend was a couple inches taller than him, they were built along the same lines—namely, lean. While it wouldn’t have been impossible to maneuver him up two flights of stairs, it involved a lot more work than simply carrying him. Tim was certain he’d have remembered that, no matter how blitzed out of his skull he was.

No, Bernard had left while he was still downstairs. He remembered that now.

So who…? 

Bits and pieces of memories bubbled to the surface. Strong and warm arms wrapped around him, the sound of the shower, fingers gently scrubbing his scalp with shampoo. A thick cock sliding along the cleft of his ass. 

Tim almost dropped his glasses.

Jason. Jason had been here last night. Who else was strong enough to carry him upstairs and help him shower? 

Holy shit.

Had they…? No. No, they hadn’t. Fragments of begging Jason to fuck him and being told no—more than once—emerged from the shattered pieces of his memory. Wow, he’d been desperate last night. Or stupid, which made sense given the headache drilling its way through his skull. Sometimes an orgasm would help alleviate the pain, but it took a lot of work and wasn’t always worth the effort. 

Clearly, Past Tim had been of the opinion that it would, especially given Jason’s presence in the shower with him—and naked! 

His eyes nearly crossed as he relived that little sensory memory. Okay, maybe he drooled a little too. Such a damn shame Jason hadn’t done anything. It would have been so easy for him to do it too—or even just fuck his thighs. Tim wasn’t picky at this point. 

He just wanted Jason and his magic freaking dick. 

The throbbing starting up in his head was enough of a reminder to take a chill pill. Palming his half-hard cock, Tim gave it a squeeze and shuddered before beginning a breathing exercise to calm down. 

Apparently, one head wasn’t agreeing with the other—his dick refused to lose interest despite the gradual slowing of Tim’s heartbeat. Seriously, who could blame it when other memories involving Jason and his freaking everything emerged from the hazy fog of last evening.

With a sigh, he glared at the chub tenting his boxers. “We’ve lasted this long without the world’s greatest dick, we can wait a little longer.”

Stupid concussion.

 

---

 

“You’re healing up nicely,” Dr. Kapoor said in a clinical tone as he finished poking and prodding at the still-tender incisions on Tim’s torso. “I don’t think you need the gauze anymore.” 

“Does that mean I can take a bath again?” Tim asked. “My migraines have been brutal and soaking in the tub sometimes helps.” 

“I wouldn’t make the water too hot yet, but yes,” the doctor answered. “Have you seen your neurologist? I was under the impression you were under the regular care of one?" 

“Dr. Franklin’s been on vacation. My appointment is tomorrow morning.” Tomorrow needed to get here much faster.

“Good, glad to hear it.” The doctor stood and removed his nitrile gloves. “I would suggest going easy on things for a couple more weeks so your ribs can heal some more. You can raise your arms again, but if it starts to hurt, stop whatever you’re doing immediately. Listen to your body. It’ll tell you when it doesn’t like something.” 

“I assume that’s the same for sex too?” Tim had to ask. He really did. Online trawling only got him so far, but the general consensus seemed to be to stop when it hurt, which made sense but wasn’t exactly the specific answer he’d been seeking. Not that his migraines would allow for much action currently, but it never hurt to be prepared. 

Dr. Kapoor nodded. “Very much so, especially given your ribs and wrist. Your sex life is none of my business, but you might want to keep it very vanilla while you heal. Other than that, just pay attention to what your body is saying. If something starts to hurt…” 

“Then stop immediately,” Tim finished with a smile. Then he remembered a comment Jason had made last night and added, “Can I have that added to my discharge instructions?”

 

---

 

The visit to the doctor took more out of him than he’d have liked, so when he arrived home, Tim did the smart thing and took a nap. Well, rather, he passed out in his comfy armchair because stairs just weren’t as much fun when he had to walk up them on his own. 

That was what beefcake was for. 

He’d only expected to sleep for an hour or two, so it was with some surprise that he woke up to the reading lamp being turned on. 

“Huh?” he asked, more than a little fuzzy. 

“Hey,” said a more than welcome voice as Jason leaned in and tapped the end of his nose. “Thought I’d wake you up this time.”

“This time?” Tim parroted with some confusion. 

“You were passed out right here the day you came home.” Jason crouched beside the chair and rested a hand on Tim’s knee, stroking lightly over the blanket with a touch that soothed his very soul. “Decided to let you sleep that night.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if you’d woken me up.” 

Wasn’t that God’s honest truth? 

“You say that now.” There was a teasing lilt to Jason’s voice, one that made Tim very much want to see his face. 

He fumbled for his glasses on the small end table and put them on. 

Jason’s eyes were the bluest he’d ever seen them. That meant… It meant he was happy, right? He was happy to be here, in Tim’s home, with him. 

The big bad Red Hood was here checking on him—as himself. As Jason. 

Somehow, Tim’s one-sided love affair didn’t seem so one-sided anymore. The man cared—if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here. Period. End of story. 

Wow.

Tim must have been quiet a little too long because Jason spoke up again. “How was the appointment today?” 

“Good,” he answered, still in awe over his epiphany. “No more bandages. Can raise my arms over my head, though I need to be careful with my left side not to pull or twist hard. A lot of my instructions are just listen to my body and if something hurts, stop.” 

Jason was nodding along. “Sounds about right. Gotta admit, I’m not very good at the listening to my body part. Sometimes shit’s gotta get done and I’m the only one to do it.” 

“If I ever find out you’re hurt and doing that, I’m going to find you and sit on you. I’ll cuff you to your bed if I have to.” The words were out of his mouth before Tim quite realized what he’d just said. 

“Ooh, kinky.” Jason winked. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.” 

Tim chuckled, wishing he was in good enough condition to make good on his promise. But the slight increase of his heart rate at the sight of Jason’s smile and the throb in his head was a warning he wasn’t about to ignore, as much as his dick wished otherwise. “From my surgeon’s standpoint, I’m cleared for that too, but my head…” he trailed off with a pained sigh. 

“Concussions are a bitch.” The soothing stroke of Jason’s touch across his knee didn’t stop. “Or is it the fact you’re not on your migraine meds that’s the problem?” 

“Honestly won’t know until tomorrow morning. My neurology appointment is bright and early.” 

“Need a ride?” 

Tim couldn’t help but beam. A ride from Jason? Sign him up. “That would be nice, but you don’t have to go out of your way. I’m sure you’ll be up all night.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stayed up late for a doctor’s appointment. Besides,” Jason winked up at him, “I have a vested interest in that old brain-pan of yours—in more ways than one.” 

More ways than one, indeed. “When I can make it up and down my stairs without my head wanting to explode, then I figure we can work a few things out of our systems.” It pained Tim to admit that, but it was the truth. Until his head was back in the game—literally—it didn’t matter what he or his dick wanted. 

“That makes so much more sense than that shit you were spoutin’ last night.” Jason gave his knee a squeeze and rose to his feet. “You wanted me to fuck that headache outta you, even after you’d gotten sick in the shower.” 

Tim didn’t remember all the details and now he wished he did. “That sounds like something I’d say. I’ve managed to come before while having a migraine and the endorphin rush helps like nothing else.” 

“Doesn’t sound very easy.” 

“Oh, hell no. But when you’re desperate for relief, you’re willing to try anything.” Tim started lowering the armchair back into a sitting position so he could stand. “Although, I think if I were to try that while concussed, I’d probably just pass out.”

Jason offered him a hand, which he gladly accepted, even if it was just to have some part of Jason close to him. “Well, when you’re ready to suck cock again, you let me know.” 

Tim smirked as he planted his chin on Jason’s sternum and gazed up at him. “Trust me, you’ll be the first person I call.”

 

---

  

“I can’t believe you’re making your own pasta.” Tim sat at his kitchen table, utterly entranced by what was occurring across the surface of it. It had nothing on what else had occurred there, but it still invoked a similar feeling of awe. 

“I can’t believe you have a pasta roller and have no memory of actually buying it,” came Jason’s quick retort. He was kneading the dough with an easy and deft hand that spoke of experience. 

“Maybe it was a gift from a client? I’ve done work for a lot of small restaurants before.” Too many to count, really. And most of them had good food too. There were reasons he took them on pro bono and only part of it was because of his previous boredom. 

