#Jason throws himself on Tim and Tim in panic sends one last message in Jason's dms

[prlssprfctn]

As a society, we need more fics, where LoA!Jason gets himself Tumblr blog where he befriends Tim's anonymous blog, and they actually start chatting back and forth about different things

ucallitstalkingisaywalkingextremelyclosebehind (aka. Tim's anonymous account): had you seen news guys? about the latest robin—batman case? hahaha. idk. feel like robin was right. batman is a slug. he should stop bitching and moaning sometimes. idk. # totally chill # just judging from my couch # still batman fan

wholaughsnow (aka. Jason's account): LOL. Mind you, he keeps fumbling every single Robin. Hadn't heard about the case you talk about though? What happened? # need this tea in the midst of my working day lol

ucallitstalkingisaywalkingextremelyclosebehind (aka. Tim's anonymous account): no bc you are so right??? ANYWAY. THANKS FOR ASKING. so it happened— *long thread* # hope your office day or wtvr gets better now # tea was spilled

Obviously, it starts with Gotham and vigilantes discussion, but then? Then they start geeking together. Startrek hcs, DnD conversations, Gotham elite's drama. Basically, that's how they keep queening out in their blogs while doing their tremendous work for Bruce/Talia:

[aileysmirnov]

◇◆Ailey Villains Gallery: Scarecrow◇◆

Scarecrow's face claim: Adrien Brody

Secret vs Scarecrow! How did they met?

Ailey (Secret) and Scarecrow met 'thanks' to Batman:

One night in Gotham, Scarecrow infiltrated the Iceberg Lounge with the intention to Kill some of Penguin's Henchmen.

With a more "upgraded" (and letal) version of his fear gas.

Just as a way to send a message to Oswald who had stolen some of his gas and now was selling it for a very high price on the dark market.

To prevent Batman from intervening, Scarecrow convinced Riddler and Dr Pig to create a "distraction" (if murdering almost 11 people between the two and then make an "spectacle" about it, can be called like that) for the Bat.

And unfortunately when the "Caped Crusader" realized it was a trap (thanks to one of Riddler's "funny" riddles) he was already too far from the building.

Too far from stopping Scarecrow.

He analyzed all of his options pretty fast: he couldn't send Damian, he was with him, Dick was in Blüdhaven, He already send Tim after Riddler and Steph after Pig, Cass and Barbara where in another state with the Birds of prey, Duke and Kate where teaming up to solve a crime involving a new rising homicidal cult and Jason…he wasn't in good terms with Jason…again…and he losed his track at least 2 weeks ago.

And so…he reluctantly took the phone and dialed the number of the one person he could think of.

Ailey was doing the usual: shouting angrily and throwing a tantrum towards her employees (like the good little tyrant she is) for a last minute cancellation of 4 of the stellar models for the upcoming Winter collection of SVELLYO. When all of a sudden she received a call from the one and only: Bruce fucking Wayne.

—B! What a perfect timing! Is not bothersome at all!—she remarked the words sarcastically annoyed a tone that sounded like the venomous hissing of a snake.

—Listen Ailey, I don't have time for thi-

She cut him off

—What a coincidence! Neither do I, B's man! Byee~

—Ailey…—He didn't shout at her but his more menacing (than usually) tone, make her feel like he did; it was a voice tone that Bruce normally just used when he was with Joker and when he used it. Oh boy, You just knew the man ain't taking any shit.

—Listen to me. And listen. C A R E F U L L Y. Scarecrow is in the Iceberg Lounge it's 2 minutes away from you by flying. I need you to go after him and prevent whatever he's up to against Cobblepot.—He said a little more ""nicer"" (if it's even possible) this time, but still with a hint of frustration in his voice.

—yeah…well…I also need this little favor, B—Bruce was about to fucking lose it in that moment, there where lives in danger and this CHILD was just thinking of herself!! But before he could lash out at her with a "I'm dissapointed" speech; Damian took the phone.

—He said he'll do it, you have my word. Now…Go! —Robin said without thinking twice

—Thank you, my zelenyy*! I'm on my way! —and with an Angry Bruce Lashing out at every single thing on earth on the background, Ailey hanged up, wrote a quick note to his secretary, asking him to give all of her employees a rise (including him, of course) and sprinted out to SVELLYO's roof top; without a word to the perplexed staff.

