Chapter Text
“I need a weakness.”
Tim paused midsentence on the email he was composing, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He took a second to weigh the words, running through recent conversations…but no. He had zero context.
“In general?” he asked, turning to face Jason. “Like…you’ve got a character that’s too overpowered, or…?”
Somewhere between Tim’s cameras catching him breaking in through the roof and Tim’s living room, Jason had lost his helmet, so Tim caught his eyeroll loud and clear.
“Don’t be such a nerd,” he said, as if a classic literature-loving former theatre kid like him had any room to talk. “No, I got a traitor in my organization. Maybe more than one. I’ve been trying to pin ’em down for weeks, but nothing’s worked, so…”
Ah. That cleared up a lot—not just the weird conversation starter, but also the truly terrible mood Jason had been in recently. Bruce would be relieved to know it wasn’t his fault.
Of course, the relief would probably be outweighed by the degree of violence Jason was likely to rain down on the person(s) stupid enough to betray the Red Hood. Hm.
Well, not Tim’s problem.
“So now you want a fake weakness to tempt them into moving more openly against you,” he said. “Some kind of glaring vulnerability they can go after.”
Jason looked pleased. Probably at the thought of his impending vengeance. “Exactly.”
“Got it,” Tim said, and turned back to his computer. “So what were you thinking? Fake financial distress? Fake injury?”
“Fake boyfriend,” Jason said, which—
Wait.
What?
“What?” Tim asked, swiveling back to face him again. “What do you mean fake boyfriend?”
Jason raised his eyebrows.
“Exactly how many meanings could it have?” he asked, incredulous. “I need a boyfriend that isn’t real.”
“I’m not confused by the definition,” Tim said, “I just—what kind of plan is that?”
“A great one!” Jason claimed. “The kind of dumbasses who’d screw me over are the same kind of dumbasses who’d take one look at an emotional attachment and think they can use it against me. They’ll come after you, we’ll kick their asses, and—”
“Whoa, wait,” he interrupted, a little louder than he’d meant to. “They’ll come after me? You’re expecting me to be the fake boyfriend?”
Jason looked impatient. “Well who the fuck else could it be?”
Tim opened his mouth to offer up other options…and then realized he couldn’t think of any. Damian and Duke were obviously too young, Cass was a terrible actress, Stephanie had preemptively threatened a terrible fate to anyone who ever even thought about using her in any kind of honey trap (which this wasn’t, really, but Tim knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t care), and Dick lived in a different city.
Of Jason’s non-Bat friends, Kori was a worse actress than Cass and Roy just didn’t do ‘harmless,’ which would obviously be a major part of the role. Jason wanted to tempt the traitors into moving by dangling a weak, helpless vulnerability in front of them, not scare them into backing off.
Huh.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jason said, smug. He’d been leaning against the counter that divided the kitchen and the living room, but now he pushed off to cross the room and drop onto Tim’s couch. “So, you in or what?”
Tim wanted to say no. He’d done the fake relationship thing several times before—mostly with other teen capes when he was younger, and also once (very memorably) with Green Arrow—and had learned there was a sliding scale of residual awkwardness, usually based on pre-existing physical comfort.
Faking a relationship with a member of Young Justice? Not a problem. They’d been invading his personal space since day one. They could fake a relationship for weeks and be back to totally normal the next day.
But while he and Jason worked well together and even occasionally hung out (they weren’t friends, exactly, but they were definitely more than just acquaintances), they weren’t the touchy type. Jason’s personal space bubble was about six feet wide, and Tim was the last person who was gonna breach it uninvited. They had no physical comfort at all.
Thing was, unless Jason’s plan was to take Tim and introduce him as his boyfriend to each individual goon in his organization—unlikely in the extreme—touching was gonna be required. Touching would, in fact, probably make up the majority of the plan. Meaning Tim would be invading Jason’s personal space, on a regular basis, for as long as it took for the traitors to take the bait. And Jason would hate every second of it.
This had the potential to set their relationship back years, if not ruin it entirely.
But Jason was asking for his help. Tim couldn’t say no to that.
“Yeah, alright,” he said, defeated. “What did you have in mind?”
xxx
As expected, physical contact was what Jason had in mind. Namely, the two of them being caught making out by the biggest gossips in his organization.
(That Jason was aware of who the biggest gossips in his crime syndicate were was strangely disorienting. It made sense that he’d know—as evidenced by their very situation, it was excellent strategic knowledge to have—but something…)
(It was just weird, was all. Tim was so used to the violence and vigilante parts of Hood’s crime lord thing, he sometimes forgot there was a lot of management happening behind the scenes. As funny as it was to think, Jason was probably the person best positioned to sympathize with Tim’s WE woes.)
Jason’s Red Hood operation didn’t exactly have a physical headquarters, but he did have a series of strategic safehouses he used to meet with various lieutenants and goons. (Not all business could be conducted via rooftop at midnight, after all.) It was at one of these safehouses that Tim showed up on Tuesday afternoon, at 3:14 exactly.