“Those things aren’t cheap,” Jason said as he wiped his hands on the same frilly white apron he’d worn before he left for fuck-knew-where. “Try again.” 

“Housewarming gift?” 

“Anyone who knows you knows you don’t cook.” 

Tim watched as the dough was wrapped in a tea towel and left to rest. He’d seen videos of pasta making online, but the effort seemed a bit much for just one person. And even then, he was certain he’d never ordered a pasta roller. 

So how the device getting clamped on to the edge of the table came to be in his brownstone was a mystery. 

A mystery that would result in ravioli. 

Butternut squash ravioli at that, if the large gourd sitting on the counter was any indication. 

Seriously, he could get used to this. Who knew the Red Hood was such a damn good cook? 

No one, that’s who—besides him and probably a few select others who made up Jason’s personal circle. Tim had massive doubts anyone in Hood’s inner circle ever had the experience. 

It begged the question which one he was technically in. Make no mistake about it, he was Hood’s—Jason’s—employee first, despite what his traitorous heart had decided. Spouting off proclamations of the L-word was the surest way to never see the man again.

But if there was one thing Tim was good at—besides numbers—it was hiding his actual feelings.

Jason closed the oven door on his neatly cubed squash, grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, and took a seat at the kitchen table. His eyes were still blue, Tim noticed, but a deeper shade now. Mood eyes, indeed. 

“So.” 

Tim eyed the beer and wished he could have one. “So,” he offered in return. 

“Hood wants to have a talk with you.” Jason took a swig and leaned back in his chair like this was his home rather than Tim’s. 

The line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, coupled with the v-neck of his t-shirt revealing a hint of his collarbones—it took a moment before the words really registered. 

Fuck. 

“Good,” Tim said as he tried to shove his thirst into a mental closet and lock the door. Seriously, what was it about this man? Each time he thought he had a handle on the amount of lust he felt around him, it just came back that much stronger. “I’ve been doing a lot of work outside of a contract, and then there’s a matter of back pay.” 

Jason smirked and took another sip from his beer. “Between his cock and mine, that much dick might just kill you.” 

“I didn’t say it had to be cock.” Tim offered up an easy shrug he certainly didn’t feel. He wanted that cock so badly, but refused to admit Jason was right and that he wasn’t up for it—yet. “But I’d be willing to let you pay the bill in the form of a trade.”

A dark eyebrow quirked up. “Oh?”

“Keep cooking for me. With the amount of work I’m sure Hood plans to throw my way, I’m going to need it.” 

This didn’t appear to be what Jason expected as he gave him a perplexed look in return. “You like my cooking that much?” 

“I do,” Tim answered, honest and open. “I figure you’re going to be just as busy as me here soon, but you’ll be stopping by to check in, so why not kill two birds with one stone?” 

Jason chuckled. “I gotta eat on the regular too. I just keep shit hours no one’s ever awake for.” 

“If you’re saying you want to magically appear in my kitchen at four in the morning, I’m not going to stop you. Just send me a grocery list and I’ll make sure everything you want is here.” 

“And if I want you on your knees with your mouth wide open?” 

Tim leaned back as much as his ribs would allow and pointedly dropped his jaw to waggle his tongue. “Give me a couple more weeks and I’ll even put bells on.” 

 

---

 

Hood showed up about half an hour after Jason left. 

“I take it this isn’t a social visit?” Tim asked, eyeing the armed man sitting in the kitchen with his feet up on the table. Sheesh, how long had he been waiting to make his grand entrance? If he had known Hood was lurking around, he’d have gone to the bathroom sooner. 

“Are they ever?” 

“Good point.”  

Tim spun on his heel and made his way to the freezer. Whatever business Hood wanted to discuss, odds were likely he’d need an ice pack sooner than later. 

“Oh, by the way…” Hood trailed off as he shook something in his gloved hand. “Jason said you might be needin’ some of these.” 

“What?” Tim turned just in time to catch the flash of a pharmacy pill bottle.  

“For the pain from your headaches.” 

“Okay, first off, thanks, but no thanks. I have no idea where those came from and there are all kinds of stories on the news about people who died from fentanyl-laced pills.” What the fuck? Did Jason think he was born yesterday?

“You’re an idiot if you think I’d give you shit like that. That’s the kind of crap I try to keep off my streets.” Hood dropped his booted feet to the floor with a heavy thud and placed the bottle on the table. “I stole these from a reputable pharmacy on the other side of town—right out of the manufacturer’s sealed bottle. There’s enough to get you through tonight and tomorrow if you need ‘em.” 

Tim could feel his ears heating up as his embarrassment took root. “Sorry. I just assumed…” 

“I’ll forgive ya this time.”

“Did you really break into a pharmacy? Isn’t that stuff in timed-release safes or something like that?” His curiosity would be the death of him, seriously.  

“You think that’s gonna stop me? Those things are child’s play.” 

“Okay, fine. We’ve established you’re a great thief, I guess.” Tim snagged his ice pack and gave Hood an assessing look. “So if you’re not here for a social visit, and you’re done playing delivery boy, what are you doing here?” 

Hood chuckled darkly, or maybe it was just the way the voice modulator made it sound. “Jason warned you I’d be stopping by tonight. Something’s come up and I need to pick your brain.” 

“I think we’ve established my brain isn’t exactly in the best condition right now.” 

“You gotta headache?” 

“Not yet.”

“Then you’re good. You wanna sit here or take this somewhere more comfortable? This is gonna take a while.” 

Taking Hood upstairs to his game room seemed way too personal given Jason was here for a business matter and the dining room—mostly the table—had too many memories, so that left… “Living room,” Tim said.  

“Lead the way.” 

It wasn’t like it was very far.  

Tim settled onto the sofa and once again tugged his fuzzy blanket around him. It wasn’t armor by any stretch of the imagination, but it was comfortable—and clean.  

Someone had done his laundry last night.  

Why did Jason have to be the perfect house-husband? Seriously, he was domestic without even trying while Tim floundered at any sign of a chore that wasn’t washing dishes. 

Hood took a seat in the armchair, filling it in a way that wet dreams were made of. He utterly owned that chair, sprawling with unfeigned nonchalance and spreading those thighs in a way that was positively obscene.  

Fuck, but Tim needed to heal up faster because he might just die if he couldn’t sit in that lap and go for a ride. Of course, he’d probably have to admit to knowing Jason and Hood were the same person first. Somehow, he doubted Jason would fuck him again while wearing his Red Hood gear unless everything was out in the open. 

Which reminded him, there was something else he needed to say first. 

Hood cleared his throat, but Tim held up his hand, signaling him to wait. “Before we get started, I want to say thank you. You saved my life. I didn’t think you or Jason would come. I really didn’t.” He choked there at the end and swallowed hard. 

It had been so close. 

There was a long pause before a response came. “Not gonna lie, but I almost didn’t make it. I was in bed when I got that call and I don’t currently have a place in the Bowery.” Hood blew out a long breath and suddenly, his posture didn’t appear all that intimidating anymore. He seemed tired, weary, and worn to the very bone. 

“But you did.” Tim offered up a small smile. “And for that, I owe you.” 

“A discount would be nice. You’re fuckin’ expensive.” 

“Says the guy who hasn’t paid me dick for three months of work.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s about to change. I got the money for your back pay; I really doubt you’re up for three months’ worth of fucks right now.” 

Tim had to take a few controlled breaths to calm himself at the thought of all that dick. “The mind is willing, but the body—not so much. I’ll take either cash or a digital currency.” 

“I’ll get it to you tomorrow.” 

“Thanks.” Tim readjusted his blanket over his feet. They were cold. “Going back to what I owe you, I’ll start by not charging for this consultation tonight. I’m technically out of contract with you at the moment, so depending on how things go, I’ll draw up a new one with updated service and payment expectations.” 

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” The hood’s expression couldn’t change, but it was easy to imagine Jason’s exasperated eye roll. “You really are all business, aren’t you?” 

“I have to be, otherwise people will walk all over me. If I’m doing pro bono work, it’s in writing. What we had wasn’t pro bono, so the terms need to be laid out clearly.” 