Once she stood there.She could feel the cold night breeze hitting her face and without any doubt she jumped abruptly from one of the highest points in the city.

Her eyes opened at the middle of his falling, adrenaline and renewed energy cursing trough her veins, her blonde hair replaced with a glowing rose gold, a metalic blue growing in her gaze and her outfit conveniently transformed on an all black bodysuit with slight hints of gold on the bottom of her sleeves.

His whole body defying gravity, flying through the night sky with the same grace and glory of a swan and leaving a subtle trace of light glowing pink as she passed by.

She arrived at the Iceberg Lounge back entrance at least 5 seconds earlier from what Batman had predicted.

Penguin's henchmen where all gathered in what appeared to be a small cellar on the very back of the casino, they were complaining about an out of the blue"meeting".

Secret (Ailey) assumed it was Scarecrow's way to get them all in the same place and avoid any unnecessary complications.

With extreme caution she stood and watched near the skylight, trying to fade away her own slightly glowing nature with the moonlight.

Her eyes searched quickly inside the room, ans she soon spotted atleast 6 gas tanks oddly put in some of the poorly lighted corners of the cellar.

But no sign of the maniac

Or so she though until the abrupt pain in her neck and the obscure presence behind her sooner than later make her realize; she wasn't alone.

She could feel the infernal pain from the toxin filling his lungs and cutting her breath and her vision becoming a little bit dizzy.

—You should know better than spying on people, dear…It might not end up being what you expected—his voice was deep and unforgiving, a condescending tone and the weight of countless sleepless nights leaked through every word.

She tried to speak but only felt her throat closing.

—Now, now, dear…all will end up soon. —His tall and lanky figure covered by worn out clothes to match his own psychotic aesthetic made him look intimidating. And without any glimpse of empathy he proceeded to toss her body aside with a kick like if she was a filthy dead rat, and continue to watch expectantly to the ignorant henchmen above.

He was waiting, waiting for one of them to foolishly reveal where his beloved toxin was and after a couple of minutes one of them casually mentioned a secret basement where the most important items waited patiently for whoever was able to afford his almost ridiculously expensive price.

Crane smiled wickedly to himself…he had just what he wanted…almost.

He activated the slightly hidden tanks of fear gas and watched in admiration as some of the henchmen faces started to change into a horrified expression.

—Head's up, asshole!—He didn't even had time to process the situation properly, when Secret's hands where at both sides of his head, the tip of her fingers illuminated and emanating Rose gold strings of pure energy attaching themselves to Crane's mind.

And at that exact moment he remembered: the pain, the panic, the fear.

The very first time he tested his toxin, was on himself: he was laying in to that dirty old shack for what felt like an eternity; he screamed and begged and yet the hallucinations didn't leave him, his mind was racing with the most horrible thought it could possibly even consider, everything so real and yet so distant. He felt hopeless.

And the delicate strings clinging tight around his mind. Lord, what a bittersweet nostalgia! He felt the same, the same way as the first time, he could hear the screams, the voices, the endless discontent. But couldn't find anything around him…just…hollow and for some strange reason…that scared the shit out of him.

Ironically it had been years since the last time Crane felt genuine fear.

When Crane woke up, he was already in that horrible place: a worn out cell from Arkham

But strangely he didn't feel any kind of anger or frustration. No…he felt…elated in the best way possible almost like if he had reborn!

And so…he stood there; staring blankly at the small window with an almost devilish smile across his face.

Waiting for the next encounter

◆◇◆◇

Ailey felt so proud of herself, she had successfully managed to knock out Scarecrow, control the gas leak and save Penguin's henchmen! All alone! And even took the liberty to recover all of Crane's toxin samples Penguin had!

She couldn't wait to see Bruce's face, Oh that man owed her BIG TIME!

When Bruce and Damian finally arrived at the Batcave, he was welcomed by her.

She looked like a 10 year-old who approved one of his test and was proudly showing off the paper to his parents.

Wich made Bruce smile…a little (even if he doesn't admit to it)

—See? You can trust me, B!—she said handing him the samples.

—So you send him to Arkham? Hmm…honestly I didn't though you'll made it…but good job…I guess…?—Damian admitted, while taking off his mask.

