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The moment Tim realizes he's going to have to drag Jason Todd into this is probably one of the worst moments of his life. Well, not really, but he's on hour forty-eight of what was supposed to be a routine teenager-pill-swapping-turned-DARE-PSA that's somehow stretched past the Bristol suburbs and into the outskirts of Crime Alley—Gigante territory. More to the point, Red Hood territory. Normally, Tim would call it a night and clean up what he could and tell Dick to tell Jason he's got some shit to take care of on the back end. Unfortunately, he's peering through a dusty skylight down at a bunch of amateur explosives. This PSA just got nasty. Not something Tim wants to deal with on his own, and he definitely doesn't want to deal with the consequences of handling whatever this is and then also dealing with a pissy Red Hood afterwards. The least he can do is phone ahead. A courtesy call. Tim's very gracious like that.
Dick's got Jason's number saved into Tim's comms, with a note in all caps that says ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY. Because Red Hood will work with Nightwing, occasionally, and Spoiler, bizarrely enough, but he won't come near anyone else. Red Hood works with the mob, with vaunted mafia matriarch Sofia Gigante. Not with the Bats. Not since that blowout fight he and Bruce had a few years ago. The gist that Tim's gotten, filtered through tight looks and sidestepped answers, is that Bruce had asked Jason to choose between the Gigantes and them. And Jason hadn't chosen them. And that had been that. And Tim is trying to be respectful of that, he is, but those are a lot of bombs down there. He clicks call.
Another all caps note: SERIOUSLY ARE YOU BLEEDING OUT RIGHT NOW.
"Jesus Christ, Dick," Tim mutters. Overprotective much? He clicks call again.
The comm rings four times. In the middle of the fifth ring, the line clicks on. "I'm getting it, Christ," Jason says, like he's talking to somebody else. He sighs tinnily, already aggrieved. "The fuck do you want? I'm in the middle of something important here."
"What kind of something?" Tim asks, and then winces. If he had to hazard a guess, Jason is not looking for this conversation to be derailed by Tim's incessant nosiness.
"The kind of something that's none of your fucking business," Jason says, proving Tim right. Probably it's some crazy mob bullshit they'll have to fight about later anyway. "Are you in immediate moral peril?"
"Well," Tim hedges. "Not immediate—"
The line goes dead. Tim huffs and hits call again, only for it to immediately drop. "He hung up on me again," he says aloud, unnecessarily. He tries to call one last time, and this time it goes through.
"I'm being told I need to hear you out," Jason says, like he's delivering news of an impending nuclear armageddon.
Once again, Tim's curiosity gets the better of him. "By who?"
"Some asshole," Jason says flatly, and then "Ow, stop kicking me—"
Tim decides not to waste the opportunity he's been given. "I was tracking some teens trading pills and somehow it ends up all the way down in Crime Alley, and I figured I would give you the heads up."
Jason is quiet for a staticy beat. "Okay?" He says. "You interrupted my extremely important—"
"Also they're making bombs," Tim butts in. "Sorry. Should have led with that."
A long, loud groaning noise. A distant murmur Tim can't quite pick up, and then Jason says, "Some kids making bombs or whatever." To Tim, "Can this wait until tomorrow?"
"Um," Tim says, but before he can voice it, the mysterious voice on the other end shouts, "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"
"I'm priortizing," Jason says, and then, "Yes, I'm fucking serious. We said this was going to be a nice night in, and I—" A beat. The tinny voice shouts something out again, but this time Tim can't catch it. Jason huffs. "Yes, I heard the thing about the fucking bombs. Jesus Christ." And then again, "Jesus Christ, alright." His voice is dry, flat, clearly displeased with this turn of events. Like it's Tim's fault they're building bombs. "Where are you at?"
Tim tells him and Jason sighs, loudly, and hangs up. Twenty minutes later, Red Hood is grappling onto the roof besides him, just as Tim was about to give up on waiting and go in himself.
"Hey," Tim says, lifting a hand in an extremely stilted, belabored greeting.
"Hi," Jason says. It's hard to tell if he's pissed at Tim, the mysterious person on the other end of the phone, the kids making bombs, the world at large, or if the modulator is just particularly flat tonight. "So. Amatuer explosives?" Tim points down below. Jason leans down on his haunches, tilts his head down. "Yep. Would you look at that."