“I’m startin’ to think you missed your calling and shoulda been a lawyer.” 

“I did take all the business law classes I could when I was working on my bachelor’s degree,” Tim offered with a wry grin. 

The pause was long enough this time that he had the distinct feeling Hood was laughing at him, even though the hood revealed nothing.  

“Whatever. Now if you’re finally ready…?” 

Tim held up his hand. “Should I take notes?” 

“No. Just shut up and listen. Sheesh…” Hood blew out a sigh and shook his head. “Why do I put up with you? I swear…” 

“I give good head.” It was his stock answer when someone asked this, even though in his case, it happened to be true. 

Hood laughed. “Yeah, you sure do. Anyway, I had a meeting with the Penguin last night.” 

“Penguin? As in Oswald Cobblepot?” Tim checked.

“Yeah. You know about his rep?”

“That he’s a crime lord too? Yes. But the Feds have never been able to pin anything on him—or else he’s got some agents paid off.” The latter was more likely. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “I know you said to stop talking, but do you think there’s any chance Cobblepot was behind the raid that took you out?” 

Shit. That might not have been the best way to phrase it. 

But Hood was already shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t Ozzy. That was Batman.” 

Tim blinked. “The fuck?” Batman, seriously? He’d been indirectly working with Batman? Despite the reputation of who was sitting across from him, the thought of crossing paths with the infamous Bat was even more terrifying. Batman was…well, Batman. Sure, he was a founding member of the Justice League and was purportedly still a member after what happened to the old Commissioner—holy shit, that was Barbara Gordon’s father.  

He needed to lie down. Or stop thinking. Both would be good considering his rising blood pressure.  

“If you’re good, maybe I’ll tell you why Batman has it out for me.” 

Right. He needed to stop talking. Tim mimed zipping his lips shut and shoved all thoughts of Batman to the side. He’d freak out about it later. 

Hood took that as his cue to continue. “So Ozzy and I had a sit-down and it turns out, he’s just a few steps from Death’s door. Stage four lung cancer—which, lemme tell ya, he’s still smokin’ like it’s goin’ outta style. Anyway, he’s got no faith that his crew can keep things goin’ when he croaks, so he wants me to take over.” 

Wow. That was… 

“Holy shit.” 

“Yeah, that was about my reaction too,” Hood sighed. “I dunno, this all sounds great on the surface and solves a fuckton of my problems, but the more I think about it, the more I have a feeling I’m walkin’ into a mess.” 

“Does the offer include the Iceberg Lounge?” Tim had been there once before and it hadn’t exactly been to his taste. If anything, it was kind of dated. 

“It does, which is a nightmare all of its own. I don’t know shit about runnin’ a club. Why?” 

“At the moment, curiosity.” Tim leaned back against the arm of the sofa and squared his shoulders. “So what exactly do you need my help with?” 

“Advice. You’re my number cruncher, Drake, but you’ve also got some business smarts tossed in when your mouth isn’t runnin’ away from ya.” 

“Gee, thanks. So let me ask this… Do you think this is a trap?” It was a valid concern, giving Hood’s revelation about Batman. 

Hood shook his head. “Nah, Ozzy doesn’t give a shit about my business as long as it doesn’t disrupt his. While he’d like to rule over all of Gotham, he has the territory he really wants, so with me around, he doesn’t have to worry about the rest of it.” 

“So if I’m understanding this right, when Cobblepot dies, either you take over and essentially rule over the entire city or you watch the fallout to see who emerges victorious—which given this city’s history will likely result in a bloodbath.” 

“Yeah, basically.” 

“I can see some pros and cons to both options.” Good lord, what was his life even now? Here he was sitting in his living room discussing the future of Gotham’s criminal underbelly—which also begged the question of what his role would be in it. 

“Same here,” Hood offered. “I gotta admit, I’m not exactly keen on runnin’ the whole city. That’s a lot of fuckin’ work, even if I had the right people in place to delegate to—which I don’t.” 

“You’ve got Cobblepot’s people—those that choose to stay.” 

“Yeah, and that’s the kicker. If any of them had potential, Ozzy’d be groomin’ them to take over instead of suckin’ up to me.”

“True enough.” Tim had the distinct feeling Hood would be dragging his fingers through his hair if he didn’t have the helmet on. “So tell me—what’s your ideal scenario here? Clearly, there’s parts of it you don’t like, but what do you like? There has to be something.” 

“Honestly, it’s the Iceberg Lounge I really want. My network is still in place. My connections outside the city, my supply lines, my informants—they’re all there for when it’s time to tap them. What I don’t have anymore are the fronts and businesses I was using for laundering money. A place like the Iceberg, it’s got it all.” 

Now it made sense. “Even as upscale as it is, it still sees a lot of cash going through.” 

“Yeah. I’m sure whoever runs Ozzy’s books does a good job—if they didn’t then there’d be a problem—but if I take over, I want my own person in charge. I know you. I don’t know them.”  

Tim shook his head. “I’ll tell you right now, there is no way I’m touching the Iceberg Lounge account, new management or otherwise. Everyone at the FBI knows it’s a front for money laundering and with my reputation, they’d believe I’ve either switched sides or that I’ve turned into a blind idiot for letting that slide. Neither one works in our favor.” 

“They wouldn’t be wrong about the blind part.” 

“Shut up.” That wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to say to Hood, but whatever. He was here for his help, not the other way around. “What sucks though is that I agree with you—the club is the key to the money side of the business.” 

“Worse comes to worst, I could just dump everything else after Ozzy kicks it. It’s not like he’ll know.” Hood shrugged. “But if you don’t wanna touch the Iceberg, then what’s the point?”

It was interesting to see Hood had no intention of letting Tim go despite the fact he’d pretty much said it would be career suicide if he stayed on. Actually, that ship had long since sailed, all things considered, but it wasn’t like anyone except for Bernard knew it. 

Still… 

Tim chewed idly on his lip as he thought things over. There was potential here—so much potential. And if he played it right, it would theoretically solve the problem with Bernard too. He didn’t think Jason’s murderous history could be swept under the rug quite so neatly, but that was a hurdle for a different day.  

“You’re awfully quiet there, Drake,” Hood said, prodding him from his thoughts. “Ya got somethin’ for me?” 

“I think I just might.” He tapped at the arm of the sofa. “If you want me to work for you at the Iceberg Lounge, the entirety of the operation needs to be above board. Or…” And here Tim started to grin, “you’re looking for someone to bring it all above board.” 

Hood nodded slowly. “I see what you’re gettin’ at. How would it work?” 

“There’d need to be some sort of deal announced publicly before Cobblepot dies. Not just passing the torch, but a legitimate business deal where he sells the club to a figurehead you control—and not me,” Tim added sharply because he was more familiar with how Jason thought than most people. “This figurehead makes some big speech about how they’re going to clean up the club’s reputation and modernize while making some nod at its history.” 

“Essentially bringing everything into the public eye.” 

“Exactly. From a business standpoint, this will mean a complete review of the club’s expenses and accounting records—which is where I come in. Tacking my name onto a clean-up project like this will guarantee the Feds will poke their noses elsewhere—or at the very least, give me time to create some false trails to send them down because only an idiot would believe there isn’t anything shady going on with Cobblepot’s former business.” 

“Okay, so that’s all fine and dandy.” Hood shifted in the armchair and Tim had to bite back a small moan because hot damn, those thighs were calling to him. “But if we’re gonna clean this place up, I wanna do it right. I don’t want to be the focus of an FBI raid ever again.” 

The reminder of his involvement in that had Tim nodding. “Neither do I. Because if it does happen, then that means I fucked up somewhere. The last thing I want to do is languish away in federal prison.” 

“I bet you’d be popular.” 

“Fuck you.” Just for that, Tim was withholding a blowjob the next time Jason came by with the hood on.  

Hood snickered, which sounded all kinds of weird with the voice modulator. “Anyway, I got an idea for someone who could be the figurehead, but what about the rest?” 

Tim had an answer for that too. “Cleaning house is probably a good idea. Unless I can get early access to the financial records, let’s assume everyone is disposable—except for the general manager.” 