—Well, I'm glad I'm not THAT disappointing, sir! —Her tone expressing the sarcasm and slight frustration and offence in every word. Which Damian only replayed with a faint little smile.

—…Good Job, Ailey…—Bruce spoke for the first time since they arrived

—…and thank you for your help…—He completed with a slightly more """friendly""" tone (which just means less stiffness in his voice but still maintaining his authoritarian tone)

—yeah…well…don't thank me yet…we had a deal!—She said while playfully floating around him and touching the ears of his Bat-suit; Bruce could only do as much as to touching the bridge of his nose trying to contain his very obvious nuisance.

—…What do want? —He said sighing heavily.

—Nothing much, really! I want You, Damian, Dick and Katy modeling for SVELLYO winter collection catwalk, next week! —

◆◇◆◇

OMG! That was fun! I was going to put a small and cute little drawing of Ailey touching the ears of the Bat-suit but I still haven't finished yet! So yeah…I will edit it once I have it done!

Anyway! I loved writing this, and I will be uploading more content for Ailey, wich now she has her official anti-hero name! And is called

🥁🥁🥁🥁

Secret!

Shout out to @melyaliz / @insideoflit for the name idea! I honestly struggle so much with names 😅

Thanks to @Shiro.GURu (on insta) for helping me with this! Love ya, girl <3

Tagging: @lobodesaturno @snowflake2sstuff @lord-carstairs @weam0theblueblues @morefarthanaway

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [5/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

Author’s Note: And now, for a change in POV!

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Of course, right after Jason leaves, the baby wakes up.

And starts to wail.

Tim freezes, all of his reflexes seemingly dissolved by the unyielding sound that such a tiny creature should not be able to produce.

Whatever Jason said about him being calm, in actuality, he’s completely freaked out over this whole baby thing.

Over the whole Jason’s baby thing.

This whole situation is just not in his area of expertise, nor does it require any of his previous training. And he can’t really see a situation where, on the infinitesimal chance Jason decides to give up vigilantism and become a stay-at-home-dad, he’d ever ask Tim of all people to babysit.

But then, right now, Jason’s not here.

The nurse from earlier returns, offering him a sympathetic look.

“It’s about time for her next feeding,” she tells him. “Do you want us to take her, or would you like to do it?”

Take her, please, Tim wants to say but bites his tongue.

He wasn’t talking out of his ass when he acknowledged that babies needed to be held. Human contact is good (even if that wasn’t basic medical knowledge, his own semi-neglected childhood can attest to that) and he all but volunteered himself for this to help Jason. He should at least do what he can.

Holding down the fort apparently includes holding down the baby…

“If you could just show me…?” he suggests, a sheepish smile pasted on and hopefully hiding his inner unease.

As expected, the woman’s expression turns into a mixture of amused and charmed. She chatters, motioning for him to take the chair Jason was sitting in before; Tim sits and lets her arrange the baby in his arms, showing him a light, gentle rocking motion to try to calm her.

“I’ll be right back with her formula,” the nurse says, though Tim barely hears her over the furious wailing.

He squints down at the scrunched-up face, trying to figure out how he ended up in this situation. Also, what exactly possessed him to call Jason his partner?

Because it’s the first believable thing to come to mind that didn’t involve spontaneous resurrections?

And technically, it’s even true. Sometimes.

And he was worried about Jason.

They may not be brothers, but they are family, and with that comes a certain awareness of each other. He knew the minute he saw Jason outside the dive bar that he was freaked out. He decided he would help him then, and he’s not about to back out now even if things have become way more complicated than anticipated.  

The nurse returns with the bottle of formula, and as soon as she’s explained how to properly position and feed the baby—apparently there’s more to it than just sticking a synthetic nipple in her mouth and waiting for her to chug—and prevent gas, she vanishes again.

To allow them “bonding” time.

Not what I thought I’d be doing when I got up this morning…

Tim’s done the baby thing before—sort of. But Steph’s daughter was bigger when she was born. Jason’s is tiny, and Tim is half expecting her to break into pieces before his eyes. Whatever manufactured confidence he had before, had been in the moment—and mostly for Jason’s benefit.

It had been imperative to get the infant out of the other man’s arms while he was clearly on the verge of a panic attack. Especially since no one ever knows how a cornered Jason Todd might react.

Not that I think he’d ever hurt an infant, but he doesn’t exactly process shock the way normal people do. It never hurts to have contingencies.

