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Chapter Text

It had started as offhand comments brayed across the near-empty rink. Tim’s used to the comments; Cobblepot’s rink is technically privatised for the local NHL team, and Tim’s just subletting whilst his usual venue undergoes refurbishment, so Tim’s used to being rushed off the ice by twenty hockey players the second the clock ticks over on his allotted four hours of training.

The players come a half hour early to warm up and rack up, so Tim’s not foreign to spectators critiquing his routines from afar. Tim just wishes they'd keep it to the routines.

More often their cacophonous arrival is announced with a chorus of "nice ass, sweetheart", and "give us a turn", and "look at those fucking hips, I’d break him". Tim’s used to crowds and spectators in the comps, so he’s gotten used to drowning them out for the most part. It comes with the territory.

The first time someone yells, "Heels up!", Tim just assumes it’s directed at one of the other players. But the "Outside edge, princess!" that flies at him in the middle of laying out a double Lutz is definitely intended for him. They've already pulled back into the heaving crowd of bustling players by the time Tim straightens out, so he doesn’t catch a glimpse of them. But they definitely pique his curiosity.

He gets a few more hot tips over the next few weeks as they swing into the lead up to hockey season. Tim’s practising his lines and lead ins when his admirer bellows, "Salchow to a triple Lutz!" and Tim turns into the jump the millisecond before it reaches him.

It nearly fucks his landing, and he straightens up with a huff of frustration and surprise, spinning to locate its owner. The guy's half slumped over the boards, hands still raised to cup his mouth, but Tim can see the broad, smug grin painted there.

"You psychic or something?" Tim calls over, but doesn’t approach, stepping his toe blade into the ice as he works out the muscle that’s cramping in his leg. "And princess is pretty unoriginal."

"Nah, just know your moves, princess," the guy answers, dropping his hands.

Tim frowns. "Didn’t know I had local fans."

The guy scoffs. "Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just predictable."

Tim’s not one to lose his head over a glib jab - he’s been competing at a professional level for too long to let something so childish get under his skin - but the backlash does make his temper flare a bit.

So he pulls around and lays out a triple Salchow with perfect technical fluency, just so he can watch the smile slip off that guy's smug face. Tim regroups on his lines, brimming with vicious pride, and watches the guy shrug and pull off the boards, almost unimpressed.

Whatever. He’s here to train.

He’s got a competition in a week, and Bruce has given him an amended routine to perfect before the weekend, so Tim pulls himself back into focus and starts again from the top.

The minutes wash by. He’s flying into another Salchow when he realises a lone figure has entered the ring, so Tim pulls and lands the jump before falling back to the center with a frown.

It’s the guy from earlier, layered in his pads as he glides over like he’s got all the time in the world and not infringing on Tim’s allotted session. So Tim wheels over, slowing as he approaches, wary of having missed something coming onto the ice. "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, we’re on," the guy replies casually, and taps his stick twice on the ice, the move habitual.

Tim glances past him, up at the clock that hangs over the rink. "I’ve got five more minutes."

The man shrugs. "Sure, but the boys are coming onto the ice whether you’re on it or not."

Tim glares. His routine has been interrupted two jumps off wrap up and now he’s expected to just vamoose quietly for these loud brutes? "I paid for my time."

The man wheels backwards a little, running a circle around Tim as he looks him up and down. "Yeah, you don’t look like you could take a check and walk it off, sweetheart," he purrs, "so unless you want a fresh new concussion, you might wanna split."

"Do you know how hard a triple Salchow is to pull from standing point?" Tim demands after a vibrating, furious moment.

The player blinks at him. "Impossible?"

"Good, you do know," Tim snaps. "So why the hell are you interrupting my routine?"

"Do a double," the man bleats, and Tim feels rage light him from head to toe.

"Excuse me?"

"Change it to a triple Lutz and convert into a double Salchow," the man suggests blandly.

It’s not a bad suggestion. It would give him more technical points for the attempt. Tim’s just not got the strength or the technique to land the combination that late in his routine.

He shakes his head when he realises he’s been quiet for too long, and the player's looking at him expectantly. "I don’t have the power," he protests, and the man snorts.

"Yeah, I can see that, princess. Don’t worry though, it'll come with practice. It’s all in the hips," he adds with a wry grin, and beckons with his thighs in Tim’s direction.

Tim flushes and glares. "Off! Get out of my rink!"

"Your rink?" the man teases, but is interrupted by someone on the other side of the rink yelling, "Todd! Leave him alone."

It’s a curt, barked order, and it comes from a man twice Tim’s age, standing framed by the gate. He makes the heckler look small in comparison.

"You gonna fine me, Wilson?" the man bellows back, startling Tim with his volume.

"Don’t fucking test me, Todd, I’ll fine you into the next fucking century if you don’t get your wheels off that ice," comes the sharp, non-negotiable response.

The player, Todd, gives Tim a sardonic look and pushes off towards the gate. "You know how old folks get without their meds. Til next time, princess."

"Tim," he snaps, and the man pauses, drifting slowly backwards.

"Tim?"

"My name is Tim," he reiterates coldly. "Cut it out with the princess crap."

The man blinks, and then grins, offering him a neat salute. "Sure thing, princess." Then he sprints for the gate, launching up off the ice and turning in a neat toe loop.

He laughs at Tim’s dumbstruck expression, backpedalling off the rink and ducking around the glare of the man occupying the gate.

There’s not enough time for Tim to do the whole routine over, and he can’t do the last two jumps without a decent clip under him. He resigns himself to laying out some last minute Salchows and ducks off the ice when the first players come streaking out in their black and purple.

He clips the plastic shields onto his skates when he steps out, and pauses against the boards to watch the players milling about the ice, warming up with eager grins and bright eyes. It doesn’t take him long to single out his heckler, dancing around his unimpressed wrangler as he chatters. Tim can’t make out the conversation from here, but based on the crossed arms clenched across the older man’s barrelled chest, he’s talking out of his ass.

The larger man breaks away eventually when the other player, Todd, starts circling him with a shit-eating grin, looking too restless to be healthy. "Give me a line," he bellows to the room at large, and the players retreat back to the far boards in a broken row.

Another man - the coach, Tim thinks - drifts slowly across the home defending zone, surveying the line.

"Playoffs start in three weeks," he announces. "So I want some good, clean checks and better fucking stick handling. We've got to work on our penalty kill, boys. We cannot have another shitshow like yesterday if we want a hope of getting past Round One."

"Coach," Todd calls across the ring, "we've got a problem."

The man turns to face Todd, and says with extreme prejudice, "Spell it out, Todd."

"Wilson’s got his stick lodged up his ass," Todd replies, and Tim can feel his shit-eating grin.

"Thank you for the insight, Todd," the coach says, deadpan. "And for volunteering for the first round of bag skates."

Todd pushes off the boards leisurely. "Sure thing, coach. How many do you want?"

"How many til you learn to shut your stupid mouth?" the man asks, and Todd barks a laugh.

"Too many."

"That'll do it."

Todd grins and makes a slow arc across the defensive zone while some of the other players clear some space against the boards. Then he glides over and crouches down.

"Whenever suits, Todd."

Tim leans his elbows against the barrier, because he’s curious to see just how the man moves under pressure. He’s got a solid set of muscle on him, but he’s leaner and smaller than a lot of the other players, so Tim has to wonder exactly how he managed to get into the league with that stature.

He doesn’t disappoint. Todd launches off his back foot, skidding to a halt against the defence line and turning on a dime. The rink's dead silent but for the harsh scrape of his skates against the ice, drowning out his hard breaths as he sprints back and forth down the forty foot distance.

After the ten sets, Tim’s lungs are starting to ache in sympathy, but when he next catches a glimpse of the man’s face as he flashes up the ice, there’s a broad grin plastered across his bared teeth.

"Wilson," the coach chirps from the far side of the rink, arms crossed over his chest. "Check him."

"With pleasure," the tall man from earlier rumbles, peeling himself off the boards as he hoists his stick. Tim’s heart thrums a heavy pace at the sight of him, because he’s got an extra foot and seventy pounds on Todd without the pads and skates. Tim’s certain he’s going to bowl him straight over the first chance he gets.

Todd slows a bit on his next turn, assessing the man as Wilson slides across the ice in his path, calm as a lake. "You going to be able to keep up, old man?"

"Your stupid mouth's still moving, kid," Wilson grunts, and Todd's grin spreads. He takes up a more leisurely pace, coasting around the man in a broad circle before he returns to the defensive line.

Then he springs forward with a speed that stuns Tim, launching himself wide to miss the reach of Wilson’s stick. Wilson goes low, and Todd makes a hasty deflect as he passes, the wood clattering loudly. He slams up against the boards with none of his previous grace, and spins, launching forward again.

He gets maybe three more sets in, dodging around Wilson with a series of carefully timed feints and love taps, before the taller man hooks his ankle and trips him up.

Todd skids past the defensive line on his kneepads with a curse, and pushes upright with gangly, leaden limbs. Tim knows how unrelenting ice is, padding or no, but he’s sure the man’s ego is more bruised than his shins are.

"Lay him out, Wilson," the coach drawls, as if Wilson’s just toying with the man, and on the next pass, Wilson takes a broad step forward and bodychecks him.

Todd hits the ice with a crack of nitrile, laid out as Wilson glides around him and comes to a complete stop, stick still in hand.

"You still breathing, kid?" he asks down lazily at the unmoving man, and earns a, "Fuck you, old man," in response.

"Alright, you fucking pigeons," the coach sneers, and the other players push into motion as Wilson offers Todd a hand up. "Give me ten sets of bag skates and make it worth my while."

Tim straightens, pushing off the barrier to retrieve his bag as the rink fills with the sounds of forty skates hitting the ice. He’s not really interested in hanging around to watch this circlejerk of a training session. He gets enough of a taste from the offside compliments they throw his way. Tim hoists his bag, and gets almost to the end of the rink before someone slams up against the boards with a godawful crash. Tim jumps.

Todd leers at him, face flushed red with exertion, bowed half over the barrier, and beckons a palm at Tim. "Toss me that bottle."

Tim glances down at the bench to his left, and the black water bottle sitting next to an abandoned red sweatshirt. Then he looks back up at Todd. "What bottle?" he replies icily, and hitches the strap higher on his shoulder, brushing past.

"That’s cold, princess!" Todd bellows after him, and Tim rolls his eyes, shoving open the front doors.

Chapter Text

They’re pulling ten hour days at training. Ice baths, warm up runs, cycling, team drills, cool-downs, off-ice conditioning, light workouts, massages, strength training, and then rehabilitation. Rinse and repeat. It stands to reason; they always ramp up their time on rink as they come into the playoffs. NHL season goes hard and fast for the better part of eight months, but they don’t get down to the grit of it until April. Provided, of course, that you make it that far.

Honestly, Jason barely bats an eyelid. He's sweated and bled through Talia’s fourteen-hour military-drill style training days and her horrorshow pre-season training camps for too many years to think he's hard done by. That woman was practically a slave driver when it came to getting the Assassins keyed up for the playoff season, and Jason doesn’t miss the four a.m. early starts or the communal commiserating.

Doesn’t regret it either. He’s got a lot to thank Talia and her micromanaging for, honestly. The Jokers don’t run a tight ship like the Assassins did, but they’re no cake walk either. Jason’s pretty sure he would have been cycled out early on if he hadn’t had the endurance the Assassins had hammered into him to fall back on. He can outlast nearly any other player on the team through sheer will alone, and he’s got the perseverance and stubbornness to push himself through a block of defencemen if need be. He’d roll a goalie if it wouldn’t drop him in the middle of a donnybrook.

Jason can usually squeeze a few hours of gym work in before he’s needed on the ice, and he’ll come in an hour earlier if it means he gets to rattle Tim’s cage. The figure skater starts at the asscrack of dawn so that he can fit his four hours in. Jason's no stranger to that sort of intensive training either.

The team usually wraps up their training around eight pm, and if he accounts for the stragglers, Jason can usually get the rink to himself if he comes back after ten-thirty pm.

He likes the quiet, likes the still. Likes hearing the ice shift and move beneath his weight as he spins out across its clouded surface. Victor’s usually done with his Zamboni by late evening, and Jason takes a special sort of delight in being the first to carve apart the freshly set ice. There’s a reverence in being the first to make his mark on a new rink, and it’s one of those small pleasures that Jason clings to with a sort of haunted, childlike fervour.

So Jason cleans his skates and his gear, steals out to grab a bite to eat with the team (Sionis loses the lottery, again), and is heading back to the rink with a spring in his step by eleven thirty, mind swimming with midnight possibilities.

He churns through his usual warm up routine to the tune of Wolfmother’s screeching guitar riffs before he ditches the exercise bike to lace up. The barn is positively humming when Jason takes his earbuds out, heaving with the deep bass of an electronica song blasting through its depths. Jason slows as he approaches the corridor to the main rink, making out the high ringing notes of ‘One More Time’.

When he shoves open the doors, the sound is masked by the brass fanfare, and Jason’s gaze immediately slides to the lone figure who’s flying over the ice.

A grin worms its way onto his lips when he realises it’s Tim, and he moves in further to the bleachers to get a better view. Tim hasn’t noticed his arrival, his attention consumed by the spins he’s throwing into.

He looks so much different than in his morning session. There he looked calm, methodical, like he was going through the motions of training, his head churning through jump techniques three elements ahead. Here he looks almost desperate, if not for the razor thin wire of concentration and focus that cuts through everything else. He looks wired, every muscle tightened and compressed down as he sweeps across the ice at a speed that very nearly puts Jason to shame.

It’s not until he comes back around to glide into the exact same spin that Jason realises two things: one, that he’s pulling quadruples, with what looks like distinctly fine-tuned effort; and second, that he’s running through the same routine a second time around. Maybe the third or fourth, going by the sheen of sweat across his brow.

He launches into a complex step sequence, and Jason watches him gear up and into a triple Lutz triple axel combination that stops his breath short. Jason had been pulling triple axel triple Lutz combinations before, back when he’d been doing figures as a teen, and copped flack for it. But the inversion takes a whole heaping more skill to come into the forward-facing axel after laying out a Lutz.

And Tim does it so fucking effortlessly, like he’s done a million before it, and Jason wonders what the fuck his coach is doing to be holding him back to triple Salchows when he can do that.

Tim doesn’t even acknowledge the feat, chest heaving as he pulls out a triple Salchow and makes a half-assed present that strikes Jason as odd. Because he’s been watching Tim for several sessions now, and if he can only say one thing about the lithe skater, it’s that he’s a stickler for perfection.

Jason watches him comes around the rink, tracing his lines as he catches his breath, and stop dead just shy of an inside mark. Jason watches him count himself in, and then launch into a fresh rendition of neat crossovers. He’s repeating himself, rerunning the same performance.

It’s kind of endearing, to see him this adamant about a routine. There’s also the sort of breath-stopping admiration that comes with watching one of the finest in their element that Jason doesn’t even want to shake. Tim’s a national-level skater, and he’s competed at Worlds five years running now. A quick, half-curious Google search had confirmed what Jason had already suspected: Tim was the current protégé of Bruce Wayne, and mentee of former singles prodigy Dick Grayson. Seeing Tim now, Jason can understand how he’s earnt their support.