“How d’ya figure?” 

“This person is likely to know everything that goes on in the club. They know the front room, the backrooms, upstairs, below stairs, you name it.” Tim ticked off each point. “Everyone comes to them for something and they’ll know who to go to if they can’t pull it off. They’ll also be in charge of all the supply orders and making sure the floor or area managers are doing their jobs.” 

“Basically, if there’s a pie, they have a finger in it.” 

“Right.” The metaphor was more than apt, really. “I’d be hesitant to let this person go—at least not until you’ve figured out where their loyalties are.” 

“Let’s hope it’s to their bank account.” It was difficult to tell, but Tim had the distinct feeling Jason was reassessing him and his skills. Sure enough, the next words out of his mouth confirmed it. “Where the hell did you learn all this? You’re talkin’ like you’ve been in business for years instead of crunching numbers in a fancy office downtown.” 

Tim shrugged and rolled his head, feeling a pop in his neck as he did. It was going to be a while before he’d be able to get a massage again. Stupid broken ribs. “Well, I did take some business classes as part of my degree programs, but my parents were the owners of Drake Industries. I spent a good amount of time sitting in my mom’s lap while she was running board meetings and keeping day-to-day operations going.” 

He’d learned so much from her, he really did. The pain of losing them had lessened over the years, but there were still times he wished he could hear—just once—them saying they were proud of him. Although, it was up for debate if they’d be proud of his current venture.  

“Nice,” Hood said, nodding thoughtfully. “Is there seriously anything you can’t do?” 

“Keep my mouth shut.” 

Hood snorted. “Yeah, that’s definitely a problem. People like messin’ up that pretty mouth of yours a little too much.” 

Said pretty mouth was lucky it hadn’t lost any teeth after what happened and Tim knew it. “You said you have an idea for a figurehead,” he said, bringing the topic back around. “Are they any good at acting? Because if the FBI is going to be sniffing around, they’ll need that and a spine of steel not to crack under the kind of pressure the Feds can bring.” 

Hood stretched out his legs and let out a dark chuckle. “I wouldn’t say he’s quite that rigid. Bendy is a better word for it.” 

“If you say so.”

 

Notes:

Updates are going to be a bit sporadic for the next four or so months. I've mentioned on Tumblr recently about my dog and her torn ACL, so I'm focusing on her post-op recovery right now. To add insult to injury, my dog tore her other rear ACL about 24 hours ago and will need to have this surgery AGAIN in Sept (not entirely unexpected, but certainly so given she just had surgery last week).

I'll work on the Accountant when I can, but in the meantime, enjoy some other works I'll be posting here soon. I'm looking forward to all of them!

Chapter 21: Midnight Meetings

Notes:

Who's missed me?

I know it's been a while and I thank each and every one of you for your patience. I have absolutely NOT abandoned this fic and still very much enjoy writing it when I have the spare brainpower to do so. I also have some other obligations I want to wrap up too.

Additionally, I want to thank everyone who left a comment on the previous chapter. I wish I had the time to reply to each one individually like I have in the past, but RL is a pain in my @$$. You are all wonderful!

All that said, it's time for what you're really here for--the next chapter! Enjoy!

Tim’s idea was good—really good.  

It set the wheels spinning as different scenarios played out in Jason’s head. He sat on the roof of Tim’s brownstone and idly smoked a cigarette, chewing it all over.  

One thing was clear—he couldn’t be the public figurehead who bought out the Iceberg Lounge.  

First, it was too public a position. Even with an alias that could withstand the scrutiny, he had no clout. There was nothing behind the name to keep the Feds from barking up the wrong tree—not even Tim’s name and rep would be enough.  

Second, it would have Bruce breathing down his neck in no time flat, which no fucking thank you. Ozzy’s death would cause enough of a shakeup as it was. Better to keep Bruce’s attention on what he believed would happen—a gang war—than on a peaceful transition.  

And third… Going public would mean he’d have a lot less time to spend with Abby, but also doing the work that actually needed to be done. Controlling crime wasn’t just about getting the most revenue out of his enterprises—no, it was mostly making sure the wrong product didn’t wind up on his streets. He took a great deal of pride in the fact his part of Gotham had fewer accidental deaths from laced pills than the rest of the city. If he had to light up a contaminated shipment, then so be it.  

He couldn’t monitor that if he had to make with the smiles and handshakes and kissing babies or what-the-fuck-ever they did downtown.  

But there was one person he knew who could and would look damned good doing it. 

The trick was: how to convince him? 

Jason sighed and dropped the cigarette, crushing it out with the heel of his boot.  

It was time to finally go see Dick.

 

---

 

The address Babs gave him a couple weeks ago proved to be a solidly middle-class neighborhood in the Upper East Side. It was a brownstone not too unlike Tim’s—although the exterior looked like it might still be the original façade. The stairs to the front door were steep, which begged the question of how Dick managed them with his crutches. 

Jason rang the doorbell and waited. 

It was only after that it dawned on him exactly what time it was. He’d spent several hours with Tim as both himself and Hood earlier, so it was already well after midnight. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem, but who knew what kind of hours Dickie kept these days? And shit, was Damian still here? He’d want to stick his nose in and offer up his two cents for sure. 

The answer came in the form of a disheveled and eye patchless Dick Grayson answering the door in a pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt, glaring frostily with his good eye. He still had his beard, though it was less wild-man and more tamed than last time they’d seen each other. 

“Long time no see,” Jason said with a cocky smirk. “Did I wake you?” 

“If you were anyone else, I’d be smacking you upside the head with this.” Dick held up the cane he was using for support. “In fact, I might just do it because.” 

“I wouldn’t want you to break your only means of support on my thick skull.” Jason gave his brother an appraising look. He looked better than he remembered. Some spark that was missing before had returned, restoring an integral piece that made up Dick Grayson—his heart. It was good to see, even if he’d never say a word about it. “Speaking of which, it’s nice to see you off the crutches.” 

Dick held open the door wider for him to pass through. “Thanks,” he said as he closed and locked it. “I had a procedure a month ago to scrape out an over-abundance of scar tissue that built up in my knee, then hit the PT hard.” 

“That’s a thing?” 

“Yeah. It doesn’t happen to most people. Guess I’m just special.” Dick led the way into the living room and switched on a light. “But the scar tissue was why I never had much luck with the knee replacement actually taking originally—I’d waited too long to start PT. It took going back to it to figure that out. My physical therapist has been around the block a few times, thankfully.” 

“I’ll say.” Jason sat down on a sofa that clearly came from IKEA while Dick took a seat in a recliner that had seen better days. “Good for you, Dickie. It’s honestly nice to see you turning your shit around.” 

“Yeah, well, I do have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t set me up with Harley…” 

“I told you she was good, random bouts of her own brand of crazy aside.” 

Dick chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, she really is. And having Damian around again has been good for me too. Gives me someone to focus on besides myself.” 

Jason bit his lip, thinking back to the advice he’d given the hellspawn a couple weeks back. Damn, maybe encouraging him to leave hadn’t been the best thing to suggest, not if it meant Dick had finally stopped his downward spiral. When push came to shove, he liked Big Bird better. 

“But something tells me you’re not here to see how I’m doing, not at this hour.” Dick arched a knowing brow. “Welcome back, by the way.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that. Shit’s just been a nightmare since I got home.” Jason scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed. He felt tired all of a sudden, the adrenaline that had been keeping him going for weeks finally abandoning him. That wasn’t entirely the case since there had been plenty of nights where he’d slept like a fucking log, but the sentiment was there. “There’s just been so fucking much going on and I feel like I’m bouncing from one crisis to another.” 

“I heard about the guy they found at the Crossroads,” Dick said. “That was clearly you.” He didn’t sound judgmental about it, surprisingly. “Was he a message?” 

A memory of a bloodied Tim sprawled on the sidewalk outside Rochelle’s bar flashed before Jason’s eyes. “Yeah. And before you get your panties in a knot, I had a good reason to off him.” 

“I never said you didn’t.” 

Now it was his turn to give Dick an incredulous look. “Who the fuck are you and what happened to Dick Grayson?” 