As he watches the baby guzzle her formula with surprising gusto, Tim finds himself going over a mental list of things that have to be dealt with if they’re going to get through life’s latest curveball more or less intact.

Paperwork for the baby. Arrangements for the mother’s body.

Isabel Ardila.

He knows her name only from the files as the woman Jason was seeing prior to the Joker’s last assault on the bats. She was caught in the crossfire, forcibly dosed with heroin to play on Jason’s past traumas, and following her recovery, ended things with Jason.

Or Jason ended things with her, Tim’s not sure. He never asked and he doesn’t intend to.

However it ended, clearly there was enough estrangement that she didn’t bother to tell Jason he was a father. It’s a decision he can, unfortunately, imagine the reasons for, even if he’s not sure he agrees with them.

Not like we can do anything about that decision now, though.

The baby slowly goes limp in his arms, and Tim has a brief moment of irrational, paranoid panic—has she been drugged?—before realizing she’s just fallen back asleep.

“Right. Because that’s a normal thing that babies do,” he murmurs to himself, and carefully maneuvers himself over to her crib to put her down on her stomach, like he’s seen in countless television commercials.

Then, uncertain, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and does a quick internet search, balking at the sheer amount of SIDS related articles, and scoops her up again to reposition her on her back.

Should probably tell Jason about that when he gets back…

Assuming Jason comes back.

Or even wants his help.

Which, Tim decides, he’ll offer anyway. Though that may mean playing to his strengths more than anything, preparing for every eventuality and having a series of back-up plans.

He highly doubts Jason’s thinking of any of that right now.

Phone in hand Tim begins typing quickly, pulling up tabs in his search engines for whatever concern pops into his head as he reads.

He suspects Jason is too uneasy about the whole situation to want to keep the baby, so Tim’s going to have to research adoption agencies through official and unofficial channels.

Open or closed, not sure what option he’d go with.

And then, there’s always the small chance he will keep his child. It’s a possibility that seems as likely as Bruce’s sudden predilection for joining the Russian ballet, but stranger things have happened in the family.

He skims through several forums and advice blogs for how to care for a newborn, makes a list of important supplies they might need in the immediate future and forwards it to Tam.

It’s several minutes later that his phone chimes, notifying him of her list of replies.

- Why the hell did you send me a list with diapers?

- Is this for a baby?

- Omg, did you kidnap a baby?

- Is that a thing that happens?

-First ninjas, now baby-napping?

Tim sighs and rolls his eyes. Normally he’d find her bemused and slightly-panicked responses a little amusing, but he doesn’t have the energy to go into details, even if Jason hadn’t sworn him to secrecy.

-A friend of mine has an emergency. Drop everything off at my apartment, please.

There’s a beat, another chime, but Tim doesn’t get a chance to read the message as his screen suddenly switches. The air is filled with a generic ringtone that Tim hastily mutes, eyes flicking to the baby and back to his screen. The number flashes ‘Unknown’, but Tim recognizes the number from earlier that day.

He stands, wanders away from the crib to answer quietly. “What is it, Harper?”

“Jay called me,” the older man says without preamble. “Told me everything. About the kid, about Isabel.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees quietly. “I’d say shock is an understatement.”

“No shit.” He sighs. “Listen, I talked him down as much as I could, but the rest is on you.”

“What? Why?”

“He says you’ve been helping him.”

“For now, until someone more qualified comes along,” Tim retorts, implication heavy in his voice.

Roy catches it because he lets out a bitter laugh. “Sorry to burst your bubble, bird boy, but that ain’t gonna be me.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been in literally the same situation.”

“And I can’t right now. So I need you to be there for him.”

“He needs his friend,” Tim argues. “And he’s made very clear I’m not one of those.”

“Then you'd better become one fast, because I can’t.”

“Why the—” Tim’s eyes flick to the infant, and he can’t help giving in to the impulse to censor himself, lowering his voice, “—heck not?”

“Because I’m in a bad place right now,” Roy snaps. “I’m not in a good way for being around a kid, okay? I…” He pauses, like he’s weighing something, and then exhales. “I…fell off the wagon again.”

Tim's stomach sinks. 

“Roy…”

“Don’t tell Jaybird,” Roy orders. “I just…I need to sort myself out before I can be any kind of help for him. I show up there now, I’ll just add to his problems.”