He kicks off into a quadruple toe loop, and when he lands it, Jason’s stomach starts buzzing with that half-excited half-nervous energy he used to get before a competition. Because Jason knows one Bruce Wayne would not approve of his protégé doing quads at an abandoned ice rink at midnight. And that means Tim is either very reckless or holding out on him.

He pulls through a handful of other spins and steps, and it comes over Jason likes a draught of cold air, stiffening his spine and narrowing his focus. Because the music might not be right - clearly one of Tim’s personal choices - but Jason knows that routine. Knows every element to it, and hasn’t seen it in a long six years because he’s been out of figures himself for a while.

He knows that routine because that’s Dick Grayson’s Worlds routine. His 2012 Worlds routine specifically, the one that had earned him his first bronze. Not because Dick had never placed at Worlds before, but because it had been his worst placement. Period.

Jason has watched this routine played back on repeat hundreds of times over. Has watched and studied and memorised every sit and spin and jump right up to that perfectly executed quad Lutz triple axel. Up to that truly final triple Salchow. Up to the heart-stopping moment Dick Grayson had killed his skating career for good.

This is the routine that Dick wiped out on. Wiped the fuck out on, because Dick Grayson could never just do something in half measures. Jason has analysed every inch of that Salchow, the exact way he’d pulled into the lift and spun through the rotations. Studied exactly how negligibly miniscule the over rotation was, but just enough to offset his descent. Enough to offset his landing enough that he’d taken the full momentum down with him onto his right ankle.

There’s not a lot left to a figure skater once they dislocate their ankle. It’s one of those injuries that rips out ligaments and tendons with it, and a skater’s feet are as much their whole world as a ballerina’s are. Honestly, a clean break would have served him better.

He’d gotten a broken bone out of it, too, of course. The instant he’d dislocated his ankle he’d been headed for the ice, and Dick Grayson, in whatever pain-drunk daze he’d been in, had committed a cardinal sin of skating. Had tried to catch what remained of his weight with his forearm, and had snapped both bones clean in two. From there he’d knocked himself out cold on the ice, sliding to a stop somewhere over near the boards while medics had rushed to his side.

It still makes Jason’s stomach turn to think about it. Falling was a part of skating; learning how to fall properly was one of their foundation lessons. Falling didn’t scare Jason, even now that he was in a sport that moved a hundred miles a minute across the ice. Falling like that scares Jason. Falling so hard you trash half your limbs and kill your career dead in the water scares Jason.

And as Tim circles the lobe at home end and gears up for the quad Lutz, head crooked over one shoulder to map his path, Jason’s stomach seizes with genuine, terrifying panic.

Tim lands it. Lands it with near perfect technical accuracy too, which Jason almost misses because he’s busy jump-starting his lungs. But even Jason knows the Lutz is only half of the problem.

It’s the axel that sends Tim spinning out across the ice, gloved hands flat to the hard surface as he twists onto his hip and slows his skid with the edge of his skate.

Jason can see the frustration as he picks himself up. He’s felt that frustration, bone deep and catastrophic in its ferocity. There’s something else there too, in his tense shoulders, something bordering on hopelessness that Jason can empathise with. Trying to touch Dick Grayson’s liquid grace is like trying to grab the sun.

The music keeps booming overhead, indifferent to the skater dusting himself off below. And as the bass rattles through his bones and pulses through his skull, Jason gets angry.

Because Tim must be out of his fucking mind or blinded by an ego the size of Gotham Clock Tower to think he can nail that routine. His attention to technical detail may run rings around Jason’s, but he’s nowhere near the same power Jason was flaunting when he was at the height of his figures career. And even then, Jason couldn’t successfully pull off one of Dick Grayson’s Worlds routines with all the luck the world could afford him.

And Jason hasn't been a figure skater for years now, but there's something about Tim trying to perfect this routine of Dick's, this routine, that tweaks Jason's sidelined teen hero adoration something fierce. Tim has no right to be dredging up that routine. Has nothing to gain from it other than something to hold over Dick, and Jason hates that he feels protective over his old mentor. He's long past that. Worked hard to put himself way past that, and yet as Tim flies through that first quad, Jason finds himself aching with numb hatred.

Jason pushes to his feet, scaling the bleachers with absent-minded grace as he approaches Tim’s open laptop and pulls it into his lap. There’s a playlist open on the screen, a collection of Daft Punk that's about four-fifths through, and the laptop is wirelessly jacked into the rink’s speakers. It’s locked open for ease of access, so it’s laughably easy for Jason to pull up Tim’s music library and scroll through the options, looking for a particular song.

He sits back with a soft chuckle when he finds it, shaking his head in vague disbelief, because its existence in Tim’s music collection is as damning as the routine is.

Jason gears it up in the queue and switches over to the new song, cutting sharply into the synthed intro of ‘Around The World’. There’s a sickening few seconds of silence, in which Tim’s head snaps around to spot Jason at his laptop, and then the vibrating notes of ‘Toxic’ cut across the ice.

Tim looks livid, and he immediately cuts across the ice, headed for Jason.

Jason hits pause as he leaps through the gate, laughing uproariously. Tim leaps over the first of the bleachers, snatching the laptop from his grip.

“Do you mind?”

“See, I knew you were a Dick Grayson fanboy,” Jason points out victoriously, and Tim scowls through his embarrassment.

“I’m not a fanboy,” he insists, snapping his laptop closed and stuffing it into his duffel. Like that will stop Jason. “He’s my mentor.”

“Mentor or no, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate you trying to one-up him on that particular routine.”

Tim looks at him then, and Jason can’t pinpoint exactly what’s off about his expression before he turns and heads back to the ice. Jason follows him.

“Do you know his Toxic routine too?”

“No,” Tim says bluntly, and it’s a lie.

Jason snickers, hooking his crossed arms over the barrier as Tim steps out. “You’re not gonna beat him, princess. Dick Grayson is a prodigy; you and me? We’re just not.”

Tim scowls, won’t meet his gaze. “It has nothing to do with being a prodigy. Or beating him.”

“Then why learn the routine?”

“Is that a crime?” Tim demands, spinning to glare and Jason smirks. “Why do you care anyway? Are you his personal gatekeeper or something?”

“I know that you’re never gonna get that routine down,” Jason purrs, and pain flits across Tim’s features. Jason hunkers down over the barrier, resting his chin on his wrists. “Don’t take it personally, princess. Dick Grayson’s legendary material. Us mere mortals aren’t cut out for combinations like that.”

Tim frowns. “What do you know about his combinations? How do you even know his routines?”

Jason shrugs cagily, tilting his head. It’s fun to see Tim on the defensive, flustered and embarrassed. Less fun to be on the defensive though. Jason turns the screw a bit more. “I know your mentor’s Bruce Wayne.”

“Lots of people know that,” Tim snaps, sharp and fast.

“I know he won’t let you do quads,” Jason adds with a wry smile, and Tim’s definitely unsettled by that. Jason drinks in his hesitation. “Has he started cutting back your triple combinations yet, or did Dick manage to convince him you have the technical ability to pull some of them off?”

“Who are you?” Tim asks after a long beat of cloying silence.

“Just some dumb hockey player,” Jason replies, and Tim bristles with agitation. “Bruce is still the same old bastard, huh?”

“I train with Dick,” Tim says curtly, neatly sidestepping that question.

Jason takes it in stride. “How come I haven’t seen you training with Dickie, then?”

“He’s got a class,” Tim answers warily. “He teaches beginners.”

“Ah, Titans?” Jason asks, and Tim nods. “Yeah, he seemed really keen on the idea. I think he’d take just about anything that’ll get him back on the ice.”

“Who are you?” Tim presses again, and Jason grins, straightening up until he’s leaning on his elbows. The cold air washes over his forearms, raising goosebumps.

“Your secret admirer,” he replies with dripping sarcasm, and Tim glares. Jason winks and blows him a short kiss.

Tim spins back to the ice with a grunt of derision, refocusing on his forms.

“You’re not going to be able to beat his routine, princess!” Jason calls, and Tim stoically ignores him.

He circles the rink a few times, cutting short to avoid Jason’s corner, and starts working his way up the double jumps to triples. He lays out his first few triples combinations, and then - as if perturbed by Jason’s trailing gaze - launches into a series of practice spins.

He’s not going to get another routine out of him tonight, Jason realises with a resigned smile. And Jason’s not enough of an asshole to overstay his welcome on the ice when someone’s so invested in a routine.

So he retires back to the bleachers, sprawling out across one and pulling out his phone. Lets the scrape of skates across fresh ice lull him, until he hears Tim stepping up through the gate.

Jason turns to watch him clip the sheaths onto his blades and approach his bag. A quick consult of his phone’s display tells him it’s well past midnight.

“Don’t you have practice in three hours?” Jason asks, and Tim passes him a sparing glower, as if to confirm that he is genuinely still there.

“I don’t sleep much,” Tim provides, and Jason hauls himself into a sit. “And there’s always coffee.”

“That can’t be healthy for a pro-skater,” Jason purrs, just to be contrary.

Tim hoists his duffel, not even bothering to shuck his skates yet. He’ll probably do it outside, beyond reach of Jason’s scrutiny. "Neither is smoking,” he retorts bluntly, and Jason chuckles. It’s not a huge secret. Jason usually sneaks one round the back of the rink, just outside the back exit. “And what’s an NHL player doing here at midnight anyway, two weeks out from playoffs?”

“Aw, look, you do care,” Jason teases, and Tim rolls his eyes. He goes to brush past him, and Jason swings his legs over the bench. “Hang on.”

“What?” Tim asks without turning around. Doesn’t even pause in his no-longer-solitary march towards the front doors.

Jason skirts around him, stopping him short. He glances up, a glare burning in his gaze. “I wasn’t kidding,” Jason says evenly, “when I said you should make that triple into a combination.”

Tim frowns, digging back through his memory. “The Lutz-Salchow?” he asks.

“Yeah, I used-” Jason stops himself, rewording clumsily. “I’ve seen it used at some of the local comps around here. It’s better than trying to land a Lutz-axel. If you go for the triple-triple, you’ll be able to land it easily. And you’ll make podium on difficulty alone.”  

Tim looks just the barest bit suspicious of Jason’s sudden assistance. “I’m not allow- I can’t do a triple-triple that far into my routine.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Princess, please. At this rate, if you keep holding yourself back like this, you’re going to be bypassed for Worlds. And you and I can both tell a triple-triple would be no sweat off your brow if you’re landing quads flawlessly.”

Tim squints. “Did you used to do figures?”

Jason swallows and shrugs, shifting his weight to distract from the motion. “Maybe. Point is, you’re going to have to start doing quads eventually if you want to stay in the rankings.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Tim says, but it’s not entirely scathing. Jason thinks maybe he’s soothed the wound he’s been picking at over the past week.

“Hey,” Jason adds, and Tim arches a brow as he turns, walking backwards for the door. Jason grins. “I’ll promise not to tell Bruce about you sneaking out to do quads if you ask me what my name is.”

Tim freezes, jolting to a standstill in the foyer, blue eyes fixed on Jason. There’s abject fury in those eyes, but it’s swamped by mortification. “You wouldn’t.”

“I will,” Jason promises with a broad smile, sliding his hands carelessly into his pockets.

“I already know your name,” Tim says after a terse moment, wherein they both scope each other out for bluffs. Jason thinks maybe Tim is picturing strangling him.

Jason raises his brows, surprised. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Tim says with the barest crook of a smile. “It’s ‘that asshole who won’t take the time to learn my real name’.”

Jason laughs, and some of the tension washes off Tim’s shoulders. He takes a few steps towards the doors, turning to shove them open. “It’s Jason, princess,” he calls after him.

Tim turns back to offer him a smirk. “Goodnight, Jason.”

Chapter Text

Jason has become pretty much a constant presence in Tim’s training sessions, both his early morning and late night ones. He’s still as stubborn as ever, offering offhanded suggestions everytime Tim skirts his side of the rink. Tim’s almost learnt to tune him out by now.

But his suggestions aren’t terrible, per se, and every now and then Tim will try one out. The smile that Jason gives him when he does promises nothing good, and is entirely adoring, and it makes Tim’s stomach do unintended flips.

Jason’s at the rink earlier than usual this time around, posted at the home end with a lazy smirk. Tim’s finishing his warm ups while he waits for Dick to get his skates on, so he skirts the inside line and practices his triple Lutz.

“You can pull as many Lutz as you want, princess,” Jason purrs from his lean on the edge of the rink. “It won’t win you Worlds.”

Tim flips him off, and Jason withdraws with a loud chuckle.

He travels up to the other end, pulling up against the boards to watch Dick where he’s sat on the bleachers. Dick beams at him when he notices Tim.

“We’ll focus on jumps today,” he says. “I want to get a feel for where you’re at, and then we can work on that routine for Regionals. Bruce gave me a rundown; shouldn’t be anything new.”

Dick smiles like that’s a good thing, and Tim offers him a half-hearted smile in response. He’s seen the routine Bruce has planned out for Regionals. At his level, a combination jump is a must, but Tim has doubts that he’ll get to take advantage of the opportunity for a quad element.

“Did he sign off on my triple combination?” Tim asks.

“He hasn’t given me a definitive answer yet,” Dick replies diplomatically.

Tim knows exactly how that conversation went. Knows that Dick will still be trying to find a new angle to convince Bruce that Tim is equipped to handle high difficulty combinations.

Dick offers him a consolatory smile. “Let’s just focus on your elements, and if we have time, we can take another look at your triple combinations. Maybe I’ll find something to persuade Bruce.”

Tim’s absolutely convinced that if Bruce isn’t backing down for Dick’s recommendation, then nothing’s going to move him. “Sure,” he says anyway, and travels in a slow, small circle to keep up his circulation.

Dick stands, brushing his palms off as he tests his bad ankle. It’s been years since the injury, but it’s still habit to check that his skates are laced right.

Tim’s volunteered at a few of Dick's beginner Titans classes before, and he hasn’t missed the special care Dick gives to showing the kids how to check their skates are tight and firm around their ankles. Or how there’s a whole extra foundation lesson set aside specifically for teaching them to fall correctly.

Dick’s good with the kids. He’s good with everybody, really. And above all else, Dick just wants to share his love of the ice, that opportunity to fly like there’s nothing between you and the hard crash but air that stretches on forever. Tim knows from experience that people who fall in love with Dick Grayson tend to fall in love with his passions too.

So Tim helps out at his lessons whenever he can spare the time. Tim watches him fall and pull faces and encourage the kids not to be scared and teach them how to pick themselves up when they spill on the ice. And when Dick doesn’t think anyone’s paying attention, Tim watches that forlorn, quiet look settle behind his bright blue eyes as he sees the kids chase each other around the rink, and he aches too.

Tim pushes out from the boards to let Dick settle on the ice, and then lets him fall into Tim’s wake as they make their way up the outside line closest to the bleachers. Tim notices Jason back at his post, decked out in his jersey and pads, and braces for another slew of comments.

For once, Tim isn’t the center of Jason’s antagonistic attentions.

“Hey Dickface,” he drawls, arms crossed over the barrier as he watches Dick skate back and forth across the ice. Tim watches as Dick scrapes to a sharp halt, a smile breaking over his features when he lays eyes on Jason.