His brother offered up a weary smile. “He’s still here and judging you silently. But I’m much more interested in having a relationship with my little brother than going all Nightwing on your ass.” 

Jason knew right then and there he’d made the right decision to come here tonight, and not just for his own selfish motivations. This was a Dick who could actually be reasoned with, unlike the Dickwad of old who’d just pound him into the pavement. Whether or not he’d still want to be brothers after what he was about to ask though, that was up for debate. “You’ve gotten sentimental in your old age.” 

Dick shrugged. “I’m running on two hours of sleep and I had PT today. Sue me.” 

“Sorry about that. I didn’t even think about the time.” 

“Which is why I know you’re here for more than just a social visit. Spit it out already.” 

Jason’s laugh took on a bitter note. “You asked for it. So guess who’s kickin’ the bucket any day now?” 

“Who?” 

“The Penguin.” 

Dick shook his head. “Can’t say I’m overly surprised. Lemme guess—lung cancer? I remember him smoking like a chimney.” 

“Yeah, and he still does, even with the oxygen tank he’s dragging around.” Jason shifted, trying to make himself comfortable on the too-low sofa and failing miserably. “But here’s the real kicker. He called me into a meeting last night. The old bird wants me to take over.” 

His brother’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. Doesn’t he have anyone good enough to replace him?” 

“Nope. Said he’s got a few bright ones but they’re not anywhere near ready to take on the level of an organization he’s got going. Hell, even I’m intimidated by it.” 

“I would be too.” Dick’s face took on a pensive air. “What did you tell him?” 

“That I gotta think about it and need a few days.” Jason leaned forward, resting his arms over his knees. “Here’s the thing. I want to avoid a gang war if at all possible. That’s not just bad for business, but it brings the wrong kind of attention on me when I’m still trying to rebuild what Bruce fucked up—not to mention I’ll inevitably get dragged into things because someone decides making an enemy of me is a smart idea.” 

“Then it really would turn into an all-out war.” Dick nodded, following Jason’s line of thought. He'd been around the block more than once, he knew how it always played out when there was a shake-up at the top of the food chain. 

“Exactly. The thing is, I don’t want to take over for Ozzy. He’s too public of a figure.” 

“You prefer to stay out of the limelight—except for when it suits your purposes.” 

“Right.” Now came the fun part. “So earlier tonight, I was brainstorming what the fuck to do.” There was no reason to bring up the fact another person was involved—yet. “And I thought—what about a figurehead to stand in for me? What if I can find a person who’s used to being in the public eye, plays well with others, and knows how to take care of themself?” 

Dick’s eyes narrowed as he put the clues together. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. You want me to be your stand-in? How the hell would that even work? And Bruce! There is no way he’d let that go.” 

Jason held up a hand. “I didn’t get to the best part. The whole reason you’re involved at all is because you’re trying to clean up the Iceberg Lounge and all its sordid history. On paper, Ozzy sells the place to you for some sum I hope I don’t have to borrow from Babs, and then you tell anyone who asks that you want to bring the lounge into the 21st century and leave its past behind.” 

“Here’s the thing.” Dick’s gaze grew hard. “If I were to even remotely agree to this plan of yours, I would do exactly that. The Iceberg Lounge is like the Mos Eisley of Gotham. We all know it’s rotten at the core and I’d want to purge that to the best of my ability.” 

“Good.” 

His reply took Dick aback. “Good? What do you mean, good? How the hell does that work for you?” 

“One, it keeps the Feds off my back. Two, I can keep doing my own thing and slowly bring my influence into other parts of Gotham,” Jason started counting down, ticking the items off on his fingers. “Three, I’ll have access to the information network Ozzy’s got built. Four, we can weed out some more City Hall corruption because you sure as fuck know as well as I do most of the high rollers there are from downtown. And five…” Okay, maybe he’d have to reveal his trump card after all. Dickie wasn’t looking convinced. “I’ve got someone signed on who wants to clean house and turn all the dirty money going through the Lounge into something useful.”

“Which would be…?” 

“Putting it back into the city where it belongs.” Jason shifted again, silently cursing whoever picked this sofa out because it fucking sucked for tall people. “I know you’re blind in one eye, Dickie, but you can still see out of the other. You can’t tell me you didn’t figure out where some of the money you were picking up for me was ultimately going.” 

Dick sighed, but nodded. “That community center is somehow funded by you.” 

“I’ve got two more of them in the Bowery and the East End.” Jason waited, giving Dick a minute to absorb it all. “I don’t just sit on my profits and spend money on stupid shit.” 

“Never thought you did.” Dick rubbed at his brows. “Okay, why don’t you spell everything out for me in more detail, including how you think putting me in the bullseye will get around Bruce.” 

“Yes, do tell,” came a voice Jason wasn’t entirely unsurprised to hear from behind him. 

Damian rounded the corner of the sofa, dressed in his own pajamas, and sat down opposite of Jason.

“Were you lurking on the stairs or something?” he asked crossly. 

“Yes.” Damian smirked and caught Dick’s eye. “Richard knew I was there the entire time.” 

“He’s also facing the damn staircase,” Jason retorted. “Besides, didn’t I tell you to skip town?” 

“You did, but I have a commitment that will keep me here until the end of the year.” 

“Oh?” 

“I’m in my last semester at GU and graduate in December.” 

Pride welled up in Jason’s chest. “Good for you, kid. That’s a valid excuse.” 

“I rather thought so too. It’ll be nice to achieve something neither of you actually accomplished.” 

“Oh, piss off. I fucking died.” Jason would have loved to go to college. Nowadays, it just felt like a pipe dream, which was why he hoped Abby would go so he could live that dream vicariously through her.

“That didn’t stop you from accomplishing other things,” Damian said archly as he crossed his knees and clasped his hands over them. “Now, tell us why Richard is better suited to this venture than I.” 

This time, it was Jason’s jaw that dropped as the implication of that statement sank in. 

Damian at the helm instead of Dick? Oh fuck, but that opened a whole new world of possibilities. The son of a billionaire philanthropist, young and hungry to make a name for himself, would be infinitely more believable than one Richard Grayson, former ward of Bruce Wayne. All eyes would be on him, watching his every move. 

And partnering with a forensic accountant with a reputation for hunting down organized crime? It would be a win-win. 

No one would dare believe anything other than the story they put forth, which left Jason free to do what he did best—taking care of the dirty work.

Hell, even if Dick and Damian took the Iceberg on together… That was an even more believable story. A Wayne and a Wayne-adjacent working side-by-side to clean up a cesspool of scum and villainy was a story the press would eat by the bucketful. 

Jason’s pause was long enough for Damian’s smirk to grow. “You can’t, can you?” 

“I didn’t think it was even on the table until now.” The real question was why? Why was Damian risking putting his neck out like this? “But fuck if I can’t see a reason it doesn’t work. So tell me this…” Jason caught Damian’s green gaze and held it. “Why? What do you get out of it?” 

“This is quite possibly the biggest fuck you to Father that I can think of. Oswald Cobblepot has been a thorn in his side for decades, but he could never bring him down permanently. The old man owns too many people and rotates them out regularly so no one can pin anything on him. While Cobblepot’s death isn’t exactly a triumphant defeat, destroying what he built and rebuilding his empire into a force of good for this city is a win of epic proportions.” 

Dick was nodding along. “He’s got you there, Jay. Plus, there’s also the implication of Bruce endorsing the endeavor, even if he never publicly states it, simply because Damian is his son. While most of Gotham believes Bruce Wayne is an idiot, he’s a goodhearted idiot who’s never wavered in using his money and resources to help others. Unless he takes a massive misstep, that faith will be extended to Damian.” 

“I just want to make sure you’re both clear on one thing,” Jason stated, raising a finger. “I fully intend to use the Iceberg Lounge as a means to launder money. What other reason is there to even bother with this whole mess if I don’t?” 

“You said you have someone already who plans to do just that,” Damian said. “What kind of person is this? There’s crooked accounting and then there’s people who already work for Cobblepot and keep track of the intake and outflows. If I were you, I’d clean house of them all and start fresh.” 

“Which is exactly what I intend to do,” Jason answered. “My guy is good at what he does. And more importantly, he’s never been in it for the money. He kept the funding going to my youth centers the entire time I was gone, even after the money stopped coming in.” 