“But—”

“This is you being tagged in, okay? Don’t fuck it up.”

There’s a harsh click in Tim’s ear, leaving him listening incomprehensively to the dial tone for several seconds.

“Are you…are you kidding me?!” he hisses after a moment, only just refraining from throwing his phone across the room in frustration.

He didn’t realize before Roy’s call just how much he was counting on someone else to step in and take over in the emotional support department.

I’m not cut out for this. This sort of thing…it should be Dick. Or Alfred.

He spends the next hour once again reviewing what he did to get roped into all this.

When Jason comes back—and something inside Tim unknots in relief that he did come back—he’s as ashen-faced as before. This time, though, there’s a determined set to his shoulders.

They stand and stare at each other in silence for a good five minutes before Tim realizes Jason’s waiting for him to speak first.

Right. Tagged in. Let’s do this. Ease into it.

“So, what are you going to do?”

Tim winces.

Yeah, that wasn’t exactly subtle.

Jason doesn’t seem to notice the awkward, though.

“No idea,” he replies heavily, leaning against the doorjamb and letting his head thunk lightly against it.

“Social Services is obviously an option.”

“No way in hell,” Jason snaps, straightening up and looking fierce. “I don’t trust them. And you can’t tell me with all the Wayne resources you’ve got access to, we can’t find something better.”

Tim expected that. He might not have had the exact same harrowing experiences with foster care as Jason did, but his very brief stint left him with a hint of that same disillusion with the system.

It’s not something I’d wish on any kid, least of all Jason’s.

“We can look into it. Organize the best possible adoption scenario without dealing with Social Services. There are actually a lot of couples in the community who would be willing to adopt.”

“No. This kid isn’t growing up anywhere near capes or masks or stuff like that.”

Okay, that’s understandable. It also makes it less likely he intends to keep her.

“Whatever we do, it will take some time,” Tim cautions. “Placing a child with a family isn’t going to be as easy as sticking someone in Witness Protection.”

Jason snorts and shakes his head. “Only you would think that’s easy.”

“So, now that that’s figured out—what are you going to do once the tests are finished?” Tim asks, focussing on the practical. “I don’t find a family within the next day or so, you’re going to need to bring her somewhere. Assuming you’re adamant about keeping the rest of the Family out of this?” That receives only narrowed eyes in response. “Stupid question, sorry. But she’s going to have to stay somewhere until then. I wouldn’t recommend leaving her here at the hospital, for a number of reasons.”

Jasons frowns, thoughtful. Then,

“I’ll keep her for now,” he decides with a heaviness that Tim suspects is caused more by fear than dislike of children. “Until we find a better place for her. Some family that won’t mind doing this in private.”

“Okay,” Tim nods. “On that note—where exactly will you take her?”

Jason falters, looking like he’s not entirely sure what to say to that.

“I…my safehouses aren’t exactly babyproofed.”

“I don’t think that’s an issue until they start crawling,” Tim replies, trying for humor but the very idea sparks another flash of panic in Jason’s eyes. He’s looking at Tim now with something dangerously close to expectance, and a realization hits Tim.

He doesn’t want to be alone with this.

And it’s the fact he’s never seen Jason look so vulnerable that sparks a truly terrible idea.

I’m so going to regret this.

“I have a spare bedroom,” he offers, earning a sharp glance from Jason. “Just until you wrap your head around this and figure out the next move.”

He half expects Jason to scoff, or laugh in his face or say something insulting.

It’s decidedly worrying when the only thing that happens is Jason’s shoulders slump and he nods.

Jason’s shoulders slump, and he nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be…good. Thanks, Drake.” He pauses, considering something, and then adds, “Tim.”

Next Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels

[mgnemesi]

Fic: Moment Of Peace (MBKVerse)

Ok...I’m trying this. Let’s hope I keep writing. Expect updates to be sporadic, though. I’m also gonna put this on AO3, I think??

Title: Moment Of Peace

Verse: My Brother's Keeper.

Fandom: DCU- Batman.

Rating: PG-13/R-ish.

Genre: This part: introspection, slice of life.

Wordcount: 2631

Characters: Jason Todd and Tim Drake.

Warnings: Old-canon AU.

Summary: The following morning, Tim wakes up alone.