“Little Wing,” he says brightly, and Tim sees a scowl cross Jason’s features at the nickname. Dick catches it too. “What, too on-the-nose? You’re left wing forward, right? And - if I’m not mistaken,” he adds, casting his gaze about the players who have turned to watch the heckling, his smile growing, “the smallest on the team. So, Little Wing, right?”

Jason meets his pleasant grin with a smirk that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. “How’s Bruce? He let Tim do a quad yet?”

Dick’s smile sinks faster than lead through the ice, and Tim has to wonder what sort of history they have that Jason can wipe the joy from Dick’s face as easily as washing his hands. Dick glides over to Tim, mouth turned tersely down.

“Come on, ignore him,” Dick says, and Tim has to wonder if Dick’s speaking more to Tim or himself. “Give me a double axel into a double Salchow.”

Tim travels up the home end, counter turning into the center lobe as he pushes into a double axel. He ducks into a knee bend and springs up for the Salchow, swinging wide at the away end.

“Good,” Dick praises as Tim arches around for another run up the outside. “Give me two spins, dealer’s choice.”

Tim coasts into a lean Ina Bauer, before he cuts and pulls into an A-frame, converting up to a layback as he hooks his skate in a catchfoot on second thought. That garnishes some attention from their spectators, but the mutters don’t hitch up into hollering until Tim lays out a flat Biellmann into a gliding arabesque.

“Shit, darling, do that one again!”

“Those fucking thighs, Christ.”

“You make that shit look criminal, sweetheart.”

Tim huffs, not entirely off-put by the attention, and glances at Jason as he skirts up the inside, gaining momentum. He definitely looks intrigued by Tim’s flaunting.

“Alright,” Dick sings, a broad grin plastered over his features as he travels back and forth over the centerline. “Give me a triple flip.”

Tim taps down in the deep corner, skidding out across the diagonal as he lands, presenting.

“Very nice, good form,” Dick calls. “Keep your left hip tucked as you come in; you’ll tap off easier. Give me another triple flip.”

Tim lets his breath out slowly, cutting a flip across the center line and travelling backwards into the home corner as he arches back around again.

“Okay, counter turn, double flip double flip.”

Tim lays them out as Dick calls them, cutting hard into the corners and crossing over to keep up his momentum.

Jason pipes up from his post on the other diagonal of the rink. “Come on, Dickface, give him something he can use.”

“Double Salchow,” Dick calls, and Tim taps a quick hop to curb his momentum before scooping back up into a Salchow. He rides the inside line, steering clear of Jason where he leans against the barrier, head and shoulders jutting out over the ice.  

“You’re cutting him short, Dickface,” he calls over, and Dick keeps his gaze fixed on Tim as he lays out a few quick illusions. “He fucking hopped! Give him something he can work with.”

Dick reverses to match Tim’s pace, paralleling him up the outside line. “Double Salchow double Salchow.”

Tim nods, and pulls into it with liquid grace, landing neatly on the other side and presenting as an afterthought. It’s barely engaging his core doing these doubles, and he has to agree with Jason just marginally.

“Very good. Alright, let’s move up to something a bit more challenging. Double flip double Salchow.”

Tim has to resist the urge to roll his eyes as he lines up for the push off, his tap ringing out hard over the ice.

“Watch that extra half rotation,” Dick chastises. “Keep it tidy.”

“Fuck him, Tim,” Jason snarls, slamming a hand against the boards. The sound thunders through the rink, making Dick glare and Tim turn to face him as he travels. “You can do a triple combinations in your fucking sleep. Triple flip triple Salchow!”

“Give me a double flip half loop double Salchow,” Dick calls evenly, and Tim traces the line to bring him into the jump.

“Fuck that!” Jason bellows, and pounds on the boards with both gloves this time, before cupping his hands to his face. “Triple flip triple fucking Salchow!”

Tim makes a forward inside bracket turn and twists to keep his gaze on the mark as he launches upwards into a triple flip. He hits the ice, crouching low as he shifts his weight and throws back up into another Salchow.

He lands on the other side a tiny bit breathless, but entirely steadily, and straightens into a backwards travel, finding Dick’s gaze across the ice as a flare of victory lights him all the way up to the crown of his head. Dick doesn’t look angry, but there's a wire of concern threaded through his gaze as he watches Tim crossover, gaining speed as he returns. The concern radiating from Dick is misplaced. He's done triples a thousand times before; he needs to be pushing past triple triple combinations if he's going to make it to Worlds.

“Now add the half loop!” Jason brays, and Tim skirts the outside line on autopilot, cutting across the center to lay out a perfectly timed triple flip half loop triple Salchow and land with a flourish directly in front of where Dick’s drifting across the ice, dumbstruck.

Tim lets his momentum wash off as he counter turns on the inside line, travelling backwards as the adrenaline rings his pulse up in his ears. He catches sight of the disappointed, downwards turn of Dick’s lips, and can’t stifle the irritation that flares in his chest in response.

Jason starts hollering from the other side of the rink, thrumming the boards with abandon as he grins out at Tim, eyes alight. “That’s the fucking way, princess! Beautiful!”

“Okay,” Dick calls, and Tim can tell he's trying to keep his tone level. He crosses over in front of Tim, breaking his line-of-sight to Jason, and instructs, “Bring it around and give me that double flip, then half loop choctaw into a triple flip.”

Tim fights not to raise his brow. It’s not exactly a difficult series of maneuvers, but it’s definitely a step up in response to Jason’s taunting. He lines up anyway, pulling the combination off flawlessly, not even breaking a sweat.

Jason yells something that gets cut off in a barked reprimand from across the rink, and Tim turns in time to see Jason thundering across the ice in full gear, beelining for them. Dick intercepts him as Tim cuts back his speed, tracing the lobe back around.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dick demands, and Jason counters on a backstep to avoid him as he presses forward, corralling Jason back across the ice. “We’re working here, you can’t just come out here and-”

“Hey, princess,” Jason calls, jerking his chin at Tim. He skates closer to hear him better, keeping up a lazy crossover as he skirts the two embroiled men. “You wanna do some axels?”

Tim snorts as Dick snaps, “No!”

“Clear off, Dickface, I’m not gonna break your boy,” Jason drawls, and hops the foot he sticks out to block Jason’s glide in Tim’s direction. Jason gives him a sloppy, sarcastic arabesque bow, grinning as he straightens to circle Tim.

Tim counters to keep pace, falling into parallel as Dick watches them, concerned. “You can do an axel?” Tim asks with just a hint of dubiousness, and Jason looks vaguely offended.

“You betcha, princess.”

“Doubles?”

Jason arches a mocking brow and does a snappy crossover, dipping into that lithe speed Tim’s seen him use before as he runs deep into the corner. Tim trails around the inside, giving him space as Jason lays out a double axel double axel combination.

Tim laughs as he travels back around, a broad grin on his features. “Not bad,” he admits, “Not Worlds material, but not beginner either.”

“Show me yours, princess,” Jason purrs as he cuts in close. Close enough that Tim can feel the heat of his breath on his neck as he glides past. Tim counters to match his pace, and parallels Jason into a corner, sweeping out his free leg as he curls down into the lift.

Jason matches his pace, a perfect replica but for the slight jag he pulls to slow his momentum to match Tim’s. They both pull into arabesques, cutting across the diagonal backwards as Tim grins.

“Told you,” Jason preens. “You’ve got perfect form, Tim. Can you do triples?”

“Singular?” Tim returns, huffing his offence. Then he kicks out to break away from Jason, counter turning directly into a flawlessly executed triple axel and landing with a swooping cheer on the other side.

Jason cuts the lobe to rejoin him, glancing over at Dick with a grin. “Uh oh, you’ve gone and shown up your teacher. He’ll probably give you detention for that.” Tim chuckles, switching over to a forward glide that Jason matches without hesitation. “Wanna go for a full suspension, princess?”

“Triple triple?” Tim asks with a raised brow, feeling something hitch behind his navel and tug. It’s not fear exactly, just… excitement.

“Read my mind,” Jason purrs.

“You sure you’re up for that?” Tim asks, nodding down at Jason’s knee pads as they take the home end deep and skirt up for the diagonal run.

“Lay it out with me,” Jason says reverently, and coils. Tim barely has time to meet him, dipping low to spring upwards into the lift, tucking his arms tight. The first landing barely curbs his momentum, and he catches Jason’s verbal, “Up!” and they sweep back up into another triple axel.

Tim lands close enough that he scrapes the boards with his toe pick as he cuts sharply, knocking into Jason’s line to avoid running up short on the ice. There's a wobbling moment that he corrects as his skate touches down properly, but Tim shifts his weight and levels it before it can become something drastic.

Jason’s not so controlled. He drops on the last half rotation, his skate slamming low into the ice and his knee following it down as he crouches to offset his weight and catches on his pads. He spins out on his shin guards, the reinforced plastic grating across the ice as he twirls and rolls up against the corner boards, barking a laugh.

“Fuck, don’t mind me, princess,” he says, brimming with glee as he waves off Tim’s concern. “Keep going. Show me your quad.”

That drags something deep and visceral up in Tim, tightening his nerves like a compression spring as he glides back out over the ice, switching into a backward travel as he passes Dick.

Dick doesn’t look like he's heard their conversation, but he is frowning, and it devolves into a scowl when Tim cuts up across home end and gears up for a fast layout. “Tim!” he belts, his warning ringing out in those notes as Tim coils down and grinds into the lift.

Soaring is an insufficient word. The world spins around and away as he rotates, nothing but the harsh sound of his breathing and the soft whip of wind in his ears as he tucks his fists into his chest and flies.

He lands the quad toe loop with only the barest correction, sweeping around as he thrusts out his arms. Jason’s back on his feet by the time Tim straightens out and glides back over.

Dick doesn’t let him get that far.

“Tim!” he says, scowling as he cuts into his path and pulls him up short. Tim’s blades scrape across the ice, gouging. “Warm down, we’re done for today.”

Tim blinks at him. “I still need to do my rou-”

“We’re done,” Dick says flatly, cracking down like a whip, and Tim flinches, ice pooling in his gut.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and Dick’s expression softens.

“What’s going on here?” Jason asks, and Dick spins to glare at him as he skates up. “That was fucking flawless, Tim.”

“We’re leaving,” Dick declares, and bustles Tim towards the nearest gate. Jason frowns and follows as Tim steps off the ice, boxed by his taller mentor.

“Woah, hang on a second,” Jason insists, and Dick switches sharply, drawing him to a sharp halt as he bears down.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snaps, and Jason flounders briefly under the ferocity.

“I-”

“What are you playing at, Jason? You’re gonna get him hurt.”

Jason scowls, straightening to his full - taller than Dick - height. “You saw him land that quad; it was perfect-”

“And what about when it isn’t, huh?” Dick presses, grinding in the dirt as he backs Jason up further onto the ice, putting distance between them and Tim where he leans up on the barrier. “You don’t know when to stop, Jay, you never have. You’re going to push him to do something he can’t do and then-”

“He can do a fucking quad,” Jason shouts, overriding him as a he thrusts a hand out over the ice. “You fucking saw him land a quad. He's ready for it. He's got the technique down pat-”

“But not the power,” Dick yelps, eyes flashing a harsh, electric blue as he glares Jason down. “Or the strength. He's not you. He doesn’t have the stamina to pull off quads and combos like that.”

Jason bares teeth, looking like a cornered dog. “Then train it into him! Let him actually train, let him practice. Teach him how to get enough lift to pull off those rotations. Don’t just tell him he can’t do it!”

“Do you want him to break his leg? Is that what you want? If I push him into doing things he's not equipped for, he's going to injure himself and then he’ll be no use to anybody.”

“He's not going to hurt himself. He knows how to land right. He knows how to take a spill,” Jason insists, and Tim’s heart flares, galvanised as Jason glances over Dick’s shoulder at him. “He's ready for quads.”

“You’re not his teacher!” Dick says with broad exasperation. “You don’t know what’s best for him. You can’t teach him-”

“I absolutely could teach him,” Jason snaps, bearing forward enough that he's an inch off Dick’s chest. He's twice Dick's width and Dick’s not backing down. “I’d teach him to actually improve his techniques, not just-”

“No you wouldn’t,” Dick chirps, disbelief carving apart his usually inviting features. “You don’t know shit about technique, Jay. You never gave a shit about it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. I trained you, Jay, I remember. All you cared about was your lifts, how many rotations you could get in. You thought power was all you needed, and you thought technique played second fiddle to improving your strength. You were going to wipe yourself out. Bruce was absolutely right to bench you.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, Dickie,” Jason growls, shoving him back half a step. Tim puts a foot out onto the ice, worried, and Dick notices.

“No, we’re done,” he insists coldly, half turning to usher Tim back out the gate. Jason claps a glove over his shoulder and wrenches him around hard enough that he has to lay back a setting foot to ground his spin.

“Let him do whatever he wants to, Dick,” Jason grunts. “He deserves the right to choose what jumps he wants to put in his routines.”

“No, that’s what his coach is for. And I’m here to make sure he can actually land the jumps he's attempting, safely and consistently.”

“Because you’re so safe and consistent,” Jason sneers, and Dick flushes, shoving him back just as hard. It doesn’t have the same impact; Jason barely rocks back. Tim would be surprised if he even felt that through all the guards and pads.

Dick seems to realise this too, because his lip curls back and his hands clench into fists at his sides.

Jason beats him to the punch. “You’re the reason Bruce never let Tim or I perform quads. Not because of safety or consistency; because you fucked up that triple at Worlds and wiped yourself right out, so now we get to pay for it-”

Dick clocks him clean across the jaw. Jason reels back, more out of shock than actual pain, eyes blowing wide. Dick looks equally shocked that he's hit Jason. His fist is trembling in front of his chest, the knuckles flushed.

Jason looks like a bull entranced by a red flag. He starts towards Dick, a curse ripping up through his throat, and Tim can tell he's going to level him. He doesn’t get the chance to retaliate, because even as Tim starts forwards to intervene, he spots the flash of black and purple to their left and jolts back as the defenceman swoops in.

Wilson cuts between Dick and Jason at fair speed, skimming Dick’s toe pick as he hooks his elbow low into the crook of Jason’s neck and throws him down to the ice.

There's a sickening sound of two hundred and thirty pounds contacting with the ice, and the tension in the air snaps like a bungee cord.

Dick lurches back with breathless horror, and Tim grabs his upper arm as Wilson stands over the prone man. Jason looks dazed but not concussed, blinking up at his teammate as he gradually comprehends just how he's gotten down there.

“Calm the fuck down,” Wilson bays loudly, rattling Tim’s wavering panic. When Jason frowns and shifts, he kicks a skate between Jason’s shins, bearing down over the man like a vulture. “Stay down, Todd, or I’ll lay you out proper.”

“Dick,” Tim croaks, finding his voice, and grips the bicep beneath his hand, nails biting as he tugs Dick back towards the gate. “Come on, we’re going, right?”

Dick nods numbly, letting himself glide backwards to the gate, his gaze fixed on Wilson. Jason’s eyes flash to him, rising briefly to Tim before his expression pinches in fleeting remorse.

“Kid,” Wilson says sternly to Jason as they exit the ice. “You’re gonna want to keep those beady fucking eyes right on me, or I will knock your teeth clean out of your skull, hear me?”