And then, with literally no further warning or way for Tim to prepare, he jumps down through the skylight into the waiting group of drugged up, TNT happy teens below.
"Oh my God," Tim says, scrambling after him.
The teens are not particularly prepared for Red Hood and Red Robin to bust their operation. There's a lot of screaming and a lot of snot and at least one primed explosive Jason has to hastily lob into a canal. One of the kids has a nailed-up baseball bat that Tim gets in the way of once. Or twice. Or three times.
"This is why you wear a helmet," Jason snarks at him, tapping at the side of his own head, and Tim is overcome with a hatred so blinding he nearly abandons his mission to tackle Jason through the nearest wall.
Unfortunately, those pesky heroic instincts win out. The explosives are disarmed, the kids are tied up, the sirens are on their way.
"All's well that ends well," Jason says.
Tim turns to look at him slowly, appalled.
"What the fuck is wrong with you," he says.
Maybe it's crazy for Tim to be talking shit at the crime lord he has, at best, a strained dynamic with. But it's equally crazy for Jason to go busting into a situation with zero intel or briefing or preparation, because—what? What could possibly be so important that Jason had to rush through a mission with so many unknown variables?
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" Jason parrots. "I was in the middle of something, dipshit. You're the one who called me out—"
"What were you even doing?" Tim says, spreading a hand out, asking the universe at large. "I mean, some random guy at the other end of the phone had to tell you to do your actual job!"
"Watch it," Jason says warningly.
Tim should. But God, his face hurts and this could have gone so much smoother and Jason Todd is, above all else, a fucking asshole.
"Like I'm sorry I was trying to be respectful of your fuckass territory," Tim continues. Jason scoffs, staccato through the helmet's modulator. "I'm sorry I interrupted your stupid date night or whatever—"
This is where Tim finally stops, at least four sentences after he should have, because Tim says date night and Jason's shoulders tighten: Guilty. Caught out.
"Oh my God," Tim says. "Date night? Really?"
"Jesus fucking Christ, Drake," Jason mutters, moving past him. "Tell the whole fucking district, why don't you."
"Date night," Tim says again. Pictures Jason in full Red Hood get-up at some cutesy candlelit Italian bistro, holding hands over a plate of spaghetti. "Oh my God."
"I should have let you get blown up," Jason says, contemplative. "It builds character, you know."
Speaking of blowing up—"You almost let a bunch of teenagers pull a Riddler because you wanted to make kissy faces at your…" A pained, deliberating pause. "Uh. Partner?"
Jason lets out a long, disgruntled breath. "Boyfriend," he finally says, each syllable punching out of him reluctantly. "He's my boyfriend."
"Ohhh," Tim says, nodding slowly. Jason knuckles at his forehead. "That's cool." Another horrifically strained beat. "I have one of those too."
Jason glances up at him again, head slightly canted, before he finally says, "Oh shit, that's right. Dick mentioned something about that." He tilts his head a little more. "I didn't know you guys were, like. Still together."
Tim bristles, automatically, even though he should know better, even though it's revealing. "We've been together for—" Here, he flounders. "Ages. We're still together."
"Inspiring," Jason says, and the modulator flattens everything out anyway, but Tim just knows he's being an asshole about it. "It's tough, keeping that stuff up."
"Yeah," Tim says, gusting out of him. How many date nights of his own has Tim had to cancel, run out on do to some all-hands on deck emergency? How many fights have they gotten into about Tim being a flake, about Tim's dad being overbearing, about Tim not texting enough, about the way Tim brushes his teeth and slouches at the computer and and and—"It's hard when it's, you know. A civilian too. Keeping them out of all it."
"Ha," Jason says, one surprisingly bright burst of laughter. "I can't keep him out of fucking anything. I turn around for five seconds and he's running into another burning building. Or a shootout. Or whatever else he stumbles across."
"Ha," Tim echoes. "What?"
