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The 26th Annual Automotive Exposition is a highlight of the Gotham autumn cultural experience, a three-day-long showcase of more than two dozen restored classics, old and new, that the Gotham Automotive Society shows off every year. They’re a beautiful collection of the very best marriages of automotive style and technology.

At least, that’s what all the advertising says.

It’s one of those events that brings people from all over the city, young and old alike, the punks and the posh, all rubbing elbows with each other to get a good look at all the pretty toys. The proceeds from the tickets go to charity, so that the rich men who own the cars can feel like they’ve done something good while they show off their million-dollar investments, and the visitors get to ooh and ahh and drool dreamily, covetously, over cars that cost more than the houses they live in.

Jason buys the tickets on a whim.

Cars have never really been his thing; he still honestly doesn’t know much about them except for how to take their tires off as quickly as possible. He knows enough to tell the high-market ones from the trash, knows which ones are nothing but flash and which ones actually have some real power under their hoods, but the whole car culture thing, the manly obsession with having the sweetest ride, it’s never been something he’s understood. He can drive, of course, but even after all this time it feels strange to him. He prefers to walk, or take the bus when he has to, and if he needs a ride of his own he takes his motorcycle.

But Tim likes cars. Likes them in a way that Jason thinks most guys like girls, likes them in a way that makes his whole face light up, his eyes shining and fanatic, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to open them up and inspect all their parts, take them apart and put them back together to see how they work, take them apart again put them back together better .

And it’s not like he’s doing this because he feels like it’s his turn, or anything. Because yeah, okay, Tim took him out to dinner and then bought him pizza and let him stay on his couch, but that had been Jason doing a favor for Tim, really. And it’s not like these are dates , exactly, except for the way Tim had smiled over his wine glass and said You were my first choice like he’d actually wanted to take Jason out, like maybe he had wanted that to be—

Something , Jason thinks.

Jason’s just doing this because Tim will like it, he tells himself, only that. He’s doing this because it will make Tim smile, and not at all because there’s something intimate about the way Tim looks at cars and the way he lets Jason see that he’s doing it, like he’s sharing something special.

He’s doing it because…

Oh, fuck it. He’s totally doing it because some part of him is hoping, desperately, against all the warnings and advice the rest of him is screaming at him, that maybe, just maybe, Tim will see it as the date that Jason can’t quite bring himself to admit that it is.

Jason may not know what the fuck is happening between him and Tim, may not have the slightest fucking clue where they stand with each other, but he does know that Tim seems to want him around, and he knows that he wants very much to see Tim’s face light up like that and know that he’s the one who did it.

So he buys two tickets for the show, tells Tim to clear his calendar for the day and doesn’t tell him where they’re going because he wants to be there to see Tim’s eyes go wide and excited and happy when he realizes.

Jason thinks, very seriously, for about ten minutes, about telling Tim to pick him up in the Stingray again, just to see the looks on everyone else’s faces when they show up in that car. But then he remembers Tim’s confident hands on the wheel, on the gearshift, the way he’d relaxed back into his seat like he was born to sit there, and Jason thinks that if he ever got Tim alone in that car again, he might never let him get out again.

So instead he tells Tim that he’ll be by to pick him up on the bike, and tries not to think about the last time that happened, so many weeks and several fewer confusing emotional revelations ago. Last time, the slight weight of Tim behind him, chest pressed firm against Jason’s back as they sped across the bridge toward downtown, had been nothing but a strange and strangely-welcome sensation; this time, Jason thinks it’s likely to be nothing short of torture, with Tim so close and so warm.

He knows he’s right when he pulls up in front of Tim’s neat brownstone to find Tim waiting on the steps, worn jeans with a tiny hole in the corner of one pocket, white t-shirt under a red plaid button-up, just barely visible under the dark brown leather jacket making his already-broad shoulders look even more ridiculous.

This is an all-American version of Tim, Tim doing his version of Clark Kent’s glasses; it’s a Tim who wasn’t sure where he’d be going with Jason, so he’d dressed to play as many parts as he could fit into one person, and Jason can’t decide whether he thinks it’s impressive or hilarious or hot or all three at once.