Tim’s stomach swoops at the threat, and he studiously focuses on packing his bag, keeping his eyes down as he haphazardly stuffs his effects into the canvas. He doesn’t even think to cap his skates as he pushes Dick down the walkway, ignoring the stares of the other now-silent players as they weave self-consciously through the crowd.

Tim’s lungs are jammed up in his throat, and he doesn’t manage to draw in air until they’re well away from the cloying tension of the hockey rink.

Chapter Text

Tim drives them to an all-night Cantonese-Chinese joint because it's barely pushing eight a.m and he doesn't feel like pancakes. He knows Dick won't complain anyway, because he's loathe to ruin someone else's attempt to reconcile a bad situation. And maybe Tim picks this place because he knows this is Dick's favourite restaurant, because they serve him sour cream with his wontons especially and he says it reminds him of pelmeni.

So they crowd into one of the window booths and stare down at their plates while the sun breaks over the smog of Gotham.

Dick's the first to break the silence. "I'm sorry," he says softly, and Tim's gut clenches at the sound. "I'm sorry that you had to see that. I shouldn't have hit him. It wasn't right and he didn't deserve it. But he just gets up under my skin and I just-"

Tim tries to find the words to fill Dick's gap, but they lodge in his throat and stick. Dick draws in a steadying breath and runs both hands back through his hair.

"That's not the point," he declares gently, and fixes Tim with that deeply apologetic gaze that he can't help but squirm under. "Tim, I'm sorry to have pulled you off the ice. I shouldn't have done it. It wasn't my place to tell you-"

"You're my mentor," Tim says.

"You still deserve to get a say in what jumps you're pulling," Dick replies firmly. "I should have trusted your decisiveness. I should have trusted you to pull those jumps off. And it's not that I don't think you can," he adds in a consolatory rush. "I'm just- I don't want to see you do something beyond your limits, or attempt a jump when you're fatigued, and I- I'm scared for you. I know I shouldn't be, I know you've got this. But I'm still-"

Dick's hands are trembling. He swallows hard, and Tim lurches forwards to squeeze his fingers.

"I get it," he says softly, and Dick looks so remorseful. "I know you're looking out for me. And I trust you to make the call if you think I'm ready. Or if you think I'm not. You're the expert here, and I trust you. You don't have to apologise for having my best interests at heart."

Dick smiles weakly, and looks down at his spread of entrees. His tone is strained and tight when he murmurs, "I just don't want what happened to me to happen to you."

Tim's chest seizes in a sharp little jag, and he swallows back the lump in his throat. "It's not going to happen," he assures him steadily. "We're too careful to let it happen. And honestly?"

He catches Dick's eye, coaxing him back out of the shame spiral he's dived into. Tim quirks a quick smile at him, which he reflexively returns.

"I'm looking forward to the day I get to experience what you did. That quad Lutz triple axel? I remember the first time I watched you land that jump. You looked amazing. I can only imagine what it felt like up there."

Dick offers him a wry smile. "You and me both."

Tim scowls despite himself. "Just because you concussed yourself doesn't mean you didn't feel it."

"Is there much difference when you can't remember?" Dick asks, and Tim's chest tightens another notch.

"Yeah, there is," Tim says firmly. "It was the highlight of your career, Dick. You did it. You felt it. You just have to jog your memory and-"

Dick slumps back in his booth seat. "I've rewatched all the videos, Tim," he says with a sad, consolatory smile. "Every angle, every frame. I was concussed. I don't remember it. It's gone."

He shuffles then, uncomfortable with the tension as only Dick can be, and picks at Tim's half eaten dish.

"Don't worry about it, babybird," he chirps and grins. Tim unfurls from his hunch over the table, but isn't convinced. "It was a long time ago. And we've gotta discuss your career now. What your big highlight's gonna be."

Tim tries to smile, he does. But even he can tell it's watery and weak, and Dick deflates at the sight of it.

"Don't feel guilty, please," Dick says, and shifts in discomfort. "It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm happy. I'm doing fine. I can still skate, and that's more than I thought I could ask for. So don't feel guilty on my behalf. I'm living my best life."

He shifts again, plastering that grin on his face as he sifts through a brimming bowl of chow mein. That forlorn look touches his eyes again, just for the barest second, but Tim sees it.

Tim's never going to be able to live with that look. Because he's watched Dick's slow plateau into recovery. He remembers Dick begging his way through physiotherapy until he was begrudgingly permitted to attempt singles again. Remembers the brief elation he'd felt at the idea that he'd get to fly again, even just that little bit. Remembers the crushed dejection on his face when he'd laid out his first toe loop since the accident and touched down barely a half-second later, barely risen a few inches off the ice, barely scraped the warmth of a sun he had bathed in before. Remembers the way Dick looks at everyone else on the ice and yearns.

"You don't deserve this," Tim blurts before he realises what he's said.

Dick's smile wavers the barest millimetre. "Tim, it's fine, I swear. I'm okay, honestly."

"It's not fair," Tim asserts, a hint of desperation in his tone, and Dick's brow pinches in concern. Tim doesn't care. He feels like he has to get this across to him, make sure he knows that he didn't deserve the hand he's been dealt. "What happened to you it's- You didn't do anything to deserve that."

"Tim," Dick says, and chuckles uneasily. Always trying to console, and never willing to be consoled. "It's okay, I know-"

Tim shakes his head ardently. "It's not okay. It's not right. You were so good, and I've seen how you look now when you lay out a single. And now you have to watch me pulling triple combinations every day."

Dick looks desperate to curb this discussion immediately. His eyes flick to the front doors, mapping an auxiliary escape route in case Tim doesn't let this drop. "I know, but it's okay. Honestly, Tim, I don't need-"

"I know what figures meant to you, and I don’t want-"

"I’ve been doing doubles," Dick blurts.

"Dick!" Tim bleats in horror, and Dick buries his head in his hands.

“Look, I know, I know-”

“You could get seriously hurt,” Tim protests as Dick scrubs his hands back up through his hair. “You can only take so much downwards force on that ankle.”

“I know,” Dick moans, and meets his gaze guiltily. “I just… I was watching you lay out those triple axels, and it’s been years since I did anything more than a single. I couldn’t not try, at least once.”

“Has it only been once?” Tim presses, and Dick’s sheepish smile gives him all the answer he needs. “Dick, fuck! You can’t be serious!”

“I’m being careful,” Dick assures him in earnest. “I’m not doing any combinations. I just want to get a hang time above two milliseconds, that’s all.”

Tim lets his words peter off and the silence linger before he asks softly, “It’s like flying, isn’t it?”

Dick heaves a tight breath. “Yeah, it is. I miss it. Every damn day.”

Tim nods and pushes his char siu around the plate. “Have you thought about doing couples again?”

Dick snorts. “I can’t lift anyone anymore, Tim. I can’t even lift myself without dislocating my ankle.”

“No, I mean,” Tim corrects, straightening in his seat. “I could do couples with you. Not competitively, just in practice. Just casually. It’ll give you some lift and…”

Dick’s looking at him with a dubious, crooked brow, and Tim scowls, flushing.

“I’m stronger than you think,” he protests petulantly, and Dick scoffs.

“Listen, grackle, I’ve got at least twenty pounds on you, and that’s before you start factoring in the lift and the assisted exit.”

“I capped over one-fifty pounds last comp!”

Dick shrugs, but he's smiling. “I appreciate the thought, Tim, but if I wanted to get a lift, I could have asked Bruce. He could throw me fifty feet on a still day.”

“Bruce wouldn’t let you,” Tim mutters, and Dick’s smile settles into a melancholic line.

“You’re right, but that’s besides the point. Even if you could manage to lift me, you’re not going to have the strength to hold me on the exit, and if I wipe out again - which I absolutely will - I don’t want to be responsible for taking you down with me. Bruce is right: it’s too dangerous to get me back out on the ice.”

“But you’ll do doubles at midnight,” Tim throws back, just a sliver indolently.

Dick smirks. “Yeah, well, don’t spoil my fun. Bruce doesn’t need to hear about that. And I promise I’m taking it slow. Nothing fancy. I know my limits. You can come spot me if you’re really concerned.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Tim says, fixing Dick with a pointed look as he skewers one of Dick’s sadder-looking wontons. Dick grins at him, all teeth and bright eyes, and Tim smiles surreptitiously around his mouthful of char siu.

Chapter Text

Jason’s been avoiding Tim’s late night sessions.

It’s not out of embarrassment or retribution or anything so self-centered and petty. Jason’s just always had a pretty good radar for knowing when he’s fucked up. It never works immediately before he fucks up, but it’s always pinging by the time he’s finished.

He shouldn’t have tried to hit Dick. He shouldn’t have even started arguing with him in the first place. Jason doesn’t know why the fuck he thought he had any place butting into Tim’s routines. Dick’s his mentor, has been Tim’s mentor for the past six years while Jason’s been off keeping busy with giving Bruce the middle finger. Jason doesn’t get a single fucking say in what Tim’s doing with himself.

And he shouldn’t have goaded Tim either. Tim needs Jason’s insight like he needs a broken leg. Which he’s going to get if Jason keeps inciting him to try out harder and harder quads. Jumps are dangerous when they’re pulled off with the correct amount of power and technical precision. They’re downright lethal when you don’t respect them. Dick Grayson is walking proof, and he had more respect for the art than anyone Jason knows.

Jason’s been thinking about Dick’s spill incessantly over the past week. It’s been hovering in the back of his mind while he trains, and painting the backs of his eyelids whenever he lays down to sleep. Only it’s Tim that’s wiping out, cracking down on that ice with enough of a sharp snap to have Jason jolting awake with bile in his throat.

So yeah, Jason’s been avoiding Tim. That might make him a coward, but he figures Tim will probably appreciate the lack of a heckling spectator when he’s training. Jason can live with being a self-sacrificing coward.

Turns out he’s a self-serving coward too, though, because it’s maybe four nights into the stalemate before Jason doesn’t leave early enough. Doesn’t warm down and wrap up fast enough to miss the familiar thrum of Daft Punk filtering through to the locker room. Doesn’t do the smart fucking thing and take the back door out, instead of wandering into the rink with just his sweats and shirt on to find Tim spiralling across the ice.

He’s doing Dick’s last Worlds routine again, that heated focus back in his eyes, and fuck, but Jason’s a fucking coward.

He doesn’t screw around with Tim’s laptop. Doesn’t queue up any songs just to get a rise out of him. Doesn’t make some inane suggestion about Tim’s inability to pull off that quad Lutz triple axel like he thinks Tim doesn’t already know that.

Jason trudges down to the end of the rink where Tim usually ditches his bag and drops down onto the bench in the first row. Resolves to sit and watch and not open his stupid mouth for the whole damn session. He owes Tim that much.

Tim spots him after the third run-through, when he breaks to drink some water and give his trembling muscles a chance to recuperate. He sees Jason from across the rink, and Jason’s too far away to see his expression, but he thinks Tim might look resigned.

“Hey,” Tim says when he steps through the gate.

“Hey,” Jason replies quietly, and watches him dig around his duffel for his water bottle, pulling back the seal with his teeth. Tim straightens to look Jason over as he drinks, his expression guarded. It makes guilt wash through Jason’s insides like sewerage, and he clenches his hands into tighter fists in his pockets. He lifts his gaze to meet Tim’s and falls just short, settling for his jaw as he tries to summon something that resembles an apology. That’s when he notices the camera.

It’s one of those tiny GoPro devices, retrofitted to attach to a band of sturdy fabric that’s wrapped tight around the tendons of Tim’s neck. It flexes as he drinks, the lens catching the light, and Jason wonders absently if it’s recording.

“Is that a camera?” he asks, apology sidelined for his burst of curiosity.

Tim frowns and starts a little, a hand dropping to brush against the device and turn it off. “Oh, yeah,” he says absently as the red light blinks out, and turns to set his bottle down on the bleachers.

“You always record your sessions?” Jason enquires, trying to remember if he’d been wearing the camera last time Jason had seen him alone at the rink.

Tim shakes his head. The device follows his movement, rigid and stable. “I’m mostly just calibrating it,” he says.

“Why do you record your routines with that?” Jason presses with a slight frown. He gets the benefit of being able to watch your layouts back, to pick over the imperfections and smooth out the kinks. But you’d get better perspective from a camera mounted in the bleachers, where you could see your whole form. “For playback?”

Tim looks a little cagey. “Sort of.”

Jason doesn’t understand where that defensiveness is coming from. It’s not a new concept in figure skating, watching yourself back to analyse a routine. Jason watches back every one of the Jokers’ matches, often immediately after the bell sounds, so he can get an idea of where the holes in their defence are and how the other team is planning their lines. Any decent professional would record themselves. It’s not like it's indulgent; it’s a strategy. “Sort of?”

“It’s for Dick,” Tim says, the words stilted, like he’s hesitant to get them off his tongue. “It’s his Worlds routine. I’m trying to learn it. So he can watch it.”

That makes absolutely no sense to Jason. He’s pretty sure the last thing Dick would want to be watching is Tim presenting his last routine to him in perfect, intimate glory on a silver platter. A personalised note to say, Fuck yourself, while he’s at it.

Jason can feel his frown pulling his brows down dangerously low. “Why would Dick want to watch that?”

Tim shifts his weight uncomfortably, doing his best to pretend the bleachers are suddenly the most enthralling thing he’s ever laid eyes on. “He doesn’t, um, remember. His routine. He had a concussion, so his memory is- He doesn’t remember doing the routine.”

Worlds is practically the biggest international skating competition this side of the universe. Unless he’s had a significant psychotic break lately, Jason’s pretty fucking sure they televise it worldwide. Which means there’s got to be no less than twenty angles from which Dick can watch himself deck himself out on the ice.

“It’s televised,” is what Jason says, the words suspended on the precipice of doubt.

“I know,” Tim says, and Jason’s gaze falls to where Tim’s hands are fidgeting, now that there’s nothing in them to distract. “He’s watched them all. But he doesn’t remember doing the quad Lutz. He knows he did it, he can watch himself doing it. But the memory’s not there. He doesn’t remember how it feels.”

Jason’s listing into the realms of flat out confusion. “So you’re relearning his routine?”

Tim frets with the camera now, looking sheepish. “I- I thought that maybe if I could relearn it and record it - from my, from Dick’s point of view - that maybe it would jog his memory.”

Jason blinks at him. Because that is either the most convoluted lie he’s ever fucking heard, or Tim is genuinely, actually, really trying to perfect Dick’s highlight career move for a playback. Not even for the credit. Just for the chance that Dick might remember what it felt like to spin through that combination.

He says the first thing that comes into his head. “Why is the camera on a collar then?”

Tim’s features descend into a glower. “Fuck you,” he says broadly, and Jason pushes to his feet when Tim spins towards the ice.

“Wait, sorry, not what I meant,” Jason rambles, and catches his elbow. Tim looks down at his hand and back up, and Jason retracts the limb. “That didn’t come out right. I meant, wouldn’t you get a better perspective with it on a headband?”

Tim looks a bit surprised, but he sheds it with a shrug. “Tried wearing it on my head, but I kept knocking it off when I did the spins.”

Jason pictures all the tiny shattered GoPros Tim’s probably flung across the ice, and snorts.