He was dressed like the average college student, wearing just enough contouring makeup not to be recognized as Timothy Wayne by anyone who read the society pages. He looked normal, approachable—definitely not like the kind of guy who’d trained with assassins and could easily subdue multiple attackers at once.
Just a harmless boyfriend, that was him.
As planned, there was a man leaving the apartment when Tim stepped off the elevator. Per Jason’s profile, it was Caleb Foster, a 46-year-old, unmarried distribution manager who liked to keep himself awake during the night shift by talking. A lot.
Tim gave him a friendly smile as he brushed past, stepping a bit quickly to catch the door that hadn’t quite yet closed behind Foster.
“Babe?” he called out, pretending not to notice the way Foster stiffened behind him. “I know I’m a little early for our date—”
“You’re fine,” Jason shouted back (deliberately a little too loud), “I got more work to do, but you can hang around.”
“Great.” Tim kicked the door closed behind him and, aware of the possibility Foster had his ear pressed to it, paused to kick off his shoes as he asked, “Did you get more condoms?”
There was a muffled sound from the next room, something suspiciously like a stifled laugh, but Jason’s voice was even when he called out an affirmative.
“Sweet.” A quick check out the peephole proved Foster was ever-so-slowly drifting away from the door—like he wanted desperately to stay but was forcing himself to go. Considering the inherent danger to eavesdropping on one’s boss when the boss in question was Red Hood, it was honestly a little impressive he’d lingered even a little.
But the important part was, he was far enough away not to hear them if they kept their voices low. Tim moved further into the apartment.
It wasn’t really set up like an apartment, of course; this was a place where Jason did business, not a place where he crashed. There were a few armchairs grouped around a couch, two tables, and several chairs in the main room, along with a plethora of boxes Tim’s fingers itched to investigate. He could see into the next room, what should’ve been a bedroom but was instead set up like an office—an office where Jason was standing at a desk piled with papers.
“He’s gone,” Tim reported.
“Good,” Jason said, and checked his phone. “The gossips’ll be here in fifteen. That gives us time to set up a nice scene for them.” He glanced up from the papers he was sorting through (Tim’s fingers itched again) to give him a quick once-over. “You cover your scars?”
“Please, I’m not an amateur. Concealer over everything above the waist.”
Jason smirked. “And below the waist?”
“Is nothing you’re gonna see on the first date,” he teased. “Buy me dinner first.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Jason said, and dropped the stack of papers he was holding on the desk with disgust. “This shit is already a mess without us making a scene on top of it. Let’s go to the couch.”
“Too bad,” Tim said idly, even as he led the way over. “Bending someone over a desk is just so much more evocative.”
“Oh, yeah? You bending a lotta people over the desk in that fancy office of yours, Timmers?”
“Ha. No,” Tim said. “Two of the walls are glass. Thought about it plenty, though.”
He surprised himself with the admission; it certainly wasn’t planned. Not wanting to see what kind of response Jason might have to the overshare, he moved things swiftly along.
“So I’m losing my shirt?” he asked. He assumed that was why Jason’d asked about him covering his scars, anyway. “What about you?”
“I’m losing the jacket,” Jason said, mercifully allowing the subject change, “but not the armor. Don’t wanna oversell it.”
“Yeah, good call,” Tim agreed. Hood having a little makeout session in a (relatively) public place was one thing; being actually, physically vulnerable would be something else entirely. “Better get started, I guess.”
Tim stripped off his shirt and, after a moment of thought, chucked it in the direction of the armchair to the left. It landed across the closer armrest, looking convincingly like it had been tossed away in a moment of passion.
“Careless,” Jason tsked before shrugging off his signature leather jacket and, of course, draping it very gently over the arm of the couch.
“You get shot at in that thing,” Tim protested without heat.
“It’s the principle of the matter,” Jason insisted, even as he flung himself onto the couch hard enough to make it bounce. Tim rolled his eyes. “Now get in my lap.”
“Would a please kill you?”
“Maybe,” Jason said. “Why risk it?”
“Why not risk it?” Tim countered as he straddled Jason. His left knee twinged, still a little sore from a botched landing a few nights earlier. “Considering your track record and all.”
“I’m not wasting my second chance on a goddamn please,” Jason said, and kissed him.
In the way of most first kisses, it was awkward. It took a second to work out the right angle of approach, Jason actually bit Tim when he stumbled across an apparently ticklish spot in his effort to bury a hand in Jason’s hair, and having his face bare while Jason (as was apparently his practice when meeting with his people) wore a domino left Tim feeling strangely exposed.
For all that, it wasn’t a bad kiss. Just not a great one.
Of course, that was the whole reason they were starting early: to work the kinks out before they needed to play at being in a relationship for their audience.
“That was weird,” Jason said when they broke apart.
“Very,” Tim agreed. “Try again?”
“Yeah.”
The second kiss was better. A lot better. One might even say it was alarmingly better.