Lose the jacket and button up the shirt, neaten his hair a bit, and suddenly Tim’s a good-natured student type. Leave the shirt open, let his eyes go half-lidded and his expression aimless, and he’d look like any slightly-grungy stoner on the street. Ditch the shirt entirely, maybe snag a ball cap from somewhere, let himself lean back against a wall with his arms crossed and his expression mean, and there’s a Tim who’s just another punk kid looking to make trouble.

As he is, Tim makes a hell of a picture, all classic American masculinity with the barest suggestion of danger; he’ll fit right in with the rest of the red-blooded macho types at the show, and Jason thinks they’ll both get more than a few kicks out of it, knowing that they’re the only two who realize it’s an act.

It’s so wonderfully Tim, all mischief and misdirection and playacting for the sake of practice and for fun, and it takes a lot more willpower than Jason thinks it should to raise a hand to wave, letting an easy grin spread across his face.

Tim grins back, practically bouncing down the steps to the street. He puts a hand on Jason’s shoulder and swings himself onto the seat behind him with a movement that really should be more awkward than Tim makes it look. He accepts the spare helmet that Jason holds out, but pauses before putting it on.

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you.”

Jason shakes his head, grin widening. “Nope. I’m enjoying keeping you in the dark on this one.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but puts the helmet on and leans forward, wrapping his arms securely around Jason’s waist.

Jason swallows, turning his head to face forward, letting the engine roar as he eases out onto the street without another word.

The car show is set up in the big parking lot on the south end of Robinson Park, between the river and the Diamond District. The easier, quicker route to get there from Tim’s place would be to go south between Burnley and the Bowery, across the river and down Dillon Avenue along the north end of the Upper East Side and hanging a left just before Coventry, heading south again down the east edge of the park.

But the show’s an all-day affair, and Jason’s willing to admit that he likes the feel of Tim behind him on the bike, the slight tightening of his arms around Jason every time they turn, Tim leaning that little bit more against him.

So instead of the quicker route, Jason takes them east out of Newtown, skirting Crime Alley and past Sheldon Park and Robbinsville, heading for the Sprang Bridge instead, then the much more picturesque residential streets of the south-east end of the Upper East Side.

It also makes it easier to avoid most of the public advertisements for the show, especially the large banners hanging from the street lights along Dillon. Still, as they approach the park, Tim’s grip goes suddenly tighter, and Jason imagines that if he could turn around, he’d see Tim’s eyes beginning to widen, that dawning light of realization breaking across his face.

By the time they pull into the corner of the lot marked off for visitor parking, Tim’s practically vibrating with excitement, and his grin when he pulls off the helmet is blinding.

“You brought me to a car show,” he says, sounding half-awed as he turns to look at Jason, eyes sparkling. “You brought me to the car show.”

Jason shrugs, hands shoved in his pockets, helpless to do anything but grin back in the face of Tim’s enthusiasm.

“I figured you’d like it.”

Tim stares for a moment, then shakes his head, grin still firmly stretched across his face. He sways a bit closer, bumping into Jason’s shoulder and tilting his head back to look up at him.

“You figured right,” he says, leaning into Jason’s space.

Jason’s breath catches slightly in his chest. He looks down at Tim’s face, his expression so open and so pleased, and tries not to think about how easy it would be to just...lean down a little, and...

“Come on,” Tim says, pulling away; there’s something a little darker about his eyes, a little wicked, like maybe he can tell what Jason’s thinking. He walks backwards toward the opening in the roped-off fencing, grinning sharp and delighted.

“Let’s go look at something pretty .”

I already am , Jason thinks dazedly, and follows after him.

“Oh man,” Tim says, walking circles around a cherry-red 1955 Thunderbird. “I used to have a little model of one of these when I was a kid. Dad got it from the dealer when he traded in his Crestliner. I always wanted one for real.”