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Tim repeats, but he’s smiling a little too. He taps the stationary GoPro with one finger. “This design works fine. I’m just testing the calibration so I can make sure the frame is stable.”

Jason brushes a finger against the GoPro to test its stability out, and stills when he realises he’s brushed the skin of Tim’s neck. Tim’s rigid, a faint blush settling over his cheeks as Jason realises just how close they actually are. He jerks his hand back. “You got any footage yet?”

Tim shakes his head, looking down at his feet. “I’m, uh, trying it out now. Thought I might as well work through the routine while I was at it, you know? Maybe I’ll accidentally master that quad Lutz,” he adds with a bleak laugh. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re not going to be able to do that combination, princess,” Jason says solemnly, and the mirth drains from Tim’s face.

It settles into cool guardedness, and Jason immediately regrets opening his stupid mouth. “That was a pretty quick one-eighty on what you said that other day.”

Jason flinches. “I don’t mean you can’t do any quads, or any combination. You can, and you should be pushing Bruce to let you use them in competitions. I just mean pulling that combination is like trying to pull a quadruple axel - you’re setting yourself up for failure.”

“Dick did it,” Tim says bluntly, and Jason rolls his eyes before he can curb it.

“Dick’s Dick. Look, princess, I tried pulling that combination, okay? Tried and tried and tried again, and you know what it got me? Two sprained ankles and a skinned wrist. And axels were my specialty.” Tim looks like he’s gearing up to start a full-blown argument, and that’s not what Jason was trying for here. So he tries to pull everything back on track. “All I mean is, power jumps were sort of my calling card, and I spilled every time I tried. And I don’t think your power’s anywhere close to mine, princess. Your technical ability is off the charts, no doubt, but if you can pull even two consecutive quads I’d eat a fucking biscuit. That combination is just unrealistic. You should stick to individual quads and triple combinations. You’ll get a lot better results with them.”

Tim stares him down, paused halfway between the gate and the bleachers, long enough that Jason’s considering just turning tail and leaving him the fuck alone. “Knew you were a figure skater,” he says, finally, and Jason starts.

“I- yeah, I was. I would have thought you’d Google that or something, princess,” Jason says with a frown.

“Didn’t cross my mind to Google-stalk someone,” Tim answers drily. “But good to know how you’re spending your time.” Jason winces, opening his mouth to rebut that, but Tim cuts in, changing tracks before Jason can defend himself. “Bruce used to coach you.”

Jason frowns. “Did he say something about me?”

“No, I just figured, with how you and Dick were arguing. When did he pull you?”

“He scouted me at thirteen,” Jason answers. Tim looks a little surprised.

“And you were pulling triple axels then?” He sounds just the smallest bit impressed.

“Bruce would have me doing axels until my face turned blue,” Jason reminisces. “But no, I was on track to be pulling triple axels by the end of summer, so Bruce took me in. I was laying out triple-triple combinations for the lead-up to my Worlds routine the year after Dick wiped out.”

“You would have been - what?” Jason watches him run the figures back through his head. “Fifteen?”

Jason bares his pearly whites in a shit-eating grin. “Sweetheart of the nation, princess.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Look, the point is, you might not have the power I had back then, but you more than make up for it in technical prowess. So use that. Go for the low range quads and triple-triple combinations. I guarantee you’ll be able to pull them off with only the barest prep. You just have to apply yourself. Don’t stick only to what you know. Push your boundaries a little. The effort’s more important than the execution.”

“That’s not how comps work,” Tim points out. “And pushing yourself beyond your capabilities is how you wipe out.”

“You’ve been talking to Dick.”

Tim analyses him, gaze discerning. “How do you know Dick, exactly?”

“I’m the reason Dick Grayson has grey hairs. Before he mentored you, he was mentoring me. You must be a fucking relief for him after all the shit he put up with for me.”

“Dick was your mentor too? So Bruce did coach you.”

A sour expression crosses Jason’s face. “Up until I quit.”

Tim tilts his head. “Bruce told me he benched his last student.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he benched me - so I quit. Did he tell you why?”

“Like you said, you pulled a triple-triple combination in your last routine,” Tim answers.

“No,” Jason presses. “I pulled a triple axel triple Lutz as my sixth element at Worlds. Fucking landed it too.”

“You shouldn’t have been pulling that combination so late in your routine.”

“I should’ve been pulling quads,” Jason corrects bluntly. “But Bruce didn’t want another protégé to go down the drain like Boy Wonder, so he curbed me. I wasn’t having it.”

“Is that why you switched out to hockey? To stick it to Bruce?”

Jason would very much like to deny that. “I played hockey in school. Juniors was an option. I took it.”

Tim casts his gaze around the rink. “So you’ve been playing here ever since?”

“No, I was out West for a few years. Needed the headspace. I got drafted, did a little time in the AHL and got called up to the Assassins.”

“How’d you end up here then?”

Jason shifts uncomfortably. “Talia traded me out to the Jokers after two seasons. I’ve been with the Jokers for almost as long now.”

“Talia?”

“She’s the Assassins’ general manager. Her father owns the Jokers, and he sort of strongarmed her into it, so she wasn’t happy about me getting in bed with them.”

“You make it to finals, or championships, or whatever you call it?”

Jason’s lips quirk in a smile. “Stanley Cup, and yeah, I’ve been there once, with the Assassins.”

“Huh,” Tim says absently. He doesn’t sound surprised, but Jason can’t tell if that tone is disappointed or impressed.

“Where’d you place at Four Continents?” Jason asks, because fair’s fair and he’s genuinely curious.

“Fifth,” Tim answers, and Jason scoffs. Tim scowls, meeting his gaze.

“What was your difficulty score?”

“My average is 39.00,” Tim replies a little defensively. Jason laughs, and that scowl deepens. “I ace my executions. Why, what’s your average?”

“I don’t do any routine below a forty-point starting value, princess.”

“What about your GOE?”

Jason shrugs. “Mediocre. Doesn’t matter if you’ve got triple-triple combos in your line up.”

“Maybe I need a teacher then,” Tim says coolly, and it takes Jason a too-long minute to realise he’s not talking about Bruce or Dick.

“Me?” he says incredulously, the shock lighting him up. Tim nods with a shallow smile. “Our styles are nowhere near compatible, princess. I wouldn’t know where to begin with you. You’d gain more from watching me lay out axels than you would me teaching them to you.”

“Okay,” Tim says accommodatingly, and Jason blinks, dumbstruck.

“Okay, what?”

“I’ll watch you lay out axels for me,” Tim says smoothly, and Jason feels a flush warm his cheeks at that tone.

“I don’t do figures anymore,” Jason protests, and isn’t surprised when Tim looks incredulous.

“You have a whole rink to yourself, and you can’t find the time to do some axels?”

Jason opens his mouth to rebut that, and then closes it. Fixes Tim with a piercing stare. “I’ll make an exception for you, princess,” he promises lowly, and Tim blushes like he hadn’t expected a response that quickly.

“Excellent,” Tim says, recovering quickly. “Tuesday night then?”

Jason smirks. “Sure, princess. Tuesday sounds divine.”

Chapter Text

Jason’s wearing nothing but sweatpants and a band shirt on top of his hockey skates, his arms bared to the cold. The sweats ride low on his hips, and when he rolls his shoulders, Tim can see the strip of his abdomen between. It’s unbelievably distracting.

Jason taps his skates on the ice, turning in a slow circle as he shakes his limbs out. “I don’t have a toe pick,” he says. “So I don’t know how much use I’ll be to you on anything other than edge jumps.”

“Aren’t you cold?” Tim asks, dragging his gaze up and down Jason’s loosely clad figure. Does not linger below Jason’s navel more than is clinical.

Jason scoffs. “You’ve never been hazed, have you?” Tim shakes his head slowly, frowning suspiciously. “First week after trades is hazing week,” Jason elaborates, warming and stretching the muscles in his neck and down his back. Tim gets a peek at his broad shoulder blades when his t-shirt dips down around the neckline. “I thought my balls were going to fall off that first night.”

Tim knows about NHL hazing from his time in similar skating circles. A popular tactic is to have all the newbies sleep in the rink overnight in the barest clothes, sometimes naked. Sometimes they sleep on mats on the actual ice. Traditions vary from team to team, and the specifics are very country club. Tim’s nodded off on the bench in training before, so he knows how stiff your muscles can get when you’ve been stagnant in fifty degrees for more than twenty minutes. He can’t help but wince.

Jason is grinning fondly, eyes distant. He comes back with a shrug, dropping down into a crouch to stretch out his hamstrings and calves, pulling a shoot-the-duck as he travels slowly around Tim. “You get used to the cold. Not all of us are as delicate as you ice princesses.”

“You do realise,” Tim says with a hint of amusement, “that you were one of those ‘ice princesses’ once, right? I’ve seen your comp routines.”

Jason doesn’t flinch, standing up with lithe grace that Tim knows he puts effort into masking during matches, only bringing it out when he's under pressure or thinks he's alone. “If you’ve seen my comps, then you’ll know that I’m no princess, princess.”

Tim hums, not in total disagreement over that. Jason’s routines were, if Tim had to pick a singular word, ruthless. There's a hard-cut determination that underscores all of Jason’s recorded layouts and jumps, an intensity that Tim’s seen mirrored into his hockey techniques. It’s been focused into a more tempered, more robust ferocity over his six-year career in the league, but there's still that sharp edge of fearlessness underpinning it that screams figures to Tim.

Of the comp routines that had been taped, Tim’s been able to discern a definite theme emerging from Jason’s formative years as a power figure skater. His base value scores rearrange themselves into a sharp incline the further into Jason’s comps he’d delved; Jason had made a name for himself for throwing into high value jumps with vicious abandon that had left his same-aged peers in the dust.

His execution had left something to be desired, but even with Jason’s distinctive brand of thundering across the ice, Tim had been able to see the brushstrokes of Dick painted over his athletic form. The tucked knee here, and the half-second line correction before the lunge into a jump. Whether Jason’s aware of it or not, Dick Grayson has signed across Jason’s trademark, and he wears it every time he lays out a flawless triple.

“Besides,” Jason purrs, drawing Tim back to the present. He's finished stretching, and is shuffling his weight between his skates, cutting into the ice to map out his edges absently. He sweeps Tim’s figure with a wicked grin. “Not all of us can look that fucking delicate in yoga pants.”

Tim glances down at his gym gear, at the slim-lined black compression tights and three-quarter red sleeves. They hug the trim curves of his ribs and hips and calves. They’re aerodynamic. And more than a little flattering. He returns to meet Jason’s gaze.

“It’s efficient,” Tim says curtly.

“It’s criminal, sweetheart,” Jason says with a crooked smile, but doesn’t sound like he disapproves, and that low tone warms Tim’s blood.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Tim mutters, and pushes back to start a line of crossovers, refusing to find out Jason’s response to that comment. He crooks his chin over his shoulder and calls, “You going to show me your doubles?”

Jason’s voice is right behind his other ear when he replies, “Only if you show me yours, princess,” and startles Tim enough that he jumps nearly a foot off the ice. Jason chuckles and pulls around him, so Tim slows to a lazy travel. Lets Jason pick up speed around the away end so he can cut into a few sharp loops down the diagonal.

His layouts look so natural, so thoughtless and instinctual. Jason moves across the ice with single-minded focus, low and predatory as he curls into another easy Salchow. Tim can’t help but think how in-tune with his own body Jason is, how he’s always intimately aware of where his weight is shifting and where his limbs are and exactly where he’ll be and why and when.

Tim’s spent so many hours narrowing down his form, realigning and rearranging the lines of his body under Dick’s careful tuition. Elbows in, knees tucked, chin flat, eyes ahead. He’s spent the better part of four years relearning the curves of his own body, the ways that he can slot himself into a perfect spin or jump with immaculate balance and poise. Like slotting a key into a lock.

And he’s had to redo it, time and time again. Every time a growth spurt had shoved his center of gravity out of wrack. Every time he’d wanted to convert a double to a triple. Relearning. Realigning. Rearranging.

Tim’s spent most of his teenage years remaking himself. He’s levelled out in the past year, finally coming into a stabler body, but he’s got the old bruises and sprained joints to prove he’s put in the effort. Tim’s worked hard to get to the level he’s at, so he can appreciate the preparation that goes into that miniscule two-minute-forty-second routine. Knows it comes with months of training and concentration and failure and blood and frustration.

But when he sees someone like Jason gliding over the ice, it makes Tim remember why he got into figure skating in the first place. Takes him back to hours pressed against a computer screen picking meticulously through streams of high-powered, heart-wrenching routines. To months of determined attempts before he landed his first perfect Salchow. To that first time he had stepped out on the crisp ice and felt the cold cloak his shoulders like wings.

Jason cuts back around the lobe, calling across to him. “You coming, princess?”

So Tim smiles to himself and pushes out onto the ice to parallel him, matching Jason’s speed and following his lead as they work their way up from doubles to triples. It exhilarating and easy and Tim’s blindingly conscious of the heat radiating off Jason’s body whenever they curl close together into a corner.

Eventually, Jason waves them over to the boards. Tim slows to pull up beside Jason as he lays a hand over the barrier for balance and stoops to inspect his skate. Tim’s gaze wanders over the curve of his spine and the dip of his lower back, and the cords of muscle in his huge thighs. Jason’s a fucking powerhouse no matter which way you look at him. There’s something quietly astounding about the way that someone could carry that much weight and muscle and still look so damn graceful flying over the ice. Tim knows that Dick put a lot of effort and encouragement into rearranging that gangly, obtuse body into the sleek elegance Jason carries around now.

For the first time, Tim considers that Dick may have had it in the bag by the time Tim came along. Because he doesn’t doubt that Dick spent sleepless nights commiserating over Jason’s pigheaded stubbornness and uncooperative limbs. And Dick’s not small like Tim’s small, but Jason is a whole other weight category. Jason must have put him through the wringer trying to get to the impeccable poise he uses now when he lays out a triple axel. And Dick probably swallowed all that frustration and self-directed anger that was a teenage Jason Todd down with a beaming smile and told him to run it through again until it was perfect. Because that’s exactly what he’d done with Tim, all patience and encouragement and quiet pride.

Because Dick Grayson is the kind of person who’d stay up into the early hours of the morning teaching someone to jump just so they could scratch the sun. Just so he could see their faces light up with that wonder when they saw what he could see.

The resolve settles like a fog over Tim, fortifying him the longer he stands there. Until he can’t stand to let the opportunity pass, not without at least trying it.

“I wanted to ask you a favour,” Tim hedges, and Jason hums, picking at his laces to tighten them. “You don’t have to say yes,” he adds hastily, nervousness get the better of him.

Jason straightens with a curious frown, pulling himself in close to the boards with the hand he’s got on the barrier. “Shoot,” he says.

“I want you to do some lifts,” Tim says, and watches Jason’s expression light up in equal parts surprise and enthusiasm. “With Dick.”

The scowl descends immediately, darkening Jason’s brow. “Tim, I don’t think-”

“They would only be basics,” he rushes, desperate. “Nothing too dangerous. I’d offered to do it, but I can’t guarantee I can hold him in the assisted exit. But you definitely could! You’d have no trouble lifting him-”

“Princess, woah,” Jason cuts in, laying his hands across Tim’s shoulders. Tim’s brain goes all staticky, the words lost immediately. “I don’t doubt I can probably do it for you. But that’s not the issue here. Dick isn’t going to want me anywhere near him or his injury. Not in a hundred blue moons.”