Dick looked surprised. “How did he do that?” 

“Out of his own pocket—which I’m half-expecting to see on an itemized expense report he’ll bill me with soon.” Jason rolled his eyes at that. He knew full well that if he just pounded Tim into the mattress a few times and left him unable to walk straight for several hours after, he’d write it all off as a tax donation.

Maybe he can do that to get out of all the back-pay he owed too. After all, he never did live up to his side of that stupid contract. Tim’s thirst knew no bounds, so he’d at least entertain the offer. 

“I thought you said he wasn’t in it for the money?” Dick asked.

“He’s not,” Jason replied. “It’s…complicated.” That was putting it mildly given how badly he also wanted to fuck Tim senseless. “But I trust him. And you know I don’t trust easily.” 

“None of us do,” Damian said. “But if I’m doing this—” 

“If you’re doing it, I am too,” Dick interrupted. “Might as well make it a family project.” 

“Fine,” Damian agreed. “If we’re doing this, then I want to meet this other person and make my own decisions about him. I know you, Todd. Your morals and mine align rather closely. And I trust Richard implicitly. But your numbers person is an unknown.” 

Dick nodded in agreement. “I’m with Damian on this one, Jay. All for one and one for all, so to speak.” 

Jason sighed and glanced at his watch. He’d had a feeling it would come to this. Not that he could blame either of them. If he were in their shoes, he’d be asking for the same thing. It was too late to wake up Tim, not with how early an appointment he had in the morning—which reminded him, he had volunteered to drive his number cruncher to see the doctor. 

Why had he done that? He only did shit like that for Abby or Steph when she really needed it. Tim was just his employee—and one who drove him absolutely up the fucking wall at that with his sharp tongue and wicked mouth. And then there were his eyes…

With a mental growl, Jason shoved those thoughts aside. He had other things to focus on. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night work for you?”

 

Chapter 22: A Cat with Nine Lives

Notes:

I never meant for a year to pass between chapters, but life is what it is. I've had a few comments and asks over on Tumblr if I intend to keep this fic going and the answer is a resounding YES. I can't guarantee regular updates, though I certainly do hope less time passes between updates.

As always, a resounding thank you to everyone who has commented on this fic, especially the lovely notes of encouragement and support. This chapter is for all of you who have kept me going.

The following morning when Tim opened the front door to Jason, he took one look over his broad shoulder at the banged up truck with a now-missing tailgate parked at the curb and shook his head. “Hell no.”

“Excuse me?” 

“That truck is a safety hazard.” 

“Then why the hell am I taking you to this appointment?”

“Because you asked if you could drive me.”

Jason scowled. “Back to being a pain in my left nut, I see.” 

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.” Tim gestured him inside and closed the door, then made his way down the hall toward the kitchen. “We’ll take my car.” 

“Since when do you have a car?” 

“Since I started dragging around dead bodies,” Tim answered without missing a beat. He looped his facemask over his ears and grabbed the remote key fob from its hook by the garage door. 

“I swear to fuck,” Jason sounded more than a little exasperated as he followed. “What the hell did you get up to while I was gone? Start robbing morgues or somethin’?”

“That would involve having to store bodies too.” Tim opened the door leading to the narrow garage and hit the switch to open the garage door. He’d never intended to really use the space when he bought the brownstone, but now it was home to a small white SUV that barely fit in the tight confines. “I needed something to drag receipt boxes around,” he clarified as he made his way down the steep steps. “Uber drivers always gave me weird looks.” 

Jason paused on the landing and gave a low whistle. “Fuck, that’s a pretty little ride. I might just have to borrow it sometime.” 

“Not if I hide the key.”

“You really think hiding the key is gonna stop me? There isn’t a car in this world I can’t break into and hotwire in less than five minutes.”

Tim glared, which had to look ridiculous because his mask was causing his glasses to fog up with each pained breath. He refused to acknowledge it. Doing so was a sign of weakness in the face of the smirking Red Hood, and he refused to back down. “Fine. Since I doubt I can stop you, if I find even so much as a scratch on my car, I am blaming you and sending a bill.”

“Put it on my tab.”

Fucker.

“Like you or your boss ever pay it.”

Jason braced his arms on the wooden banister and leaned down, his blue gaze swirling into teal as he tapped the tip of Tim’s nose through the mask. “Trust me, you’ll be paid back soon,” he said. “With interest.”

 

---

 

“Does this hurt at all?” Dr. Franklin asked, probing gently over the skin on the back of Tim’s head. 

“It’s still tender, but it doesn’t hurt,” Tim answered. “I just get really bad headaches if I start to exert myself or if my heart rate increases. The doctors at the hospital had me stop taking my migraine meds too.”

“It’s not uncommon for physical exertion to cause the headache you’re describing, actually,” the doctor replied, prodding another part of his head. “The CT scan from the hospital didn’t show any cracks or fractures in your skull either, so it looks like your brain just got sloshed around.” 

“Is that a technical term?” Tim joked. This was one of the reasons why he liked Dr. Franklin. She didn’t stand on formality unless she had to. 

“Yup! It’s right there with stoned and slopped.” 

From his little chair in the corner, Jason snorted. “I like your medical dictionary.” 

Dr. Franklin flashed him a smile. “It helps lighten the mood.” She turned her attention back to Tim. “Start taking your migraine medication again. I see no reason why you shouldn’t be. For now, just listen to your body. You’re already doing light physical activity, which is good. Try not to think too hard or overwork yourself. If you start getting a headache, stop whatever it is you’re doing and just go chill.” 

“You hear that, Timmers? Stop thinkin’.” Jason winked and offered up a charming smile to Dr. Franklin. “I’ve seen him when he’s overdone it. Eyes are dilated, cold sweats, slightly feverish, nausea… If he keeps pushin’ it like that, what are some ways to get him settled down? The other night I had to wait until he passed out before I could put him to bed.” 

Tim’s ears pinked slightly at the reminder of just how much he’d missed in the shower. So unfair. 

The doctor turned a displeased eye on Tim. “If that keeps happening, you’re only delaying your recovery. Give your brain a rest. Avoid stressful situations because those will lead to exactly what your friend described. You don’t have the worst concussion I’ve ever seen, but given your history with migraines, it could compound things and make them worse.” 

Tim paled at the thought of his migraines growing more painful than they already were. “Okay,” he said, trying for meek and cowed. “I’ll do better, I swear.” 

Neither Jason nor Dr. Franklin appeared convinced. It was almost like they knew him or something.

How rude.

 

---

 

Jason kept tapping his thumb on the steering wheel. It was totally out of sync with the song playing on the radio, just like it had been for the last couple of songs. 

Tim glanced at the bumper-to-bumper traffic they were stuck in and decided to go for it. They weren’t going anywhere for a while. “Something on your mind?” 

“What makes you think that?”

“Your thumb.” 

Jason stopped tapping it and glared at the digit like it had personally betrayed him. “A couple of things,” he said after a moment. 

“Oh?”

“Your headache the other night… What were you doing that it got that bad in the first place—and don’t tell me you were trying to jerk off. I don’t think that even occurred to you until I got there.”

Dammit. Tim really wished he’d kept his damned mouth shut. Resolutely, he turned his attention back on the crosstown traffic and the distant sound of a siren trying to make its way to the heart of the snarl somewhere in front of them.

How could he tell Jason he’d been in an argument about the work he’d done—and was still doing—for the Red Hood? That would mean giving up the fact his tongue had slipped while he was admittedly out of his mind, which in turn would lead to an uncomfortable conversation about whether he was even able to keep his mouth shut. This was a very important ability in his line of work, especially given the nature of his employer’s business. 

But he couldn’t rat out Bernard either. 

“I tried to do my laundry,” was what he settled on. “I didn’t think the stairs would do me in like that.”

The side-eye Jason offered in return spoke volumes to what he thought about the lie. “Nice try, but I already did your laundry. So I know you use your hampers and you don’t toss your shit downstairs into the basement. Tell me another one.”

Fuck.

“Why does it matter?” Tim countered. “I don’t bug you about your personal life.”