"It's my job, Jason," he says, taking on some mocking affect that makes his R's even more rhotic than usual. "It's called being employed, you nepo fuck. Like first of all, nobody is asking a paramedic to do all that shit, and second of all, it's not nepotism, technically, because Sofia isn't actually—"
"Okay, okay," Tim says, cutting a hand through the air. He can barely get anything out of Jason except antagonism, but the moment the boyfriend comes up, it's off to the fucking races. Even crazier is the lilt to Jason's tone, downright bouncy. "Wait. So your boyfriend's also a civilian, then?"
"He's the most dedicated paramedic Station 17 has on staff," Jason says, obscenely proud. "Much to their horror."
"So he's a civilian," Tim says again, but he's remembering now, snatches of the conversation on the other end of the line. "But. Like. You told him about the bombs?"
"Well, yeah?" Jason says, like it's obvious. "What other reason would I have to run out on him?"
"Grandfather's ill," Tim says instantly. "Sister just broke up with her boyfriend. Brother's girlfriend's cousin's cat just died."
"No," Jason says, after a long pause. "I don't think any of those, uh, concerningly specific anecdotes would cut it."
"Worked fine for me," Tim says, with a shrug he doesn't really feel. Each one of these was preceeded and succeeded by some pretty terrific fights, but that's none of Jason's business. "Jesus, did you tell him you're on the bomb squad? What does he even think you do?"
"Well," Jason says, gesturing aimlessly around him. "This."
Tim stares at him blankly. "This," he echoes lamely. "You mean. He like. Knows?"
"Sorry," Jason says. "Does yours not?"
No, Tim wants to shout. Obviously fucking no, because what they do is dangerous enough without dragging civilians into it, without letting your heart outside of your body. And it's not like anyone outside of it could understand, anyway—what they are is so singularly lonely that's Tim never seen any point in trying to force it. He'll accept what he has. That's all there is to it.
"Holy shit," Jason says, and now there's a sharper undertone there, a bridling fury. "You've been with this guy how long and you've conveniently left out the fact that you're Red Fucking Robin—"
"I'm not putting him in the middle of that," Tim snaps back. "You're a crime lord, in case you've forgotten, why the hell would you tell him—"
"I didn't tell him," Jason says, which makes Tim stumble, confused, trying to put the pieces together. Jason huffs. "When we met, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he's smart as hell, you know? He doesn't look it, but he is. He put the pieces together and—" A simple but expressive shrug. "We went forward from there."
"And you didn't, like—" Tim makes a loose finger pistol, holds it to his own head. "You know."
"Jesus Christ, Tim," Jason hisses. "No, I didn't fucking you know. He was just—some shitass paramedic." His voice drops quieter, closer to the chest. "I didn't know how important he was." And then, louder, "And I wouldn't have started fucking around with him if he didn't know what he was getting into—"
"He can't know what he's getting into," Tim cuts in coolly. Jason goes quiet. "I'm not putting him in danger just so I can feel better about myself. And then what if he slips, hm? What if he mentions the wrong thing to the wrong person? What then?"
"Well," Jason says simply. "Do you trust him?"
Tim rolls his whole head so Jason gets the message. "That's not the point."
"No, I think it is," Jason says. "Do you trust him? It's a yes or no question."
"I mean, he's my boyfriend," Tim tries.
"Still not an answer," Jason says, with a click of the tongue. "Because I trust Percy. Implicitly. More than I trust myself."
"That's—" Tim has to clear his throat. "It's not about trust." Jason teeters his hand doubtfully. "Oh, fuck off. It's not just about him and me. There are other people—"
"Fuck them," Jason says, easily. "They're not involved in this relationship, they don't matter."
Tim makes an involuntary, frustrated noise. "You're not listening—"
"I am listening," Jason responds. "You just don't like what I'm saying."
"It's nice to think that's how it works," Tim says, through gritted teeth. "But there are too many variables involved in him—knowing. It just isn't worth the risk. Not to him, not to what we do. It's not feasible. It's as simple as that."
Jason looks at him for a long, searching moment before he finally says, "If that's what matters more to you, then fine. It's none of my business, I don't give a shit."
"Could have fooled me," Tim mutters.
"But for me—" Jason says. Cuts himself off, then starts back up again in the next second. "But for me, Percy is the number one priority. Always. He's what matters most, full stop. All this shit—" Here, he gestures to his get-up, to the smoke and sirens still behind him. "—Comes second." A beat. "Don't tell Sofia I said that."