“You don’t know that,” Tim says immediately, and Jason withdraws his hands, rolling his eyes. “You don’t. Look, I’ll talk to him, make him see that you’re his best chance at flying again.”

“We’re not on speaking terms, princess,” Jason says bitterly, sticking his hands in the pockets of his sweats. “Especially not after I went behind his back and made you do those quads. He doesn’t trust me, and honestly, that’s fair enough. I nearly laid him out that day on the ice. I can one hundred percent believe that he doesn’t want me anywhere near his ankle after that.”

Tim cocks a hip and crosses his arms over his chest, letting the thoughtfulness show in his features. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, and catches the surprise that flits across Jason’s face before he can curb it. “Everything you said is absolutely true, and also you’re too weak to do it.”

Frustration washes up over Jason like a wave, curling up from his toes and crashing over his crown. He adopts a tone not unlike Wilson’s, low and gravelly. “Son, I will throw you over this barrier, so help me God.”

Tim smirks, and kicks back into a glide, out of his reach. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, tall-dark-and-handsome. You couldn’t throw me over your shoulder if I jumped.”

“I absolutely could,” Jason counters, but doesn’t follow him. He knows a deflect when he sees one. “But that’s not the point. Has Bruce had his say on this?”

“Bruce doesn’t own Dick, you know.”

“Bruce absolutely owns Dick,” Jason retorts with a cool stare. “Contract and all. He’s your mentor isn’t he?”

“He doesn’t get to dictate what Dick and I do in our spare time.”

“And you don’t think he’s going to drop gloves with me the instant he hears about it?”

“You could take him.”

Jason barks a laugh. “Bruce is a fucking truck. He would level me, easy. I doubt even Wilson could take one of his checks.”

“Then you’re telling me no.”

“Yeah, princess, I’m telling you no. Not unless Dickie puts his foot down and curbs Bruce. I’m not waking up to find I’ve been strangled in my sleep because I broke his golden boy. I’m too young and pretty to die.”

“What if I get Bruce to green light it?”

“You’re not listening, princess,” Jason says with a shake of his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t done figures in six years. And even when I was skating, I was in singles. I’ve barely done a dozen lifts in my lifetime. I’m nowhere near skilled enough to lift even you, let alone Dickie. The control you need to set someone down at a soft standstill without dumping them is immense. I just don’t have the technical training. And if I drop him, and I will, that’s it - his ankle’s gone.”

“So what about me?” Tim suggests curtly, and Jason blinks.

“What about you?”

“You can practice on me. There’s only thirty pounds between us, so I’ll be good ballast practice for Dick.”

“No. If I drop you I’m even more boned. Bruce will castrate me.”

“Why are you so worried about Bruce?”

Jason scowls. “Because I know what he’s like. I’ve known him longer than you have, and trained with him too. He will snap my spine like a glowstick if he hears I’ve been trying lifts with you unsupervised and untrained.”

“I didn’t know you always did what Bruce tells you to.”

Jason’s eyes darken further in his irritation. “Don’t try and goad me, Tim. That’s a whole other shitfight. And it’s not going to give you the answer you want to hear.”

“Okay,” Tim says plaintively, and watches Jason glower as he bends to check the other skate. “And what about what I want?”

Jason huffs in dark amusement but doesn’t look up. “You’re welcome to want whatever you want, princess. You gotta ask nicely though, if you want to get something out of me.”

“Nicely, huh?”

“I’m a regular catch,” Jason assures him around a lopsided grin. “You’re gonna have to convince me if you want something from me.”

Tim can work with that. He can be very persuasive when he needs to be. It’s one of his strongest suits. He managed to convince Bruce Wayne to take him on as his student. He managed to convince Dick that he was ready to be pulling triple combinations for Regionals. Tim gets the impression that Jason needs a bit more of an assertive approach than Bruce or Dick, though.

So he takes two steps forward and consumes the distance between them. Jason straightens immediately, stunned as he glances down to where Tim’s barely a full inch off his chest, and takes a hesitant step back, running up against the barrier.

Tim crowds him against the boards, amused that someone of his stature could have someone like Jason ducking. “Lift me,” he says plainly.

“What?”

Tim plants his hands on his hips, straightening. “Lift me.”

“Tim, we’ve been over this-”

“Not for Dick, for me. I want to see if you can lift me.”

Jason looks suspicious. “Why?”

Tim sighs, dropping his arms from his hips and laying his palms over the barrier on either side of Jason’s waist. The man presses back, lifting his arms slightly as he glances down at the way Tim’s boxing him in.

“Because I want to know what it feels like to do a lift with you.”

“You ever done couples before?”

Tim shrugs and doesn’t pull back. This close, he can feel the wash of Jason’s exhale over his skin. “A few competitions. I partnered with Steph.”

“Were you any good?”

Tim snorts. “No. I was too technical and she was too freeskate. We performed fine, we did well together. We just didn’t match up. It wasn’t going anywhere. Plus,” Tim adds thoughtfully, “she could basically bench press me, so there was that.”

Jason looks curious. “Did you two ever bend it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim says easily, smirking. “She even put me in a death spiral once.” Jason whistles low, and Tim preens at the sound. “Couldn’t compete with it though; would’ve lost too many points with the judges.”

“I could see that.”

“So,” Tim says as unsubtly as he can, and holds Jason’s gaze. He looks unconvinced, and Tim’s just mounting a strong mental defense when he sighs.

“Alright, fine, puppy dog eyes. You get one lift.”

Tim grins, stepping back out of Jason’s space. The larger man rolls his shoulders subconsciously, but pushes onto the ice to give them some distance from the wall.

“Just give me a few practice runs first, yeah?”

“Sure,” Tim purrs, and Jason huffs, rolling his eyes as he beckons impatiently.

“Come here, how much do you weigh?”

Tim slides up, laying his feet into third position as he tenses his legs. Jason looks supremely embarrassed as he lays his coarse palms against Tim’s hips and meets his gaze, questioning. Tim laughs, short and trilling. “I’m good. You lead.”

Jason nods stiffly, bending his knees and bracing with a grunt as he lifts Tim skyward. Then he blinks and sets his arms, holding him a few feet off the ice. “Christ, princess,” he mutters, stunned. “You’re light as a doll.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Tim quips, and watches Jason flush, lowering him back down slowly until he finds his feet. Tim doesn’t break gaze. “You want to do an axel lift?”

Jason blinks at him. “You’re gonna have to walk me through that, princess. I don’t remember shit from my pairs days.”

“Too many concussions?” Tim prods innocently, and Jason scowls, poking him in the ribs. Tim hisses and cants away, catching Jason’s hands as he does. “It’s pretty straightforward. If you’re leading, then I’m doing the axel, so you skate backwards. When I push off my outside edge, you need to have your left hand here-” Tim guides Jason’s hand down to his right-side ribs, just above the arch of the bones. “-and your right hand here.”

Jason stiffens a little when Tim drags his intertwined fist down to the inside curve of his own thigh, resting it two thirds of the way up from his knee. Jason’s hand flexes in his, and Tim lets him pull back but doesn’t let go of his fingers, shaking them gently.

“This is going to be your weight bearing hand. You’re going to have to brace most of my weight here, so keep a firm grim. My arm will be fully locked, so you shouldn’t get much shift when you turn. When you let me down, you’ll have to pass off onto your left hand before you set me on the ice. Make sense?”

Jason nods slowly, and Tim can see him digesting the information, running it back through his head like a hockey play. He straightens a bit, looks Tim up and down, his gaze lingering on the curve of his ribcage and the inside of his left thigh. “Alright.”

“We’ll do it slow,” Tim promises, and offers him an assuring smile. Jason huffs a tight breath and returns it. “Give me a back crossover.”

Jason pulls out onto the ice backwards, keeping his grip on Tim’s hand as Tim matches his pace. They do a full skate of the rink before Tim takes a half-step forwards into Jason’s space as they cut across to the diagonal.

Jason winds his left hand around Tim’s ribcage, resting the crook of his thumb against the inside of Tim’s armpit, and Tim tries not to be distracted by the fact that Jason’s hand nearly swamps his shoulder blade. Tim grips Jason’s right hand tightly, trying to instill reassurance as he lets Jason guide his arm out in a broad vertical arc.

He twists his grip slightly as Jason guides Tim’s hand back in past his waist, and Tim leans into his edge and presses up as Jason pulls his arm down to his thigh. He crouches slightly to catch Tim’s weight as he pitches forwards and upwards, laying a palm over Jason’s bicep to steady himself. Tim’s blades clear the ice, his elbow locking as he settles his weight into the hand Jason has layered against his latissimus, and then he's flying.

Tim grins, glancing down at Jason, and is knocked a little breathless to find him staring up intently, his gaze fixed on Tim as he makes a slow turn over the ice, holding him perfectly suspended in the air.

“Pass me off to your left,” Tim instructs, and leans into the security of Jason’s palm as he begins to lower him, curling Tim down against his flank until he feels his right blade hitch into the ice and bite. Tim pulls away gracefully, letting go of his hand as Jason slows to a crawl, and doubles back to meet him.

He’s aware that he's grinning. Tim can feel the muscles in his face pulling, but he’s too elated to care.

“Not bad,” he chirps, turning around Jason sharply and skirting to a halt. Jason pulls up too, a little starstruck. “Not too scary either, right?”

“Yeah,” Jason murmurs, smiling shallowly. Tim can tell he’s running the whole technique back through his mind, playing critic against every shift and pull of muscle. The smile grows in a grin as he stares down at Tim. “Fuck, but you weigh nothing, princess.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but it’s softened by the way his chest lights up at the praise. “You’ve got good form,” Tim returns, and leans forward to skirt a hand up Jason’s right flank, drawing a sharp inhale from the man. “Keep your hips forward and your shoulders back though. It’ll help with your lines.”

Jason recovers with a cocky smirk. “Yeah, okay,” he grumbles. “But what do I get in return?”

Tim sets a foot behind himself and cocks his hip out as he muses. Doesn’t miss when Jason’s gaze flashes down at the movement. “If you can give me a perfect lift, I’ll show you my midair split.”

Jason shakes his head. “Nah, princess, I’ve seen your Biellmann. You can’t hold out on me.”

Tim blinks, because he hadn’t realised Jason was paying that much attention. He recovers with a wry smile. “Okay, I’ll do a Biellmann then,” Tim says, and pushes off, beckoning Jason to follow him. “But if you drop me, Todd, I’ll project all your Worlds routines onto the backwall during training.”

Jason chuckles, snagging his wrist and counter turning them until he’s travelling backwards. “Have some faith, princess,” he purrs, pulling Tim into his personal space with much more fluency and confidence this time. Tim leans into the momentum, kicking up as Jason lifts him skyward, his grip steady against Tim’s ribs and his fingers tight against the back of his weight-bearing hand.

It’s much more rationed than their first attempt, and they’re travelling much faster across the ice. Tim forgets to even check the curve of Jason’s spine; he can feel the way Jason distributes Tim’s weight this time, reacting to every minute shift he makes as Tim twists his hips in a quarter rotation, pointing his toe pick directly down towards the ice.

Tim shifts until his forearm is pressed flat against the rise of his abdomen, leaning his weight forwards until Jason adjusts his shoulder to bear the weight. And there Tim pauses when he realises he can’t do a Biellmann in this position. Because he can’t shift his ribs out of Jason’s hand without twisting directly down for a faceful of ice.

Jason reads his hesitation, and responds after only the barest pause. He drags his weight-bearing elbow into line, dipping until Tim can shift his weight almost entirely onto the palm of his left hand. A trail of goosebumps follow Jason’s coarse palm as it traces the curve of Tim’s slim waist, coming to rest across his right oblique and relieving some of his weight.

And just like that, Tim has nearly full mobility of his upper body again. He rocks forwards slightly to help him swing his free leg upwards, hooking the index finger of his free hand around his stanchion as he straightens out.

It’s not a perfect vertical Biellmann, but it’s as good as Tim’s going to be able to achieve with such an awkward lift. Glancing down, Jason looks absolutely thrilled with Tim’s form, and he warms at the sight.

They’re both a little swept up in their success to notice how far they’ve been travelling. Jason has to set him down somewhat hastily as they come into the corner, and Tim executes a quick backwards stop that softens his run up against the boards.

Jason presses up against him, hands breaking away to catch himself as he crowds Tim over the corner barrier. He's a little breathless and apologetic as he fumbles not to crush Tim. All Tim can focus on is the heat of his body where it bleeds through his thin clothing, and Tim pushes upwards before he can think better of it.

There's the blunt pain of teeth hitting teeth, but when Tim tries to pull back, Jason chases him down, crowding him against the boards. His huge hands pin Tim’s hips back against the cold plastic, and Tim melts into the line of his body.

His hands slip up over the panes of Jason’s abdomen until Tim can wrap both fists in his shirt. Jason bows down under his ferocity, pressing forwards into his mouth with a heated fervour. They’re swallowing each others’ breaths, panting hard against one another as it rises in steam between them.

When Jason breaks off to drag in a sharp, desperate inhale, Tim can feel the line of Jason’s hard-on trapped against his thigh. He shifts a little, plastering his body to Jason’s as he wraps arms up around his shoulder blades and neck. Jason groans, pressing into the friction with a look of pained benediction.

Tim doesn’t need much more invitation. His grip tightens on Tim’s hips when Tim arches up against him, lifting a thigh to give him better contact as Jason shudders and leans back down to claim his lips. It’s translating back through Tim like a live wire, and he grinds down shamelessly as Jason whines needily and pulls back to press lips to the corner of Tim’s mouth. His breath is hot and strained, and his palms maintain that bruising pressure against Tim’s hips, pinning him tightly to the boards.

He sucks a kiss into the underside of Jason jaw, chasing a line down Jason’s abdomen with his fingertips and sliding past the waistband of his sweats. Jason jolts when he palms the base of his cock, biting off a curse, but he doesn’t pull back.

“Fuck, Tim,” he moans, blue eyes blinking open. “Your hand’s fucking cold.”

“Bite me,” Tim fires back, and Jason takes that under advisement, nudging his throat open. He layers a series of nips down the curve of his windpipe, until Tim’s groaning under the attention and grinding up against Jason’s crooked thigh. Tim cards his fingers through Jason’s thick, dark locks and mewls loudly.

Jason shrugs off the wrap Tim’s got around his broad shoulders, dropping his hands to grip the back of Tim’s thighs and lift him. “It’s too fucking cold for this shit,” he growls into Tim’s jawline as he sets him up on the edge of the barrier. Then he sets back to his task of ratchetting Tim’s pulse above one-forty.

Tim twists his grip, wrapping his fingers firmly around Jason’s cock on the upstroke, and the larger man grunts as he thrusts upwards into his touch. “Can’t be cold,” Tim pants into his hairline, eyes fluttering shut as he basks in the attention of Jason’s wandering mouth. “When you’re this hot.”

Jason gives him a stilted chuckle. “Unbelievable,” he purrs, and bites down on the curve of Tim’s shoulder.