FIRST PART: A Simple Question

PREVIOUS PART: There’s a yellow brick road (that we follow back home)

NEXT PART:

* * * * *

The following morning, Tim wakes up alone. It's only to be expected, considering that he has been waking up alone ever just about every day since the accident; and yet, seeing the empty bed on the other side of the room, corners militarily-made and no trace of Jason whatsoever sends a twinge of disappointment spearing though him.

Ignoring the tightness in his throat, Tim pushes himself out of bed. He is briefly tempted to go and sort those out-of-place books now, but in the end he opts for a detour towards the kitchen. Once inside, he makes a beeline for the coffee-maker, like a fish being reeled in ashore.

That, or a zombie that has smelled brains. He's not quite sure which comparison is the most fitting.

He's already grabbed the pot of coffee (and adding “Coffee Addict” to the “List of Things I Know About Tim Drake”), when he notices the post-it attached to the side.

“Drink me”, the bright square of paper tempts him in sturdy-looking block letters. Scribbled underneath, smaller but still bold, it says: “I promise I'm good. Hopefully still warm, too. A Brazilian blend and unsweetened, which is always a plus with you.”

Tim sniggers a little to himself, feeling the disappointment dissipating inside his chest, just like mist under the first warm rays of sunlight. He hobbles to the cupboard, reaching inside for a mug. He grabs the green one without thinking, and is greeted by a second post-it:

“You'd better eat something with that coffee,” with the word “better” underline twice.

Tim blows the hair out of his face with a little puff, but the look on his face is far from annoyed. He tries to school the giddy little grin into something more appropriate to his status of disgruntled, just woke-up alone, severely-wounded vigilante, but then remembers that he's home alone, and graciously allows the grin to stay where it is.

Pivoting on his heel, he goes back to the coffee-maker, fills his mug to the brim and takes a long sip. He turns toward the fridge, wondering if there's food stacked inside, and whether it's still within date, since they've been away for so long. He notices a third post-it. This time, the message is just a doodled arrow. Tim dutifully moves his eyes in the prescribed direction. A trail of post-it notes leads his eyes across the wall and towards the kitchen table. A cluster of doodled arrows greets him, each  one arranged as to point to a brown bag sitting innocently between a bottle of orange juice and a little pile of napkins on the table.

“Eat me”, invites the post-it attached on top of the bag, and then, added underneath as if as an after-thought: “You know you want to.”

When Tim is done chocking on his laughter and opens it, he finds a final note (“Stop chortling, Alice, it wasn't even that funny.”) and a blueberry muffin that melts on his tongue as if it were made of the same stuff as clouds.

He's sucking the last crumbles from his fingers when he notices a quick scribble on the bottom of the muffin's cup, this time in blue ball-point pen ink. It's short and to the point.

“You're welcome,” it says.

Tim murmurs a soft “thank you” before he's even aware of it.

After breakfast, he's tempted to reacquaint himself with the apartment. Explore around, search the cabinets with the hope to spark a memory, rearrange those books. But he's equally as tempted to prop his ankle on the armrest of the couch and tinker the day away on that laptop he glimpsed the night before. Temptation aside, though, he does nothing for a long, long while. Just glancing through the kitchen door at the living room makes his stomach churn with unease.

This is his house, he supposes. This flat, it's where Timothy Drake used to live. But it's not home. Not now. Not yet. Not to this amnesiac boy sitting helplessly at the kitchen table, with a crumpled muffin-cup sitting in his palm. He doesn’t feel entitled to do anything. Even wondering about this or that secret compartment (and boy, he can see a lot from where he is sitting) makes him feel like he's overstepping his boundaries, doing something forbidden.

Reading is not off-limits.

He thinks.

Hopes.

So he cleans after himself, carefully collects all the post-its (throwing away the arrows and pocketing the scribbled messages), and slips into the living room. He's chagrined to see an imprint of his body on the couch -  the contours of his ass, his back and legs are sketched in big, black strokes of coal dust on the pale fabric. It looks a bit like a Michelangelo sketched with charcoal on parchment. But Renaissance genius he is not; couches aren't canvases to draw upon, and all in all it's not a pretty sight. At all.