It’s a gorgeous car, Jason can see that. It’s got subtle wings on the sides, and a sleek sort of roundedness to it, accented with bright pops of shiny chrome. The convertible hardtop is a clean bone-white, with a tiny porthole window that Jason finds oddly charming. It looks like something straight out of a James Dean movie, like it should be full of kids with milkshakes and burgers from the local diner, the kind of car that belongs at a drive-in movie theater like the one Tim loves so much.

It’s not a car that Timothy Drake-Wayne would fit in, but this version of Tim, all wrapped in flannel and worn leather, would look right at home behind the wheel.

“Maybe I’ll get you one for your birthday,” Jason says, offhand. He’s joking, but he also suspects that if he happens to run across one of these things somewhere, he might just be tempted to leave in parked in front of the brownstone with a bow tied to the hood, just to watch the expression on Tim’s face when he sees it.

Tim straightens, grinning so wide his cheeks must hurt, eyes just as wide and shining.

“If you got me this car, I would love you forever,” he says.

And he’s joking, obviously, but Jason still can’t help that way his traitorous heart trips slightly in his chest.

“Well, with an incentive like that...” Jason says, smiling, and ignores the way he thinks he genuinely means it.

Tim, it quickly becomes apparent, has a massive boner for classic American muscle cars.

He dashes from one shiny metal specimen to another, sometimes seizing Jason’s wrist to drag him along, sometimes running ahead and leaving Jason to amble after him, grinning all the while. Tim knows every single car in the world, it seems like, rattling off facts about engine capacity and horsepower and fuel injection systems and a thousand other things Jason hardly has any idea about.

There’s a burnt orange thing with a sharp-edged front end like a chisel that Tim gushes over for ten minutes while Jason tries to figure out why anyone would want their car painted like a shiny sweet potato.

“Do you think you could fit sweet potato on a custom license plate?” Jason wonders out loud, staring at the front end. “Because this thing kind of looks like a sweet potato. Or like, a sweet potato crossed with a putty scraper. Or is it a yam? What’s the difference, anyway?”

Tim stares at him. “This is an AMX/3,” Tim says, sounding scandalized. “It’s a beautiful piece of stylish, aerodynamic engineering. It’s a classic .”

“If you say so,” Jason says, shrugging, deliberately casual just because of the way it makes Tim’s face go all wounded. “Looks like something you’d drive if you were, like, the kind of asshole who wears leather driving gloves and a three-piece suit to go meet mobsters down at the docks to dump a guy off a pier or some shit.”

Tim blinks. “That is...disturbingly specific,” he says. “Why do I feel like this is something that’s actually happened to you?”

Jason shrugs again. “Look, you accidentally bust up one little mob execution and they start sending the weirdos with car fetishes after you. Honestly, I think it’s probably some kind of compliment, when you really get down to it.”

“Because they send guys in sports cars after you,” Tim clarifies, sounding dubious.

“They’re definitely compensating for something,” Jason explains, “but what they apparently lack in the pants department, they definitely have in the crazy. Plus, if you damage the cars badly enough, sometimes you can even make ‘em cry.”

Tim stares at him. “There is something wrong with your brain,” he says, almost wonderingly.

Jason just grins at him and swings an arm over Tim’s shoulders, liking the way Tim settles easily against his side, comfortable. “Yeah, but you like me anyway,” Jason says, and tugs him away, off to inspect the next shiny machine.

The next machine turns out to be a 1969 Corvette, painted a fairly eye-searing yellow, with a sharp, pointed front end like the Yam-mobile, but the similarity is marred by the inexplicable addition of a black accent around the front, looking like a comical moustache blown back along the car’s snout by the wind as it presumably races at top speed down some deserted highway or another. It also has a slightly ridiculous profile, the hood rising up at the edges in swooping curves that remind Jason of some of the older Batmobile designs, like the one he’d popped the tires off of in that other life, the one that came before.

He tries to picture Bruce driving this hilarious banana-yellow thing, squeezed into the front seat with his cape wrapped around him and his cowl on, the pointy ears getting crumpled against the low roof. He chokes on his laughter, making Tim turn to look at him, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

“Just,” Jason manages around his wheezing, “imagining Bruce—” He trails off into undignified giggles as Tim turns to regard the car, clearly imagining the spectacle himself as he bites his lip to hold back his own laughter.