“Fuck!” Tim yelps, the heels of his blades cracking against the boards as he jolts downwards. He squeezes Jason’s cock, prying the man off his shoulder with a choked moan.

“Baby, baby, baby,” Jason babbles, brow pinched as he ruts up into Tim’s palm. His hand fumbles between Tim’s thighs, palming his dick through his tight pants. He abandons that quickly to hook a finger in at either side of Tim’s waist, rolling them down Tim’s hips as a shiver laces up his spine.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Tim hisses, and presses against Jason, chasing his warmth as he arches his hips up.

Jason only pulls the pants down to mid-thigh, far enough to free Tim’s straining cock, and then Tim’s whining. “That’s it, baby, come on.”

Tim digs his knees into the dips of Jason’s pelvis, gripping tight and hard as Jason picks up his pace. Tim’s already most of the way there, his blood searing in his veins and his head spinning from the exertion.

“Jason, please, please, please,” he shrieks nonsensically, leveraging his hips up as he chases the coarse friction of Jason’s fist. Tim digs his fingers into Jason’s scalp, yanking at his hair as he shudders and twists beneath his ministrations.

Then he slips down the barrier a bit, his shirt catching, and when Jason next presses his bare skin up against the icy cold plastic, Tim shrieks and arches up. Jason stops immediately, glancing up as Tim clutches to him.

The cold clears his head like being dunked in water, and Tim’s suddenly startlingly aware that they’re pressed together against the corner of a very public freezing cold ice rink and Tim’s known about Jason’s existence all of three weeks. Call him old fashioned, but Tim’s pretty sure a first date’s in order before he lets a guy screw his brains out on the goddamn ice. And as absolutely fucking divine as Jason looks right now, cheeks flushed and blue eyes blown wide, Tim can see he’s equally stunned by how far they’ve gotten in so little time.

“Shit,” Jason whispers, sobering just as quickly, and Tim swallows, sliding his hand out of Jason’s pants. “Shit, sorry, I-”

Tim shakes his head, lets Jason hastily set him back on his feet. “No, no, I- we-”

“Sorry,” Jason says again, and takes a step back so Tim can readjust his pants. The cold’s spilling over him now that he doesn’t have the benefit of Jason’s space heating, and even though he knows his face is bright red, it’s not enough to stop him shivering.

Tim wraps his arms over his chest out of habit, trying to force his smile to be reassuring. “It’s fine, I just- We should probably not-”

“Yeah, no,” Jason agrees quickly. Tim stares at his lips, red and plush under his ministrations, and swallows hard when Jason bites it absently. “I’ll just go and-”

“Do you want to get coffee?” Tim blurts. He doesn’t want to burn through whatever it is they’ve had going, and if first date’s the prerequisite to getting to taste those lips again, no better time than the present.

Jason blinks at him, one hand raised to the back of his head, freezing as it cards through his hair. It’s sticking out in all jagged directions, untamed and inviting. Tim wraps his hands into fists at his sides and tries not to look too pleading.

“Sure,” Jason says, and seems to garnish some confidence from the word. “Yeah, absolutely, let’s- Did you have somewhere in mind?”

“There’s an all-night diner off exit 23,” Tim suggests, smiling despite himself. Jason seems to unfold at the sight of his grin, relief washing over him.

“Sounds great, sounds perfect,” he rambles, and falls into step behind Tim when he pushes off for the gate. “Look, sorry if I rushed things back there. I didn’t mean to-”

“Jason,” Tim says, pausing to grin back up at him. Jason’s brows are pinched in remorse and self-admonishment, and it’s the most adorable expression Tim’s seen on him. “It’s fine. Honestly, I- I had a good time. You’re, uh, very-” And then Tim’s embarrassment finally gets the better of him. The words lodge in his throat, his face deepening to an even hotter red as he nods and practically launches himself through the gates to avoid shrivelling into a humiliated ball. “Yep. Yes. Okay.”

Jason doesn’t pry for details like Tim’s dreading he will, but he does catch sight of the biggest shit-eating grin on Jason’s face when Tim snags his duffel and heads for the front doors at lightning speed. Maybe the coffee will get Tim’s pounding pulse to settle back at an acceptable rate. He doubts it, but at least he’ll have good company while he makes a fool of himself.

Chapter Text

Jason can’t keep his eyes on the fucking puck.

He's skirting the edges, trying to cut in far enough to open up a pass to Harvey, but he can’t seem to focus enough to dodge the Angels’ defenseman. He just isn’t reading the guy. It’s not that he can’t - Jason can usually read these thugs a mile off - but his skull’s just not screwed on straight today, and it’s throwing him off.

It’s showing enough that Harvey bellows an exasperated, “You fucking here, Todd?” as he wheels past, skating back to join the faceoff. Jason glares and reverts back to left wing.

He hasn’t felt this blindsided since his first league game, when a goon had slammed him up against the boards not forty seconds in and said, “Welcome to the show, kid.”

He's not even fucking tired; he just can’t find the break he needs to get around their right defense and grind up the neutral zone to give Harvey the support he needs to shoot.

Jason hasn’t been able to get out from under the other team’s fucking pest of a right d-man since the last line change. The guy keeps blocking him every time he spots a gap, drawing him up short and leaving Waylon to pick up the slack Jason’s leaving in swathes. He’s leaning him into the hard edge every time the Angels make a play down the center, and Jason can’t do anything but watch them carve towards the goal.

It’s Tim, because of course it’s fucking Tim. Jason’s got half a brain cell in the game and the other is mapping out triple axels in perfect synchronicity and theorising what Tim’s hips would feel like under his palms as he thrusts him into a platter lift. He’s being a fucking imbecile about it, and his focus is practically shot.

He’s just fucking lucky Slade’s built like a goddamn brick shithouse. The last time the Angels’ forward had made a beeline for the goal crease through Jason’s non-existent backchecking, Slade had checked the guy by stepping directly into his line. Let him lay himself out when he’d run up flat against Slade's chest. The defenseman hadn’t even flinched, but he’d still found the time to cast Jason an admonishing look over the shoulder of the linesman that had swooped into check that it’s nothing warranting a call.

Jason just scowls and refocuses on his pest. He’s steadily boxing him, an almost amused leisure to his feints. It’s grating deep into Jason’s wounds, and when the guy next rushes him, Jason grips his stick hard and tries to shoulder check him. The goon ducks low at the last minute, and Jason’s not switched on enough to counteract when the guy slams up into his inadvertent cross-check and skids himself out.

Panic lights him up briefly, and its swift exodus leaves room for fumbling fury as Jason stares down at him, stunned. The whistle rings shrilly in his ears and in the next minute a linesman is in Jason’s personal space, backing him up from the guy laid out on the ice.

One of the Angels’ forwards comes up to try to slam Jason against the boards, their right wing sharp on his tail, and Slade drags him out of the mess before it can devolve into a full-on donnybrook.

“Fucking broadcasted that one, kid,” he growls into Jason’s ear, a firm fist wrapped in his collar as he brings Jason around to avoid the Angels’ incensed forwards and face the ref. “Where's your head at?”

“Not fucking here,” Jason mumbles, and Slade scowls and lets him go.

“Todd, front and center,” the ref barks, and Jason steels himself as he wheels out to Nygma’s side. The man’s a tiny twig of a thing next to Jason, but he still feels like he’s shrinking under that steady glower. “Have you got an explanation for me, Todd?”

Jason opens his mouth, thinks, and then closes it. Considers telling Nygma that the guy has been heckling him all game and that he purposely decked himself out on Jason’s stick. It sounds like a cop out even in Jason’s ears, and he knows he’s going to get raked over the coals for this anyway, so maybe it’s better to face the music now than try to wriggle his way out of it. If he gets a major, the Jokers will run him through the wringer after the match. But hey, at least he’ll have the time to get his fucking head in order. Beneath all those carefully cultivated layers of pessimism, Jason is at heart an optimist, and it’s the only silver lining he’s going to get out of this. Prays to his negligent guardian angel that he doesn’t get hauled in front of Player Safety in the first fucking round.

Jason shakes his head firmly. “No, sir.”

Nygma’s lips twist in displeasure. “I should eject you for a game misconduct, pulling that kinda shit,” he says sternly, and Jason’s chest seizes in regret. He knows he shouldn’t feel hopeful for any slack after he’s just laid a guy out with his stick, but he’s a team player first and foremost, and Jason’s loathe to set the Jokers back in their first divisional game of the season.

Getting five minutes in the box will give the Angels a solid break to really milk their power play, which is the last fucking thing they need right now. But if Jason gets ejected for the whole match, the Jokers will absolutely kill him. If he costs them the playoffs in the first damn round of the season over this goddamn stupid cross-check he absolutely should have foreseen, Jason will never live it down.

“But,” Nygma says sharply, and Jason’s knees feel weak with hopeful relief. “I am awarding a major penalty.”

Jason nods solemnly, because he’ll take getting chewed out for a major over getting ejected any fucking day of the week. Nygma gestures to him and then signals the call for the benefit of the linesmen. Jason tries not to duck under the incensed disapproval of the crowd, keeping his gaze on Nygma as he escorts him to the penalty box.

The Angels make the most of their power play. Jason gets to sit through five excruciatingly long minutes while he watches their offensive line rip through Slade and Roman from behind the plastic barrier of the box. Both of them are looking unbelievably drained and equally riled by the time Jason is finally allowed to launch himself back onto the ice.

Jason takes the opportunity to make up for the shit he dropped his teammates in. He steers clear of the defenseman’s replacement, hugging the boards and focusing on returns in the corners. Serving back up to Harvey whenever the puck slides past into the end goal zone so he can layout a neat shot.

Jason runs himself practically ragged on support for Waylon. The eighteen-year-old is a fucking powerhouse, and built like a tank, so he’s had absolutely no trouble slipping into the role of their power forward since he came onto the team this season. All it takes is a quick look and Jason shifts to run Waylon’s point guard, sweeping the puck out from under a distracted Angels forward. Waylon has absolutely no trouble maintaining control of the puck, even without his intimidating two-hundred-and-fifty pound ballast to keep the defensemen at bay. So Jason only needs to ensure his assists are geared towards the right wing forward, and that Harvey’s hovering to provide feints.

He’s worked up a good buzz by the time the siren sounds, and it’s galvanising enough to convince Jason that his major can be (for the most part) swept under the rug. They finish up ahead three-to-two, which puts them in good stead to kick off Round One. The Bludhaven Angels aren’t known for their consistent and legal gameplay, so Jason’s not too concerned about them getting past the Jokers in divisionals. Really, they’re all just gearing up for Round Two; it’s always their favourite head-to-head of the series - aside from the Stanley Cup finals - and the Angels are just a stepping stone.

Jason strips off his jersey and his shoulder pads, divesting down to his undershirt, and then he can finally give his overheated skin a chance to cool off. Lets himself bathe in the cacophonous symphony of rattling lockers and exhausted moans.

He sculls nearly a gallon of water and wolfs down a protein bar before he feels even marginally human again. By then most of the players have finished shuffling in and are down to their skates. Slade secludes himself to his small territory of locker space and takes on the stoic silence of an old cragged gargoyle, leaving the floor to Harvey to run through a quick recap while he tapes his knee.

“Not bad for our first game,” he says, employing what Jason has dubbed his captain-tone.

The guy’s a born leader, groomed and sculpted by a well-to-do upper class family for politics. In another life, he would have made a formidable senator. Jason’s pretty sure Harvey even went to law school at some point. Must’ve been one hell of an argument in the Dent household when little Harvey expressed his dream to be a fucking hockey grunt.

“Things to improve on, but I’ll leave the playmaking to Bane. I’m not paid to be a fucking coach,” Harvey adds with a small grin. “Obviously not looking to give the Angels another power play though.”

Jason glances up at that, guilt washing through him. He doesn’t apologise, because it’s only pandering at this point, and Jason paid his debt with his effort in the rest of the game. Harvey’s got a way of impressing the importance of something without making a big deal of it anyway, and Jason doesn’t need reminding again that a major isn’t the sort of fuck up they’re looking for right now.

“If you’re gonna cross-check someone, Todd,” Roman cuts in, because the guy’s got the tact of a fucking wet cat, “do it somewhere Nygma’s not gonna see you lay him out, yeah?”

Jason gives him the finger, but Roman just grins.

“That was some solid defensive work there, Sionis,” Harvey interjects, holding his gaze as Roman preens. Even Slade nods in acknowledgement. “Good handling during the power play. And got us a few penalties amongst their lines too.”

“Yeah,” Roman croons around a mockery of a grin. “I got some good one-on-one with Soames in. Told him his kids were fucking ugly.”

Harvey crooks a brow. “Soames doesn’t have any kids.”

“I know, that’s what he told me!” Roman says with broad astonishment. “Threw him all the way off his game. Guy’s probably knocked up plenty of one-night stands in his time, so it probably wasn’t entirely a lie. Could see it ticking over in his head the whole rest of the match. He fucked that odd man’s rush because of it too, so - you’re all welcome,” he says, gesturing broadly.

Jason snickers and picks at his laces.

“He’s got commitment issues,” Crane drawls from his post at the far end of the locker room. Jason wonders if he picked his locker specifically because it mirrors the goal position on the rink, or if the Jokers’ resident goaltender just likes the view it gives him of everyone else in the room. “He didn’t have the benefit for a nuclear family during his upbringing, so he internalises his parents’ mismanagement.”

Roman blinks at him, the room going stunningly quiet while Crane studiously shucks his pads. “You’re fucked, Scarecrow,” Roman says eventually, and then segues immediately into the brief fight he’d gotten into with Arnot.

Crane drops back onto his bench to peel off his socks. The dark-haired goaltender picked up his nickname from his slight stature - easily the slimmest on the team, and Jason doesn’t even make the top three with his considerable bulk - and his habit of haunting the goal with unnerving stillness. His short-sightedness and always out-of-prescription contact lenses give him a natural wide-eyed eeriness too, which has been known to spook some of the less-experienced opposing forwards.

It’s not nearly as rattling as his impromptu psychoanalyses. Crane came up through the NCAA on a scholarship and did his undergrad in psychology. Jason’s convinced his secret passion is to use the rink as a firsthand observation hall for sports psychoses. He’s been known to sidle up behind a shooter that’s gotten too close to the posts before and wrap them up in some niggling, intimate detail they weren’t even aware of.

He’s as good a pest as Roman is, honestly. Although Roman tends to employ the brash, over-sexualised chirps that are guaranteed to precipitate an immediate fistfight. Even when he’s subbing out Crane to play goalie. The amount of times Jason’s had to drop gloves because Roman’s driven someone to sock the Jokers’ substitute goaltender defies sensibility. The man’s mouth is an open sewerage grate, and Jason’s consistently amazed at how easily Roman can ambush the same fucking guys into incurring penalties.

They’ve all got nicknames. A haphazard conglomeration of inane jabs and cringe-worthy jokes that have taken on a life of their own. Some of them are purely observational, like Roman’s; dumbass insisted on sporting a custom black faceguard whenever he subs Crane out, so ‘Black Mask’ wasn’t so much of a stretch amongst idiots. Others have been downright pandering: Slade picked up ‘Deathstroke’ back before any of them made it onto the Jokers team, presumably for his defensive prowess and track-record for handing out career-killing injuries. They’d only tried to call him it once, before Slade had checked Roman so brutally in their next training session that he’d spat a chiclet out onto the ice.