When the hell would Tim ever be put in a position to do that? "I mean, I figured," he says dryly. "When you tried to put date night over the bombs." Tim tilts his head to the side as he realizes. "Hell, he had to tell you to come out here."
"I trust him," Jason says again, which seems like a non-sequitur until he follows it up with, "He'll make sure I do what I need to do, and I'll make sure he does what he needs to do. We both get to chase what we believe in in our own way. We're the same."
Lucky, Tim thinks, but he manages to swallow it down.
"It doesn't matter if I put him over this," Jason continues. "He'll keep me honest. You know?"
Tim evades the question for as long as he can before he finally says, "Well. I'm glad it's working out for you."
"Yeah," Jason says quietly. "Yeah, me too." He blows out a sigh, too light to be actually unaffected. "Listen, at the end of the day, it's your fucking life. You decide what comes first. Maybe it's cape shit, maybe it's boyfriend shit. Just figure out which one it is. You can't walk that tightrope forever."
"Wow," Tim drawls out. "I didn't know getting a boyfriend could be so enlightening."
Jason heaves his shoulders up. "Love'll do that to you. Speaking of—" He's lining up the grapple hook, flicking a salute Tim's way. "I've gotta get home. Don't come crying to me with your relationship troubles again."
"What—" Tim sputters. "You did that! I didn't ask!"
"Good luck with the break-up," Jason says, and before Tim can rebut that or even just hit him in the face he's gone, swinging out over the sideline.
"Asshole," Tim mutters. He pulls the comm to make another note in Jason's file: DO NOT CALL ON TUESDAYS—DATE NIGHT.
Jason crawls through the window early Wednesday morning, technically. Percy has, at least, made an effort to clean up dinner after them; although he left the pan soaking in the sink instead of actually washing it. There's no sign of him in the apartment—hopefully he's actually gone the fuck to sleep, so he's not a bitch on shift tomorrow. Because he is a very kind and considerate boyfriend, Jason keeps his pan-washing and post-patrol shower as quiet as he can, only for it to be rendered irrelevant when he slips into the bedroom and Percy is sitting up on the bed, clearly wide-awake.
"Explain this to me," Percy says, pointing a paperback Jason's way.
"Jesus Christ," Jason mutters. He squints at the book Percy's holding. "Is that mine?"
"Who else in this house would it belong to," Percy says. "How come this book is called Shirley and yet the main bitch is named Caroline? That doesn't make any sense."
"Shirley comes in later," Jason says, walking over to the drawers to pull out a tee, ignoring the way Percy clicks his tongue in reprimand. "She's a real riot. You'd probably get a kick out of her."
That was what Percy's mom, Shannon, had told him, after one of the book clubs she drags him to. They had done Jane Eyre and Jason had had some strong opinions about Edward Rochester and his rightful place six feet underground and Shannon had said, If you're up for trying another Charlotte Brontë novel, you'd probably get a kick out of Shirley. And he had. Shannon Grant has not failed him yet.
"Hm," Percy says, doubtfully, and then as Jason pulls the shirt over his head. "Now why you'd have to go and do that?"
"Shut the fuck up," Jason tells him. Percy reaches behind him to put the book on Jason's nightstand as Jason slides into bed. "I told you not to wait up."
"I didn't listen," Percy says, and Jason grins because it is so very typical of him to say and so very easy to lean forward and kiss him, tasting sweet spearmint, feeling Percy's cool hands work their way up Jason's ribcage. "You got done quicker than I expected."
"Yeah, well," Jason says, kissing the side of Percy's mouth. "Streamlined things a bit."
"Yeah," Percy says. "Like jumping through a skylight into a room full of explosives?"
Jason pulls back. Percy is looking at him, piercing and expectant. "Maybe," he says finally. "How'd you know that?"
"Red Hood and Red Robin team-up makes it to the news, believe it or not," Percy says, a little pointed. "And I happen to pay attention when Red Hood shows up on the news." Jason winces, guiltily, but Percy's hand is up in his hair, redirecting Jason's focus to him. Like it ever really leaves. "And I'm trying to make sure he's not bleeding out in a ditch somewhere. Because I'm in love with him and shit."