“Oh god,” Tim says, turning back to look at the car, “how would he even fit? ”

“Batcorvette,” Jason wheezes out, bent nearly double to try to catch his breath as he imagines Bruce trying to cram his entire 6’2”, two-hundred-plus-pound frame into the tiny yellow car.

“We should get him one,” Tim says, in the tone of one who has seen an opportunity for shenanigans and is determined to take it. “He’ll feel obligated to drive it. We’ll get to watch him try to get into it while maintaining some semblance of dignity.”

“We’ll get to watch him try to get out ,” Jason adds, grinning wildly. “It’ll be great .”

“No, no, wait,” Tim says, a slightly manic expression spreading across his face. “We’ll get one for Dick .”

“Oh god,” Jason grins almost painfully wide, hearing the beginnings of truly glorious amounts of sibling assholishness forming in Tim’s brain.

“We’ll paint it it up like his old suit,” Tim says gleefully, actually, literally rubbing his hands together as he envisions future mayhem. “Powder blue. Gold fringe. ”

“ Discovette! ” Jason cackles, laughing hard enough that he falls over and lands on his ass on the pavement, throwing one fist up in the air triumphantly, the other clutching his ribs, trying to force himself to stop laughing so he can breathe.

“Oh man,” Tim says, pulling out his phone and hastily typing away in between hiccuping out little hysterical giggles. “Oh man . We are so doing this, oh my god, it’s gonna be so great …”

And Jason lies there, still laughing, watching the sparkle of unholy delight in Tim’s eyes as he concocts his evil prank, and Jason thinks, I want to do this always.

It’s a warm day, especially standing in the sun, so they make a detour to stash their jackets in the saddlebags on the bike.

It’s more comfortable, certainly, although it’s possible Jason hadn’t entirely been prepared for how much more ridiculous Tim’s shoulders were without the extra bulk, or the way the thin plaid flannel wrapped around Tim’s narrow waist. It reminds Jason of Tim’s red waistcoat, and it takes a lot more effort than he wants to admit to get himself to stop staring.

Tim in a perfectly-tailored three-piece suit had been stunning; Tim in worn denim and red flannel is outright dangerous.

They wander towards the line of food trucks along one side of the park while Tim apparently tries to find a cheap Corvette to buy and get repainted and left at the front door of the mansion for Dick to find. Tim’s on the phone with someone who sounds like they work with Wayne Enterprises’ fleet of company cars, and he waves vaguely when Jason asks what he wants to eat.

“Just get me whatever,” he says, pulling the phone away for a moment. “You know what I like.”

And the thing is, Jason really does. It should be surprising, he thinks, especially because they’ve really only eaten together a handful of times, but somehow he knows that Tim won’t want the homemade bratwurst at one stall because it’ll probably be too over-peppered, and he’d probably like the gourmet baked potatoes at another truck but they’d be too heavy for how much excited bouncing around Tim’s been doing. Hotdogs are probably always a good bet, but Jason remembers Tim teasing him about his topping choices at the fair and decides to go for something else.

In the end he gets them both gyros, partly because he wanted them himself, and partly because he enjoys watching Tim struggle absentmindedly to eat his with one hand while still talking on the phone between bites. Tim has a hilariously expressive face when he’s on the phone, all raised eyebrows and comically contorted expressions, and Jason watches him with unabashed fascination.

After a few minutes, Tim hangs up, smirking, every inch of him practically oozing smug satisfaction.

“Joey down in Fleet Maintenance says they should be able to get the car painted as long as I can get them the car itself and a workable design,” Tim says, muffled by the giant bite of gyro he’s shoved in his mouth. “I’m gonna see if I can get Alfred to help me get it into the garage without Dick noticing.”