He’d like to though. He wanted to know so much more about the man seated beside him. What was his favorite movie? Or his favorite book? What kind of food did he like? Where the hell did he get his mood eyes from? Would he mind if Tim made a mold of his cock so he could turn it into a dildo? 

“It matters because in case you hadn’t noticed, I kinda like you and that mouth of yours.” Jason glanced his way and oh, there was that cocky smirk that never failed to make Tim’s heart race. “Also, your sloshed-up brain is rather important to our mutual boss, so if you’re not takin’ care of yourself, then that means I’m gonna have to.” 

While the thought of having Jason spend more time with him was appealing, Tim was fully capable of reading between the lines here.

The Red Hood was a busy man. He didn’t have time to babysit, especially if Cobblepot agreed to the plan they’d concocted last night. And if the dying man did, then it was only a matter of time before the financial records would be coming Tim’s way. As much as he and Jason still clearly wanted to fuck each other’s brains out, Hood needed him more in a professional capacity than personal.

It sucked. It hurt. But Tim also knew exactly who he was having these pesky feelings for. A person only worked for the Red Hood if they were desperate or he found them useful. While a case could be made that Tim was both, he wasn’t that kind of desperate, so he fell into the latter category. Useful. 

He started shoving all his unwanted emotions into the far reaches of his mind, locking them securely behind ogre-guarded doors. Useful. He could be useful. 

Besides, they’d get around to fucking sooner than later. With the chemistry still between them, it was inevitable he’d get the railing he craved. He didn’t need feelings to fuck. Maybe if he ignored them long enough, they’d go away.

Right?

Right. 

“At the moment, having you around more often isn’t exactly conducive to my well-being, your skills in the kitchen aside,” Tim finally said. “Every time I see you now, I want to get bent over the nearest surface and fucked to within an inch of my life. That’s not exactly the type of activity Dr. Franklin encouraged.”

How the hell could he not think about the man beside him if he was there all the time? Seriously, even with his fucked-up head, those thighs were still begging to be climbed. 

The smirk grew. “Thirsty much?” 

“You have no idea.” 

Jason laughed and tapped lightly on the gas as traffic started inching forward. “You’re acting like you didn’t get laid once while I was gone.” 

“That’s because I didn’t.”

Tim had to brace himself as Jason slammed the brake hard. Behind them, horns honked in protest.

“Say that again?” 

“I didn’t get laid once while you were gone,” he repeated. “I thought about it, but the guys at the gym just felt like too much work.” Okay, so he was lying, but given the ogre guarding certain thoughts and emotions, it was as close to the truth as he was willing to venture.

“Jesus, no wonder you’re desperate.”

“No, if I were desperate, I’d do something stupid—like go to a club with a bad reputation and drink until someone stuck their hand down my pants.” What the hell was with him and the truth these days? That was a little too close to home, so Tim shut his mouth.

Perhaps he quieted down a little too quickly because Jason narrowed his eyes before returning his attention to the moving traffic around them. 

They didn’t speak again until Jason pulled into Tim’s narrow garage. Turning off the engine, he made no move to get out of the SUV.

Tim unbuckled his seatbelt and extended his hand. “I’m going to need that key back.” 

“Why? You shouldn’t be driving with your head the way it is.” 

“True, but that doesn’t mean I want to give you easy access to my car whenever you feel like it. I have a feeling you’d be hell on my insurance premium.” 

“That’s what you think. I’m a great driver.” 

“Then why doesn’t your truck have a bumper or a tailgate?” 

“I’m not the only person who drives it.” Jason dug the key out of a pocket and dangled it in front of him. A teasing smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Whatcha gonna gimme for this?” 

Someone was feeling playful. Tim could work with that. 

He yanked his mask down and leaned across the center console, reaching past the key fob to rest his good hand along Jason’s stubbled jaw. Their lips met and Tim closed his eyes, focusing solely on the mouth opening up beneath him.

Jason tasted faintly of citrus and malt, and a hint of something earthier. His tongue delved deeper and tangled with Jason’s, who was quick to take charge and return the battle to Tim’s arena. The simmering embers of their mutual passion roared to life with the fury of a wildfire, having been stoked for far too long. All the need and desire Tim had suppressed for the last three months finally had an outlet. 

And from the way Jason was reciprocating, all fiery heat and with a bruising pressure that would no doubt leave their lips swollen, he had to be feeling the same way.

Tim wanted more—so much more—but the pain in his ribs and wrist from the weird angle were warning signs he couldn’t ignore for long. With a frustrated growl, he drew away. “That good enough?” 

Those moody eyes of Jason’s were a deep, dark blue with green streaking out from the pupil. Seriously, what the fuck was up with those eyes of his? No one had eyes like that.

“I suppose so.” Jason took hold of Tim’s good hand and wrapped it around the key. “How’s the head?” 

Tim realized he was panting quietly and took a moment to assess. “Good, actually. Surprisingly.” 

“Good.” Jason placed a kiss over Tim’s fingers and let go. “I need you to get some rest today. Don’t do anything stressful.” 

“Why’s that?”

“Because Hood’s got a little meet and greet he wants you to be at tonight. We need you on your A-game.” 

What the everloving fuck?

Tim retreated to his side of the car and stared, alarm bells jangling in his head. Or maybe that was the damned ice pick in his brain as his blood rushed back up from his dick. “Since when do I need to attend meetings for anything Hood does? That’s not in my contract.” 

He’d been under the impression from the very beginning that his work was done on the sidelines, that he’d only be meeting with Hood or Jason—whichever he felt like appearing as. No one else was supposed to know about him.

Jason slumped like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Nice to see he felt some guilt over what was happening in Tim’s head. “Since the figurehead Hood’s partnering with for your insanely brilliant idea wants to meet you and make their own decision about whether they want to help or not.” 

“You mean they’re not someone Hood can just pay off? I kind of thought that would be the case.” 

“While that would be a shit ton easier, we need someone who’s all in of their own choice and is capable of thinking on their feet. Money doesn’t always buy brains.”

“Okay, that’s fair, but why do they want to meet me?” 

“Because they’re having a hard time believing you’re in it for anything other than money.” 

“I’m not in it for the money.” 

Jason snorted. “I know. You’re in it for the sex.” 

“Exactly. Do they know that?”

“No, and I don’t plan on telling them. Ever.”

“You do realize that after this little bombshell, there is no way in hell I’ll be able to rest today, right?” So much for his nap. 

To his credit, Jason didn’t appear happy about the matter either. “Tim, please trust me when I say that if there was any way Hood or I could get you out of this, we would. Also, the people you’re meetin’ tonight, they won’t hurt you, even if you open your mouth and piss ‘em off.”

What?

“Did you just say people? As in more than one person? How is that supposed to make me feel safe?”

“You gotta trust me. One of ‘em is a pain in my ass and the other is a dick, but Hood and I have known them for years. I hate even admittin’ this out loud, but when I’m in a tight spot and Hood isn’t around, there’s no one I’d rather have watchin’ my back than them.” 

That helped. A little. But Tim would be damned if he admitted it, not with the spike of his ice pick headache growing with every rapid beat of his heart. “I really hate this,” he said instead. “And how do you expect me to get there?”

A grin spread across Jason’s lips. “Why do you think I wanted to keep your key?”

 

---

 

As blithe as he tried to be about the whole situation, Tim couldn’t help but be stressed out. How was he not supposed to stress out over it? It was a freaking meeting with Hood’s business partners who weren't even supposed to know he existed. 

Seriously, what the fuck? The next time he saw Hood in private, he’d be giving him a piece of his mind—for all the good that would do. Tim could already imagine Jason’s annoying, shit-eating grin as he just stood there and watched him mouth off. 

The jerk.

Tempting as it was to flop onto his bed in a huff, he didn’t trek two flights of stairs to fall asleep in agony. So instead, he gingerly stretched onto the bed and hit the pillows with a satisfying thump. There was a slight twinge at the back of his head and Tim grimaced because his migraine medication was in the bathroom. 

He didn’t want to get up. His bed was comfortable and his ribs ached from the jostling of Gotham’s roads. Ugh, why didn’t he accept Jason’s offer to make sure he had everything he needed before he left? 