It will never not be dizzying to hear, said like its simple and self-evident, said like it doesn't change Jason's life every time. "I love you too," he says automatically.
Percy's mouth cracks open, tilting up to reveal the crooked canine, like it makes him giddy too. Jason kisses him again, because he can't help it. When he pulls away, Percy is already in the middle of talking again. "—and all I ask is that he maybe try not to get exploded. I'm asking very nicely and everything. I'm even saying please."
"I wasn't trying to get exploded," Jason says, and very tactfully does not say been there, done that, because Percy will make a face. Instead, he leans down to kiss Percy's shoulder. "I was just trying to get home."
"Yeah, yeah," Percy mutters, but his dismissiveness is unconvincing against the very nice flush in cheeks. He squeezes at Jason's chin. "You big fucking sap." Jason just hums. "I can't believe you almost let a bunch of kids blow up the city for date night."
"Ha," Jason says. "That's what Drake said."
"I bet," Percy says. "How'd that go?"
"I mean, he pissed me off like hell," Jason says. "But that's okay, because I pissed him off too."
"That's the fucking spirit," Percy says, and he's grinning again and he's beautiful so Jason has to kiss him, just once.
"Apparently he also has a civilian boyfriend," Jason tells him. Percy's eyebrows fly up into his forehead. "Except Tim hasn't told him anything. And I mean anything."
"Jesus," Percy says, grimacing. "That'll end well."
"That's what I told him," Jason says. "And then, you know. Out of the goodness and graciousness of my heart, I gave him a little bit of advice."
"Yeah, graciousness is the first adjective that I think of when I think of you," Percy says dryly. Jason pinches him in the side. Percy pinches him back. "You know it's true, fuck off. What did you tell him?"
"Oh, you know," Jason says airily. "How brilliant you are, how important you are, how much I trust you, how you matter more than anything else. Basic stuff like that."
Percy's face deepens to roughly the same shade as Jason's helmet. He reaches behind Jason to flick off the nightstand, saying, "Sounds more like bragging then advice."
"Maybe," Jason allows. "It's good for him to have something to aspire to."
"You're crazy," Percy says. Even in the dark Jason can see the grin gleaming across his face.
"So are you," Jason points out, and Percy laughs, short and soft.
"Maybe so," Percy says with a yawn, settling into the bed.
"No maybe about it," Jason says, bracing himself over Percy. Percy's hand reaches up to twine in his hair again. Jason drops his voice down into a whisper to say, "You are absolutely off your fucking rocker." You'd have to be, he doesn't say, To be with me.
"Says the guy who, again, almost picked date night over bombs," Percy says, shaking his head against the pillows. "Ridiculous. I had to tell you to shape up. Me."
"That's what I told him," Jason blurts, nonsensically. Percy blinks, just as confused as he is. "I just—" He looks off to the side, reflexively clenching and unclenching his jaw. It's important for Jason to say it. It's even more important for Percy to hear. "He kept going on and on about how he couldn't risk putting the boyfriend shit above the cape shit, and I told him that you come first, that you're always going to be the first priority—" Percy makes some weird, high-pitched noise, but Jason keeps going. "—But that you, you know. You're going to push me to do what I need to do. I can trust you with that. Because—"
"We're the same," Percy finishes for him.
"Exactly," Jason says, and then because he can, "I love you."
"I gathered, you romantic piece of shit," Percy tells him, and Jason laughs again. Percy stretches out an arm and Jason tucks himself underneath it. It's awkward, with roughly eight inches of height difference and pretty significant weight difference to boot, but Jason can hear Percy's heart beating from here, sync their breathing together. "I love you too." And then, like he can't help himself, "Dumbass."
"Keep talking sweet nothings to me, lover," Jason deadpans. Percy flicks at his ear and then undercuts himself by pressing his mouth against Jason's forehead, quick and soft.
Probably Tim is on the other side of the city stressing himself out over his likely doomed relationship with—whatever his name is. Jason didn't catch it. Not his problem. His problem is roughly five six and distastrously snarky and already drifting off to sleep, breathing slower and steadier by the second. And, well. Jason kind of hopes he has this problem forever.