Jason snorts, reaching across the table to tuck a napkin into Tim’s collar before he can drip tzatziki sauce down the front of his shirt. His fingers brush against Tim’s collarbone for a brief moment, and Jason doesn’t think he imagines the way they both go still for a heartbeat, for two, before Jason pulls his hand back. He can see Tim watching him from the corner of his eye as he focuses on his food again, but he can’t quite bring himself to meet his gaze.

They finish their food a few minutes later and Tim reaches across to grab the cardboard basket in front of Jason. His fingers brush Jason’s as he does, just a moment too long to be anything other than deliberate, and Jason startles slightly, looking up. There’s a little spark of mischief in Tim’s eyes, a slight smirk to his mouth that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Let me help you with that,” Tim says, leaning in just a little closer than he needs to, and Jason lets him, holding Tim’s gaze and he backs away and stands up.

“Sure thing,” Jason says, nonsensically, caught on the curve of Tim’s smile as he finally turns away, something pleased lurking at the corners of his mouth.

It’s so silly , Jason thinks, to feel like this just because a beautiful boy looked at him and smiled; to feel like his heart is racing and his fingers are tingling from a few barely-there touches and Tim’s bright eyes on him. It feels juvenile, like all the schoolyard crushes Jason never really got to have, too busy trying to scrape out a living on the streets, and then too busy racing across rooftops as Robin, and then too busy being dead.

It should be scarier than it is, slowly opening himself up to someone else like this, like cracking his chest open one rib at a time, only to find that Tim has already slipped into the spaces between them with his careful fingers, warm and painless and welcome.

It feels deliberate and purposeful, the way Tim keeps dropping these little moments, the way he did back at that crazy restaurant, or sprawled on the couch in the brownstone. It doesn’t feel like a game, though, or like teasing, like Tim’s just messing around, messing with Jason’s head to see what happens. It feels like—

It feels like being taken care of, like gentling a wary, wild thing. Like Tim is being slow and careful on purpose to avoid spooking him, leaving him plenty of chances to back away if he needs to, leading him with gentle nudges and encouraging looks until Jason ends up right where Tim wants him.

Right where they both want him, Jason thinks.

It’s not an unpleasant thought at all.

Tim comes back a moment later, swaying into Jason’s space again with a grin. Tim leans up closer, tugging at the bottom hem of Jason’s shirt with two fingers.

“Come on,” he says, grinning, “we’ve got a lot more to get to.”

Jason grins back down at him, heart dancing in his throat. He wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders in a way that’s starting to feel comfortable and matter-of-fact and normal , and lets Tim lead the way.

Tim stops in front of a screaming lime green and black car, eyes popping. There’s something cartoonish about it, the bright color and the boldness of the accents, and something about the front end makes Jason think of a crocodile. It looks like the car of car that should turn into a robot on a kid’s cartoon, or have rockets on the bottom to make it fly.

Tim practically shimmies over to it, steps bouncing like he physically can’t stand still. He bends over the front end, ducking his head under the open hood, grinning wide and excited. Jason stares, swallowing against his suddenly-dry mouth.

Tim’s braced against the front of the car, jeans pulling tight against the lines of lean muscle in his thighs, the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt exposing the pale expanse of his forearms. His hair is falling into his face, leaving the back of his neck exposed.

Jason wants to press his mouth there, just above the topmost knob of Tim’s spine. He wants to run his fingers through Tim’s hair, push it gently back from his face so Jason can see his eyes. He can imagine Tim hovering above him just like this, Jason’s back against the cushions of Tim’s couch and Tim’s hands braced against the back of it on either side of Jason’s shoulders, caging him in.

“Oooohh,” Tim says, oblivious to the aching whirl of Jason’s thoughts, shoving his face in some engine part or another. “Barracuda!”

You’d have me down, down, down to my knees , Jason’s brain sings, and he can’t find it in himself to disagree. Wouldn’t you, Barracuda, indeed.

“Oh,” Jason says, slowing to pause as they pass another car. Tim, once more looped easily under Jason’s arm, stops, too.

“I like this one,” Jason says, staring at the car.