The answer was easy enough. 

Stupid jerk with his stupid face and stupid thighs, not to mention his stupid grin and his stupid dick. That stupid dick he wanted so badly he could practically scream. 

He was a dying man on the brink reaching for the one thing that would save him, only for it to remain just barely out of reach. 

Fuck, but he needed to heal faster. 

Much faster. 

Two weeks, he decided. Two more weeks of being good and healing, and not doing anything that would hurt him or delay his recovery. It was entirely possible he’d survive given he’d be working with his regular clients and making sure to take breaks. Cobblepot still had to agree to the deal, after all—and who knew how long it would take for him to make a decision? The longer he took, the more time Tim had to recover. 

…Not that it did any good for his current situation. His tired, frustrated, and desperate situation. 

Life just wasn’t fair sometimes. Okay, most of the time. He hadn’t been able to find a release in two weeks and it was showing. If he could just come, then he could sleep and be on his A-game for tonight’s meeting. 

Tim slipped his good hand into his boxers. Maybe it would work. He had fresh material to replay in his mind and Jason’s taste was still on his lips.

It had to work.

 

---

 

It didn’t.

But it did send him into a fitful sleep, one that was filled with dreams of red masks, pool cues, a white cat, and someone holding him firmly by the hips to keep him from moving. The cat being there made no sense and it was seriously starting to bother him as she—it was definitely a she or so his dream-addled brain informed him—kept staring at him as she licked her paws no matter where he was in the dream. 

He was trying to shoo her away because he was this close to finally convincing the Red Hood to fuck him with something other than the blunt end of a pool cue when the dream shattered around him.

Tim woke with a pained groan and fumbled blindly for his ringing phone. His dick throbbed in time with his pulse and his balls ached from the lack of release. What a great way to wake up.

Finding the phone, he swiped at the screen. “What?” he growled with a voice that was as dry and parched as his mouth. 

“Tim?” came Bernard’s reply. “Are you alright? You sound awful.”  

“Woke me up.” Tim swallowed and tried to work some moisture back into his mouth with mixed results. “Weird dreams.” 

“Sorry to hear that. I was calling to see how things went with the neurologist today. Did you manage to drive yourself?”

It took Tim a moment to remember the lie he’d fed Bernard yesterday so he could have Jason take him to the doctor instead. Lies, lies, and more lies. Everything between them lately was one lie after another. It was exhausting. 

“Jason took me, actually,” was what slipped from his tongue. Wow, his brain definitely wasn’t doing its job. “He has experience with concussions and knew what to ask better than I did.” 

Bernard was quiet for a long time. “I bet he does,” he replied finally. “So he’s come by to check on you then?”

“Made butternut squash ravioli for dinner last night.”

“Made made or from the store?”

“Made made,” Tim parroted because that was easier than thinking of new words. And then—because hey, no filter— “Why do you always manage to call me when I have a headache?” 

“Impeccable timing?” Bernard sounded unsure of his footing now. Good, he was remembering the last time they’d spoken. “Anything I can do to help? I know you have a full fridge and all, but I was kinda hoping I could bring you some dinner after what happened the other day.”  

“I doubt you want to give me the kind of help I need.” There was no way his friend would give him a blowjob—not that he could get it up in the first place. If thoughts of Jason couldn’t find him relief, Bernard didn’t stand a chance.

“Now that’s a loaded statement.” There was a pause. “What did you do?”  

“What makes you think I did something?”

“Because I know you and that growl is starting to sound a lot more like your I-can’t-get-fucked voice than the I-have-a-migraine-leave-me-the-hell-alone one.”

Sometimes, Tim really hated how well Bernard knew him. This was what fifteen years of friendship looked like. “You know what? Fine. Jason won’t fuck me for at least another two weeks. He wants my migraines to stop, which will only happen when I’m not stressed out and can relax. But then what does he go and fucking do? Tells me the Red Hood needs me to be somewhere tonight and prepare to be fucking interrogated. Seriously, how the hell is that supposed to help me get better?” 

Fuck. Fuck.  

Too late, Tim remembered he shouldn’t have said that. Silently, he vowed then and there that if he was in pain of any sort, he’d just keep his damn mouth shut and suffer the consequences. Those couldn’t be any worse than what Jason would undoubtedly do to him if he found out Tim’s good sense went out the window while incapacitated. As much as they mutually wanted to screw each other’s brains out, business came first.

Jaime’s grainy mugshot from the newspaper article Bernard had shown him flashed before his eyes. Body Found in Crime Alley Identified. 

If he fucked up, that would be him. Maybe not necessarily in Crime Alley, but loose tongues didn’t make for a very long lifespan when working for the Red Hood. In a way, he felt like a cat who’d used up nearly half of their lives already. By all rights, Jason should have killed him instead of fucked him before he vanished for most of the summer. And that night with Jaime, Tim would have died if Jason hadn’t arrived at the last possible second. If he went back even further, he could include the night they’d first met when his mouth got him in trouble again.

Three times Tim should have died. Okay, four if you counted the accident that took his parents from him. 

Maybe he should get a cat. A white one like in the dream lingering in his memory who’d judge his every move. 

“…Tim? Tim, are you still there?”  

It took a moment to realize Bernard was trying to get his attention. “Yeah,” he answered, snapping out of his daze. “Do me a favor and forget everything I just said.” 

“I can’t do that!” came the more than a little manic response. “Oh my god, Tim. You can’t go. You need to quit, right now. Don’t do this anymore.”  

Tim wished he could start this whole conversation over. “Bernard, please. Drop it.” 

“You can’t go anywhere if I come over.” Bernard sounded more than a little determined. “I’ll tie you up and sit on you if I have to.”  

“And then what happens when I’m late and Jason comes looking for me?” 

“We’ll leave before that happens. Pack a bag, we can go to New York. Or Metropolis. The Red Hood can’t take on Superman.”  

“You sure about that?” Given everything Tim knew about Jason, he had a sneaking suspicion a Super wouldn’t give him trouble for very long. 

“That’s your headache talking,” Bernard said. “Please, Tim. You can’t go. You’re already in too deep and this meeting will likely drag you in past the point of no return.”  

“I think I’m already there,” Tim replied, more open and honest than he thought possible. “Everything that’s in motion, it’s all because of me.” 

“Tim, it’s not too late. You can go to the FBI and tell them what’s going on. They’ll wire you up in a heartbeat if it means putting the Red Hood behind bars for good.”

The FBI. Shit, but there was another loophole he needed to consider. If what Hood had said about Cobblepot was true, then there was no way the Feds were just looking the other way for shits and giggles. There had to be bribes.

Big ones. 

Motherfucker, but this was turning into a mess of epic proportions. He really did need his head on straight and the first step in making that happen were his meds.

Gingerly, he swung his feet around and sat up. There was no part of his body that liked this move, but dammit, mind over matter, right?

“This is going to sound strange, but putting Hood in jail isn’t what this city needs,” Tim found himself saying as he stood on wobbly legs. “Yes, there are people who will die if he isn’t behind bars. But I truly believe that number will be even higher if he is. This is my chance to finally step up and make a difference.” 

“Do you even hear yourself?” Bernard all but shouted. “I don’t care if Jason, Hood, whoever, has the dick of a god, you can’t mean that! Tim, just sit tight. I’ll be there soon and we can talk about this.”  

Tim glanced over at the large digital clock on his nightstand. It was still several hours before Jason was picking him up, but he knew Bernard would be as good as his word and knocking on his door soon.

Those two were not meeting. Ever.  

He should never have answered his phone. Now he had to book a hotel room, pack what he’d need for the night, and call an Uber. Maybe by then he’d come up with a decent enough lie as to why Jason needed to pick him up at the Gotham Mandarin Oriental instead of from the comforts of his own home.

Plan in place, Tim shuffled toward the bathroom. He’d deal with Jason later.  

For now, he needed the room to stop spinning and finish dealing with the Bernard-shaped problem at hand. “Sure, I’ll see you soon.” 

Not.

 

Notes:

So it's not the chapter everyone is hoping for, but rest assured, the big meet-up between Tim, Jason, Dick, and Damian will be the next chapter! :)