He has no idea where the cleaning supplies are, or even if he's up to the physical strain, which means that cleaning it is out of the question. He throws the couch a last guilty look and veers towards the bookshelf. It's brimming with classics. Not that he'd pegged either Jason or himself for the sort to read cheap harlequins, but it's staggering to see several copies of prize-winning novels in several different languages. Which one of them can read fluidly in Arabic, he wonders. And is that Russian?

He's engrossed in page 197 of a pocket-sized copy of Paradise Lost, when Jason comes in.

From the window.

Bright red domino mask on his face, a backpack on his shoulder and a number of bags festooning both his arms.

“Oh. Hi,” he says, voice and face utterly blank. For a loaded, absurd moment, it feels like between the two of them the one who is doing something strange and unusual is Tim. (And now panic settles in. Is he doing something strange? Wasn't he supposed to touch the books? Did he not enjoy reading before the accident?).

Carefully, Tim lowers his foot from the upturned box he'd used to prop it, tucks the book away and clears his throat.

“Uhm. Hi,” he echoes.

Jason is sitting astride the window, one leg inside the apartment, the other outside, looking rather like a strange cowboy. The heel of his boot is tap-tapping a circle on the floor. He keeps looking at Tim as though trying to get the other boy to read into his mind.

“You went shopping?” Tim prompts before the scene gets any stranger, his heart beating a nervous staccato against his ribs.

Jason ducks his head a bit, raises his hand as if he wanted to rub the back of his neck, but the weight of the bags impairs him, so he aborts the motion on the third try. He seems to weight his words very carefully for a long moment; then offers: “Just. Collected some of your stuff from... err... other safe-houses we've got in town.”

Tim leans forward, all eagerness all of a sudden.

“Tell me you've got a toothbrush in there?” he says, voice lilting hopefully at the end, eyes roving hungrily from bag to bag to backpack and then starting anew.

Jason blinks slowly at him, ducks all the way inside, and carefully sets his loot down.

“Why a toothbrush?“ he asks, eyebrows furrowing together. “There is a perfectly fine one in the bathroom. It's even your favourite colour and all.”

“Yes, Jason,” Tim says patiently. “I'm sure there's one toothbrush. But there's two of us.”

Jason snorts, straightening up and running a hand through his windblown hair, messing it all the more.

“No, I meant. There's one for you as well. You didn't even check the cabinet? Christ, for a moment I thought you'd gone and used my toothbrush to clean the toilet seat or some other shit.”

“I wouldn't do that!” Tim protests, wavering between amusement and horror. Jason folds his arms across his chest and quirks a challenging eyebrow at him. Tim drops his face in his palms, but his shoulders are shaking with repressed laughter when he says: “I totally would, wouldn't I?”

“Your words, not mine,” Jason answers, raising his hands and looking the perfect picture of innocence.

Tim snorts, gets an eyebrow-wiggle in return and retaliates with an eyeroll.

“So, if not a toothbrush, what did you get?”

“Well,” Jason looks down at the bags, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Bandages and medicines, some weapons, gadgets. A few changes of clothes.” He lists. “I also got some food. Soap. CDs – all work related, though. Some stuff we can use to go undercover, uniforms and  the likes. I—I got you a laptop. Not yours, but. I got it at a thrift shop And... and a couple books, too. Some folders and shit on the last case you were working on.” He's massaging his fingers as if they ached. There are burned marks on his gloves, and dark smears across his shirt. When he notices Tim staring, Jason says: “Got troubles with the alarm system,” and leaves it at that.

Tim nods dubiously, not quite believing that Jason would have to resort to force the security of one of their own safe-houses, but doesn't ask. Jason probably ran into trouble on the way and just doesn't want Tim to worry. Tim doesn't like and doesn't need to be babied, but if Jason doesn't want to share, Tim can respect his need for silence.

For the time being, at least.

“Is that food I smell?” he asks, instead of pressing about the alarm system.

“I grabbed some take out on my way,” Jason answers, looking smug. “You hungry?”

It's a tricky question, and it shouldn't be. Tim takes careful stock of his body – he is aware he hasn't eaten in hours, and yet, he doesn't feel the pangs of hunger. He's also aware that this lack of appetite is not normal. All things considered – that he's wounded and in need of energy to recover, that he hasn't eaten properly in weeks – he should be famished. But he's not. Hunger is like an afterthought tucked like a secret far, far away in the back of his mind, a bad puppy that's been locked inside a closet in the farthest wing of the house. No one can hear it whine. No one will take it out.