It’s not much bigger than most of the others Tim’s been admiring, the sleek, dangerous-looking little speeders, so much like Tim himself. This one’s got more bulk, though, a sturdier frame with clean, slimmed-down lines, less flash than the others but more of an air of sheer power. It’s got a slightly sharkish look to the front end, and a glossy black paint job with two champagne-gold racing stripes down the hood. If a car was built like a boxer, Jason thinks, it would look like this one: restrained, compact strength and something just a little mean about it.

“Sixty-six Shelby,” Tim says. He sounds thoughtful, and when Jason darts a glance over at him, he finds Tim staring appraisingly at him, glancing between him and the car with a funny sort of grin on his face, something vaguely satisfied, a little warmly pleased, like this was a test that Jason had aced with flying colors.

“It’s a good car,” Tim adds, “Lots of power, lots of speed. Not built for comfort, but for someone who know how to use it, and how to take care of it right, it’s perfect.”

There’s a strange, sort of wistful thread to Tim’s voice, sending faint shivers down Jason’s spine. He glances over at Tim again, finding him staring back with an unreadable expression, something intent and deliberate, like he’s searching for something in Jason’s face. He must find it, because he smiles after a moment, that damn smile, the one that’s bright and sharp and a little wicked, the one Jason’s already half in love with.

“It suits you,” Tim says, shifting closer and turning slightly to look Jason in the eye more easily.

Jason doesn’t think he’s entirely talking about the car anymore.

He clears his throat and doesn’t look away. “You think so?”

The sharp edges of Tim’s grin soften, slightly, the brightness of his eyes turning into something gentler, fonder.

“Yeah,” Tim says, “I really do.”

They start winding their way back toward the bike after that. They pass a few more cars that Tim makes appreciative noises over, but he doesn’t pause at any of them, just stays tucked against Jason’s side, one hand resting lightly at the small of Jason’s back. Jason can feel the faint press of Tim’s fingers through his shirt, the skin beneath it pebbling with goosebumps, every single atom of Jason’s existence focused on those five little points of contact.

When they get back to the bike, Jason bends to retrieve their jackets, handing Tim’s over with a smile, watching the way Tim slides into it in one smooth motion, shrugging his shoulders to get the leather to settle across them just right. Tim looks up at him, catching him staring; Jason lets himself look for a moment more, meeting Tim’s eyes with a smile before turning to grab their helmets, settling on the seat and holding the spare out towards Tim, still standing beside the bike.

Tim takes it with a smile, taking a step forward. “Hey,” he says, sounding softer and fonder than Jason knows what to do with. “Thanks for this.”

Jason knows his face must be showing everything he’s thinking at this moment. He’s always shown too much with Tim, never really been able to hide anything of what he’s thinking or feeling. Even in the early days, the days when Jason was nothing but fury and fight, he hadn’t been able to shut down and compartmentalize with Tim the way he’d been able to do with Bruce. He’d been able to plant a bomb under Bruce’s car and walk away like it was nothing; he hadn’t been able to look at Tim face-to-face without losing some part of his mind, turning his actions impulsive and emotional.

Even in that tiny, shitty apartment he’d rented on Talia’s dime, the pictures she’d given him pinned to the wall, Tim’s face looking so young and so happy, his every movement caught in static still photos screaming confidence and competence, Jason hadn’t been able to hold back the churning in his gut, the roiling mess of rage and betrayal at being replaced. There had been a tiny thread of fear, too, although he hadn’t let himself admit it, then: fear that Bruce would get this boy killed, that he would die alone in some shitty warehouse just like Jason did; fear that he would be replaced just as cleanly and effortlessly as Jason had been; fear that he’d become nothing but a vague memory, a rumor that everyone knew about but never spoke of, another glass-cased memorial to a fallen soldier.

Because the thing of it is this: even when Jason hated Tim Drake, he still wanted him to be safe .

Now that Jason knows him, he thinks that what he wants most is for Tim to be happy .

“Of course,” Jason says, letting the fondness and sincerity and the happiness he feels at being here, in this moment, with Tim, show on his face as he smiles up at him. “Anytime,” he says, and means anything, for you.