Angle worked out and Tim now knowing to avoid that spot below Jason’s ear, they were able to sink into things right away. Tim had time now to pay attention to Jason’s lips, soft but sure against his, and the slow slide of Jason’s calloused fingers up his spine. Jason’s hair was soft between his fingers, and—
Jason was bigger than Tim. Obviously. Most men of his acquaintance were. (Not that Tim was short—he was of average height for a man, thanks very much—but for some reason vigilantes trended tall.) Tim had always known it.
But as their enmity had faded, Tim had stopped really noticing how much bigger than him Jason was. It was an issue when Jason was a threat to him, when that longer reach and greater leverage was something he needed to arm against, but when they were friendly? It didn’t matter except for when Jason was doing asshole things like holding Tim’s stuff over his head.
Now, though—suddenly, Tim was very aware of it. The span of Jason’s hand on his back. The breadth of his shoulders as Tim braced against them. The spread of his thighs beneath him.
Oh no. Oh no.
Heat was creeping up Tim’s spine against his will, cool professionalism swiftly overtaken by something much more dangerous. When Jason deepened the kiss, he nearly whimpered.
This was bad. Or, no, it was good, but good was bad. This experience was supposed to be awkward and weird, not hot. But the easy slide of Jason’s tongue against his, the sound he made low in his throat when Tim gripped his shoulder, his heavy hand on the back of Tim’s neck…
Tim realized, with a sinking kind of feeling, that he might be in trouble.
He had no idea how long they’d been kissing when Jason finally pulled back. He had no idea about anything, really. The whole world could’ve ended on the other side of the windows and he’d never notice.
“Okay if I mark you up a bit?”
Even odds whether it was the words or Jason’s voice (even deeper than usual) that hit Tim so hard; either way, he stuck to nodding his agreement, unsure he could trust his voice.
“Good,” Jason said, and then he was biting at Tim’s neck, sucking in bruises that would last for days, and oh fuck Tim was in so much trouble—
Tim bit his lip against a moan, closed his eyes, and cursed himself in every language he knew. He tried to think unsexy thoughts (Ra’s al Ghul, the Widower, that time he saw Bruce and Selina together on a rooftop), willing himself not to get an erection. Yes Jason was doing amazing things to his neck, and yes he suddenly wanted those huge, rough hands to touch every inch of him, but if he got hard right now he would never live it down.
This was so, so bad.
…Yeah, no, there was no way Tim wasn’t getting hard if Jason didn’t stop that immediately. (Hell, he was halfway there already.) He still had a hand in Jason’s hair; he tugged at it, not forcefully enough to actually pull him away, but enough to signal he wanted it.
“That’s more than a bit,” he said, hoarse but at least coherent, and kissed Jason before he could say anything in reply.
This kiss was rougher and a little wild (Tim’s fault, but he was kind of having a moment here), verging on passionate. Jason was gripping the back of Tim’s neck in a way that made his whole body throb, and there was no way he wasn’t going to be fully hard in the next thirty—
“Shit!”
“Fuck! Sorry!”
—oh thank God.
Tim exaggerated his startle response, but didn’t have to fake it entirely, the way he’d expected to. He’d been so absorbed in Jason, he completely missed the door opening. That was…not good.
But this was no time for an emotional crisis; he had a role to play.
“Do you mind?” he demanded, swiveling off of Jason’s lap and pushing to his feet. It was both relief and agony to put some distance between them. (So not good.) “We’re a little busy here.”
“Chill, baby.” Jason lounged back against the couch, all long legs and arms, smug and confident and fuck why couldn’t Tim stop noticing this stuff? “I told you I still had work to do today.”
Tim crossed his arms and looked away, feigning petulance.
“Go wait in the other room,” Jason said. It was an order given with fond undertones and it did things to Tim, things he really could not afford to be feeling. “I just gotta have a quick meeting with Baptiste and Dyer here and then we’ll go, okay?”
“Fine,” Tim said. “But this better not take long.” To Baptiste and Dyer, the very gossips they’d set this all up for, he added, “It’s our anniversary.”
“Hey,” Jason snapped, bolting upright. “What’d I tell you about talking to my men?” He glared at them. “You’re gonna forget you heard that.”
“Yes, boss,” Dyer agreed. Baptiste nodded frantically.
“You’re so paranoid,” Tim muttered, snatching up his shirt. “Like one conversation is—”
“Enough,” Jason said tightly. “We’ll talk about this later, okay? Just go wait in the other room.”
Fairly certain they’d put on enough of a show to convince Jason’s goons, Tim took the excuse to flee with relief.
The plan he’d drawn up with Jason called for the two of them to have a series of ‘dates’—times they could be spotted together in Jason’s territory, times Tim could be seen slipping out of this Hood property or that, preferably mussed up and giving off an air of recently fucked. They’d slowly develop a pattern, until the traitors felt confident enough to make a move to grab or threaten Tim.
They expected it to take weeks, which had sounded fine as recently as this morning.
Weeks. Weeks of Jason kissing him. Weeks of Jason’s hands on him. Weeks of having to be coherent and calm and not turned on when Jason gave him that smirk and called him baby.
Tim was doomed.