Tim's eyebrows dip together into a frown, but it's not a lie when he says: “I could eat,” because he's been trained like that, to ignore his body needs, but also to force himself to satisfy them when the situation allows.

Jason frowns right back at him.

“We're gonna burn this food aversion right out of you,” he warns. He rips off the mask – literally rips off, rather than just peel it away like a sane person would. Doesn't he feel the pain? Doesn't he care?– grabs one of the bags and goes to Tim. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, the bag balanced between them, exuding strange and wonderful smells.

Tim peeks inside, and is genuinely taken aback when he doesn't see cheap fast food containers, soda bottles and a spill of greasy fries filling all the empty spaces in-between.

“What's this?” he asks, poking at one aluminium container. It's not burgers and chilidogs, it definitely is not pizza, and it's not a carton of Asian food either. What the—-?

Jason shrugs, reaches inside the bag, and takes out two container as if they were holy relics.

“Eggplant Parmesan” he says, taking the lids off both containers. He weights them in each hand, then hands over to Tim the biggest portion. “The good stuff,” he adds, as if Tim couldn't tell that by smell alone. His stomach went from being into knots to roaring with hunger in 0.12 seconds sharp. The smell is so good.

“Wha—is—I mean--Parmesan?” Tim asks, flabbergast, after the first mouthful. Oh, dear. And he thought he wasn't famished? This – whatever it is – is melting in his mouth like – like – like – he has no term of comparisons, sadly. He quickly shovels in his mouth another forkful or seven of steaming heaven, waiting for Jason to answer.

“Italian recipe. The original one,” Jason stresses, waving his plastic fork menacingly. “Nothing of that boiled-eggs-in-the-stuffing crap. This is fried eggplant, homemade sauce and a shit-ton of cheese.”

Tim blinks, fork balanced before his open mouth.

“We – are we of Italian origins?” he asks.

Jason is silent for a long moment. “The old house was in the Italian ghetto,” he says at long last, as careful as if he were weighting each word. “Which explains why the old man got involved with Two-Face in the first place. A contract with the mafia lead to more contracts and then bam! Prison for life.” Tim makes a non-committal noise, wondering if Jason remembers that he has no idea whatsoever who Two-Face is.

Jason must've noticed something in his face, because his eyes flicker up and away. He wraps his tongue around the fork and sucks it clean, the motion somewhat pensive.

“Bottom line is-” he pauses, licking his teeth; then seems to give much too stress to the following pronoun - “ I grew up eating this stuff.”  He angrily scraps some sauce from the bottom of the container – fuck, is it finished already? - but then his eyes go a bit wistful. “We didn't always have enough money. But mum always insisted I eat much, and that I eat well. Not that you'd hear me complain. She used to be the best cook outta the whole block. And for a while there, I thought that if I ate big I'd grow big and strong and be able to take care of her the way she took care of... me.”

His voice grows faint on the last word, and he has to force himself back on track with visible effort.

“As for being Italian... well. Maybe? I don't know the numbers, but the old man was at least part Italian and part Greek, and his Grandfather was Jew. There was from Irish blood from mom's side. Plus, I think she'd got some Arabic blood. Funny story, once I asked the Demon brat if he thought we might have a common grand-grand-something, and he sorta went ballistic. You should've heard the pitch his voice reached. I thought he was gonna shatter all the glass in the house.”

Tim makes another wondering noise, and Jason waves his fork once more, this time dismissively.

“Long story. One you'd rather not remember, I bet.”

“Is this Demon brat someone I don't like?” Tim asks, chasing with his tongue a runaway drop of sauce that's trailing down the inside of his wrist.

“Is the sky blue, Baby B?” is Jason's reply. To which Tim, being Tim, answers:

“Most of the time, though the exact hue changes with the time and the condition of the weather, shifting between basically all the colours of the spectrum.”

The eyeroll he was expecting, the fork aimed at his forehead he evades with his ninja reflexes, but the cap of the Parmesan container gets him square in the nose, splattering sauce across his cheeks and eyebrows.

The World War III that follows sends sauce stains all over the carpet, the couch, their clothes, and even the walls. A fork gets stuck in the chandelier of all places, and by the time they call a truce (they're both too proud to give in), Tim is in dire need of a shower.