He thinks Tim gets it, from the way his smile stutters for a moment, eyes widening slightly before his grin bursts wide, his whole face lighting up. He puts the helmet on and steps closer, swinging onto the bike behind Jason with that same easy, liquid grace, settling close, pressed against Jason’s back from hips to shoulders, wrapping his arms around Jason’s waist, chin hooked over Jason’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Tim says again, softer, right by Jason’s ear; Jason can feel Tim’s breath fanning across his cheek, Tim solid and warm behind him, holding onto him.

Jason doesn’t say anything, just leans back into Tim for a brief moment before gunning the bike with a roar and a grin.

On an impulse, Jason takes them up through the Upper East Side, winding through the residential streets more-or-less at random, enjoying the way Tim leans into him with every turn, his hands solid and warm where they curl just below Jason’s ribs. They cruise across the bridge and into the north end of town, skirting the western edge of the Bowery. Jason turns them east before they get to the edges of Newtown, waiting to see if Tim has any objections to Jason turning them away from Tim’s brownstone and towards his place, instead.

Tim doesn’t seem to mind at all; if anything, he presses himself a little closer, holds on a little more firmly, his arms around Jason’s waist reassuring and solid.

Jason parks the bike in the alley behind his building, chaining it to a support beam beneath the fire escape. Tim swings off the bike, bracing himself on Jason’s shoulders for a moment. He sticks close to Jason, bumping against his shoulder with every step as he follows him around the corner to the back entrance, the one Jason prefers using, out of sight of the street and most of the apartments.

Jason has a moment of ridiculous trepidation as they climb the stairs to the third floor; Tim’s already been inside Jason’s apartment once before, already seen everything Jason has to offer, so Jason has no idea why he’s so nervous now.

Tim leans against the wall as Jason unlocks the door, then follows closely behind him, brushing past when Jason stands aside to let him in. He doesn’t move away, so when Jason turns from closing the door and locking it again behind him, Tim is right there in his space, watching him with a small smile and soft eyes.

For a few heartbeats, Jason can’t make himself move, breath hitching in his chest against his pounding heart. His fingers are twitching, wanting to reach out and pull Tim even closer, wrap around the curve of his waist and press thumbs into the hollow of his hipbones. And Tim’s standing there just looking at him, like he wouldn’t mind at all, like he’s waiting, and suddenly Jason is terrified, flustered and nervous and undone.

He looks away, feeling his face heat as he edges quickly past Tim and down the hall toward the kitchen, asking, “Hey, you want something to drink. I’ve got water, tea. Might have some coffee, but not as good as yours—”

He’s babbling, he knows, and he’s never been a babbler, but Tim makes him nervous in ways he can’t even explain, butterflies and lightning in equal parts twisting in his chest, fluttery and warm and sharp. He stands in the middle of his kitchen, staring blankly at his cupboards and trying to slow the suddenly too-fast beating of his heart.

Behind him, the floorboards creak slightly.

“Jason.”

Tim’s voice is soft, and he’s smiling, Jason can hear it, probably that unbearably soft smile that had turned Jason’s brain into so much cotton fluff the whole time he was driving. He almost doesn’t want to turn, doesn’t want to see Tim’s eyes looking so wonderfully fond, doesn’t want to see the way he probably looks slightly rumpled from the ride, looking soft and open and sweet , because just the sound of his voice has Jason wanting to drop to his knees and wrap his arms around Tim and never let him go, and god , he has got it so fucking bad .

Jason Todd is completely gone on Tim Drake, and it’s the most terrifying, most incredibly wonderful thing he has ever experienced in his entire life.

If I look at you now , Jason thinks, I will never be the same again.

He turns.

Tim stands in the doorway, his leather jacket gone, red plaid unbuttoned down his chest, collarbones peeking out over the collar of his white shirt, hair mussed and falling in his eyes, bright and just as fond as Jason feared, hoped for. He’s watching Jason with an expression so open that Jason can hardly breathe, too stunned to even begin to decipher the sheer multitudes of things on Tim’s face, all of them soft and wondering and wanting .

“Jason,” Tim says again, taking a step closer, then another, and another, until he’s standing right in front of Jason. He has to tilt his head back slightly to meet Jason’s eyes, and Jason’s brain flashes back to the street corner after the fair, Tim’s eyes in the yellow light and his face so close, the first time Jason thought that he might want to kiss him, to know what Tim’s mouth felt like against his.

“Come here,” Tim says, so softly, barely a whisper of sound and a puff of breath against Jason’s face as Tim leans into Jason’s space even further, tilts his head a little more, offering.

Jason stares, awestruck, frozen for one heartbeat, two, unable to move. There’s something fluttering in his chest, bright and airy and a lot like hope , and he’s moving before he even thinks about it, reaching out to press shaking fingers gently against the point of Tim’s jaw, just brushing against his ear. Tim closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and Jason can’t help the tiny noise that he makes, the shaky exhale as he moves closer, palm against Tim’s cheek until he’s leaning in, noses nearly touching.

He pauses there and lets himself just breath Tim in, the faint scent of his aftershave, a hint of coffee on his breath, lingering hint of motor oil from the ride. Tim’s eyes are open again, blue and shining so close to Jason’s own and he has to close his eyes against the sight of them, closing that last final inch and pressing his mouth against Tim’s.

The kiss is gentle and sweet, lips only barely parted when Tim sighs against Jason’s mouth. He pulls back after a long moment but doesn’t go far, stays hovering at the edge of Tim’s space. Tim’s smiling at him, small and wonderful and so fucking happy , and Jason’s pretty sure it matches the one he can feel spreading across his own face.

“God,” Jason whispers, hearing his voice ragged and breathless. “God, Tim. ”

Tim grins at him, the most beautiful thing Jason’s ever seen.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” Tim says, sounding half-dazed, like maybe he can’t believe this any more than Jason can.

“You can,” Jason says, staring down at him with his heart beating rabbit-fast and delirious with happiness inside his chest. “As much as you want, Tim, anything .”

“Oh, I will,” Tim says, leaning up again before Jason can say anything, kissing him again. Tim’s hands drift up to Jason’s chest, fingers flexing as he leans in as close as he can, pressing himself against Jason from knees to chest. Jason has one hand still cupping Tim’s cheek; the other curves around Tim’s slim hips, creeping just barely beneath the hem of Tim’s shirt until his fingertips find smooth, warm skin.

They fit perfectly, Jason thinks absently, feeling his shoulders curling forward almost protectively, every inch of himself trying to draw Tim in closer and closer until there’s no space between them and Jason can’t feel anything but Tim’s body against his, Tim’s lips on his, Tim’s hands holding onto him, holding him together.

Jason doesn’t know how long they stand there in the middle of his kitchen, wrapped up in each other and kissing. He just knows that he never wants it to end.

Finally, his lungs protest their lack of air and he has to pull away, but not without darting in again, once, twice, to steal sweet little pecking kisses from Tim’s lips before leaning back enough to watch Tim’s eyes flutter open slowly, like it takes effort to pull himself back together.

Jason watches Tim’s smile spread across his face like sunrise, bright and glorious, and thinks, I am in love with you.

It doesn’t feel like a revelation; it just feels right.

He won’t say it out loud just yet, he can’t. There’s too much history between them, too many things that still need to be said before he thinks he’ll be able to make declarations like that without feeling panic crawling up his throat, tearing at the inside of his head. He’s still messed up some days, and he knows that Tim still has his own open wounds, and neither of them are at a place where they can say things like that, things with weight and meaning, things that edge towards the kind of permanence neither of them has ever truly known how to handle.

But he can do this, they can do this: can be here, in this moment, together.

Jason leans down and tucks his face into the curve of Tim’s shoulder, pressing his lips to the hollow behind Tim’s ear, and breathes him in, feeling Tim’s arms wrap tightly around his waist, holding on.

He can’t say it yet, but it doesn’t matter; he’s pretty sure Tim knows, anyway.