Harvey landed ‘Two Face’ for his astounding ability to lose his fucking mind over the most innocuous of plays. It’s a goddamn chore to get the man riled up enough to drop gloves, but a few cherished times Jason has had a front row seat to Harvey’s absolutely batshit fighting style. Jason doesn’t even know how Waylon picked up ‘Killer Croc’ so early in his career, but it’s somewhat apt, considering the teenager’s size and brute force approach to offense.

Jason had been dubbed ‘Red Hood’ from the goddamn stupidest training camp team bonding exercise he’d ever had to take part in, back when he’d first been traded to the Jokers. A mix between Blindsman’s Bluff and a trust exercise, he had ended up with a red bag on his head and on his ass about five times before he’d realised his new, asshole teammates had been fucking with him. Despite his best efforts, the moniker had stuck. In the end he’d just run with it, leaning into the red sweatshirts and caps. It’s not the worst he could have copped. Besides, red is a great colour against his dark hair and complexion.

“Go home and get some fucking rest,” Harvey says at large, dragging Jason from his reminiscing. The man hoists his duffel over one shoulder and runs a hand back through his coiffed blonde locks. “I wanna see you all bright and early at training tomorrow.”

His exit is met with a chorus of acknowledging grunts, and Jason pushes upright, shouldering his towel to head to the showers for some blessed peace and quiet.

Chapter Text

Steph slumps back across the couch, propping her heels up on the arm. “Where the hell were you last week? You missed our play against the Sirens! I fucking slammed Pamela. It was amazing.”

Tim smiles and shoves her legs aside so he can curl up with his coffee mug. “I thought you liked Pamela. Something about the redhead appeal?”

Steph groans and arches back over the other armrest, not unlike a blond cat. “Just because I said she was hot like once doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on her. I can both like a woman and still whip her; the two aren’t mutually exclusive.” At Tim’s suggestively raised brows, she scowls, pointing an accusing finger. “Head out of the gutter.”

“Whipping is definitely a made-up term,” Tim offers in his defense.

“If you came to one of our introductory nights, the terminology of derby wouldn’t be a mystery to you,” Steph points out, and Tim shrugs placatingly.

“Next one,” he promises, and that seems to sate Steph.

“So?” she prompts, and Tim arches a brow, stalling. Steph rolls her eyes. “What were you doing last week that was so much more important than watching me flunk out with hot girls?”

“I, uh, had a date,” Tim mumbles into his mug, and isn’t surprised when Steph bolts upright.

“Holy shit, national medallist and famed recluse Timothy Drake got himself a date? Spill all the details. Spare me nothing.”

"I don't know if you'd really call it a date. We got coffee."

Steph looks gleeful. "A coffee date? At night? You're really going to pull that on me?"

"It was!" Tim says defensively, but he can feel a traitorous blush creeping over his cheekbones. "He finished training late, so we got coffee at that diner off 23.”

“Tell me you brought him back to your apartment,” Steph begs, and looks horrified when Tim can only muster a sheepish shrug in response. “You’re useless. All looks and no brains. You went on a coffee date at midnight with-” She pauses, chewing that thought over before she straightens and pins him with that dangerous gaze. “You said training, didn’t you?”

“That depends if you heard me say it,” Tim responds, and she folds off the sofa to bound into the kitchen. Tim cranes his head back over the cushion to watch her rifle through his fridge. “What are you after?”

“Your goddamn sex drive. I think you left it at home, next to the milk.” Tim rolls his eyes, and buries his gaze back in his coffee mug. He hears the crisper open, and a pleased chirp as she unearths his stash of Reese’s. The door latches shut with the aid of a well-placed hip, and Steph saunters back over to fling the packet into his lap. “But seriously,” she moans, “did you or did you not bang his brains out after your coffee date?”

His chest does not do a little jig at that notion. At the thought of Jason, in his apartment, alone, without any- Not even marginally. The expression Tim offers her when he tilts his head back is horrified. “No, I didn’t bang his brains out. It was a date, Steph!”

She entwines her fingers over the crown of his head and leans her chin against it. He can feel his neck protesting when her jaw moves, but he doesn’t mind. Steph has a way of being unfailingly endearing when she wants to be. “Training,” she says firmly. “What kind of training? Is he an athlete? Did you score yourself a date with a beefcake?”

“He’s a hockey player,” Tim hedges.

“Good God, you’re so cliche. You’re doing every figure skater a disservice. I’m offended. We’re all offended. Which team is he on? Is he in the league?”

Tim’s already shaking his head. “No, absolutely not. You’re not going to Twitter-stalk him.”

“Some light sleuthing,” Steph purrs, scrubbing her purple-painted nails up the back of his scalp. Tim bats her hands away before she can mess up his hair any further, and she launches herself hip-first over the couch to land on the cushions with a satisfying whump.

She laces her ankles together, crooking her knees over the backrest as she ponders this development. Her hair trails down to the floor, painting the timber in long golden streaks. Tim finds himself wondering again how someone who can pull a triple loop with such finesse and grace can be so gangly-limbed and rambunctious off-ice. Maybe she just has whatever the skaters equivalent of sea legs are.

Her expression goes very solemn for a moment, her limbs stilling as something occurs to her. Tim braces, his brow pinching reflexively, even though her gaze doesn’t part from the grain of the coffee table in front of her. Tim watches an upended grin stretch across the muscles of her slowly reddening face.

“Does he have hockey ass?”

“What the fuck is hockey ass?”

One innocuous Tumblr tag search later, and Tim is intimately familiar with the exploits of one NHLbootypics24/7’s blog. Tries to tell himself that hockey’s a high-strain sport, so of course certain muscles are going to get more action. Absolutely does not let his mind conjure up the memory of Jason bent over his laces in sweatpants, black Pink Floyd t-shirt riding high up his spine.

“Fuck you,” Tim scolds, launching a cushion at Steph. She cackles, and he can feel how hot his face is. He must be redder than a goddamn lobster by now. He abandons his empty mug so he can swing up to his knees and smother her with another well-placed pillow.

“Was he on the blog? Which one is he?” she chortles, and Tim adjusts the pillow for better effect. Steph flails and kicks at his thighs. He can hear her muffled laughter through the dense pillow.

“You’re a monster,” Tim grunts when she lands a good kick. Her hands go to his face, shoving as she turns aside to gasp in air, her eyes wet with mirthful tears. “You’re the worst best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Dat ass,” she wheezes, and Tim considers just kicking her out of his apartment for good. She taps his ribs with the hand that isn’t braced against the pillow’s onslaught, and Tim lets up.

Steph takes a moment to catch her breath while Tim smooths down his hair and tries to coax the blood out of his cheeks. When she’s no longer hiccuping, she reaches over to snag the chocolate and offers him a peace treaty with his own Reese’s.

He shoves a hand into the bag, glaring. “The worst,” he reiterates, and she grins, sliding down to sit on the timber floorboards between the couch and the coffee table.

“You have to tell me his name,” Steph says matter-of-factly, threading her hands through her hair to wind it up into a bun. Tim watches her struggle briefly with the tie around her wrist, before settling for a haphazard twist.

“I definitely don’t,” Tim answers, and crosses his legs under him, reclaiming his third of the couch. Steph crosses her arms and leans up against the cushion next to him, resting her temple on his upturned knee.

“Spoilsport,” she teases, and Tim glares.

“Absolutely not. You’ll stalk him. You’ll follow him home. I’m not telling you his name.”

“Okay then, let’s put those good old Drake capillaries to use then,” Steph says, and cracks her neck sharply. Tim frowns, crossing his arms as he tries to preempt whatever she’s scheming. “It’s gotta be one of the local teams, since we’ve just kicked off the playoffs. So none of the other divisions will have flown in yet. Which narrows it down to three.”

Tim arches a brow, recoiling under Steph’s scrutinising stare. “What on earth are you talking about? What language are you speaking?”

“Denny Swan,” she says sharply, and Tim blinks dumbly. She searches his features for a hint of recognition. “From the Jets. He’s like, twenty-five. To old? Maybe someone your own age? Waylon Jones. He’s local.”

“You’re a shit detective,” Tim says bluntly, tightening his grip on his biceps, as if can shield himself from her interrogative incursion. He mentally steels himself, determined not to fold under the pressure.

“Tell me you’re not dating one of the Angels,” she says with a sudden bloom of horror. “Tim, they’re assholes, absolute pigeons. Promise me-”

“I distinctly remember you telling me once that - and I quote - all NHL hockeyboys are trash.”

“Good trash,” Steph chirps brightly. “Dumb trash. Not assholes. The Angels can’t go a single match without pulling an illegal move. They’ve got the running record for most bullshit penalties scored in a single season. They don’t respect the sport, Tim! They don’t appreciate the art- ”

Tim reaches for the Reese’s, trying not to draw her attention to his diversion. Better to heap on the layers. It’ll be harder for her to get back on track with an information overload. “And we’re not dating. We’ve been on one date. Singular. And it was hardly a date,” Tim adds, scoffing broadly as he remembers the arresting comfort of Jason’s hands on him, the heat of him burning through Tim’s thin shirt. “We did some axels. We did two lifts, for god’s sake. Hardly anything to be impr-”

Steph’s practically glowing with exhilaration, and Tim does a quick mental recap to catch back up to her. His eyes widen.

“No-”

“You did lifts?” she shrieks.

“No, no. Don’t tell Bruce!” Tim yelps, seizing her shoulders. She’s vibrating with the effort of keeping her delight contained.

“Holy shit,” she gasps, blue eyes wide. “Holy shit, you sly fox. And axels? You two had a skating date? And you let him lift you?”

“Stephanie Minerva Brown,” Tim says sternly, focuses on keeping his voice even. Tries to shove down the wavering notes of concern and hold her attention. She’s rattling like a landmine under a magnet. That grin is way too broad on her face, maliciously jubilant. “Don’t you dare tell Bruce about this. Swear to me-”

“I won’t tell Bruce if you tell me his name,” she bargains immediately, but Tim’s already planned for this.

“No, you won’t tell Bruce because you’re my best friend and you love me very much,” Tim counters, and Steph pouts, sliding her hands up to lay over his shoulders, holding them in a mirrored embrace.

“Final offer: you tell me everything about your date - the skating one, not the coffee one - and I’ll keep your secret,” she promises, holding his gaze, and Tim withers under his options.

“Fine,” he sighs, and Steph withdraws to clench her hands into victorious fists. “Yes, we had a skating date, alright?”

“Where?”

Oh, just the Jokers’ private rink. Tim shakes his head, nestling back into the cushions. “I plead the fifth. I’m not incriminating myself.”

“Fine, which lifts did you do?”

“Just some group ones,” Tim answers. “Axel lifts. Nothing fancy.”

“And he knew these lifts?”

“No, I had to teach him,” Tim hedges, aware that he’s skating very close to a revelation.

“But he already knew axels?”

“Lots of people know axels.”

“Sure,” Steph answers with broad dubiety. “What were you wearing?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Timothy Jackson Drake, you are as sly as they come. Tell me what outfit you picked out to show off to your beefcake boyfriend.”

“One date,” Tim reiterates sternly. “We’ve had one date. And I wore my gym gear. Nothing fancy.”

“Oh, the compression tights? Superb choice. Exquisite.” She lifts her fingers from her lips in a caricature of a chef’s kiss.

“I am this close to kicking you out of my apartment-”

“Fine, fine. Did you shove your tongue down his throat?”

“Steph,” Tim moans, brows beetling in embarrassment.

“Answer the question,” she asserts. “Or I will call Bruce right this second-”

“Yes, fine, we kissed, okay?”

“Like, made out kissed?” Steph presses relentlessly, throwing back a handful of Reese’s into her open mouth. “Or was there like, heavy petting involved? Did you get a piece of that hockey ass action?”

Tim groans into his palms, tipping his head back onto the couch. “You’re a degenerate.”

Steph jabs him in the ribs with a precise finger, and he hisses and cants away. “Answer me. How many bases?”

“Like, three?” Tim replies, squinting as he tries to recall the last time he’d used bases as benchmark terminology for sex. It’s been a few years. “What are the bases again?”

“Timothy Drake,” Steph says in a hushed tone. “Did you get down and dirty on the ice?”

“No!” Tim yelps, but its too fast and too assertive, and Steph brims with ecstasy.

“You horny little gremlin,” she cooes, and shimmies up onto the couch to pry his hands away from his face. “Tell me everything, you raunchy bastard.”

Tim succumbs to her insistent grip on his wrists, lowering his gaze to meet her gleaming blue eyes with resignation. Then he groans piteously and professes, “He’s really hot, okay?”

“How far did you get?” Steph shrieks, practically bouncing off the cushion as she looms over him. “First date, Tim. First date. Those teenage hormones did you wrong, my dude.”

“We didn’t even- We stopped,” Tim explains petulantly. “We didn’t actually get all that far. It was cold and I got flustered, and then he got embarrassed, and-” Tim sighs and sinks into the backrest. “So we got coffee.”

Steph looks genuinely sympathetic to his cause. “Consolation coffee. Are you seeing him again?”

Tim blinks at her, stunned. It hadn’t even occurred to him to set up a secondary date. He’d been so distracted by the coffee, and the sheen of sweat on Jason’s brow, and the way the neon lights had looked in his dark hair-

“Steph,” he whispers, the words strained through his elongated throat. “I’m a useless gay.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“The most useless,” Tim mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t even get his number. Steph, what do I do?”

“Oh my god,” Steph grumbles, twisting to slot herself against him, fusing her hip to his as she settles beside him. “This is why you need to tell me about your plans before you go on spontaneous coffee dates. Okay, okay. Are you going to be able to run into him again?”

Tim massages his forehead with the heel of his hand and nods. “We use the same rink.”

“Oh, Cobblepot’s rink? The NHL Gotham City Jokers rink? That rink?”

“No,” he answers coldly, because he forgets that Steph is a stupidly well-informed hockey fan.

She sounds a little overwhelmed with her next words, and Tim can feel the curl of her grin. “Good god, you know how to pick ‘em. Speaking of beefcakes, the Jokers are rife- ”

“We’re not doing this,” he warns preemptively.

“Which one is it? You can’t be going for Wilson - unless you’ve got a daddy kink I don’t know about?”

“Steph.”

“And you said no to Waylon ‘Killer Thot’ Jones. So unless you’ve got a sudden thing for blondes-”

Tim can feel the storm brewing before she even gasps, coiling thick in the air around him. He hunkers down and tries to shield his face with his hands. “Please don’t.”

“Jason motherfucking Todd?!”

“I hate you so much.”

“You have such good taste.”

“So, so much.”

“Big thigh energy, Tim, big thigh energy,” Steph says sagaciously, and pats the top of his head consolingly. “Maybe I should try my luck with NHL players,” she muses aloud, and Tim shoves her away to an uproarious cackle.

“Get out of my apartment.”

“I’m striking out with the derby babes. Maybe I need to up my game. Oh hey, maybe you could get Jason to introduce me to someone. We could double date.”

Tim extracts himself from the couch, snagging his mug amidst a string of insincere apologies. He definitely needs more caffeine if he’s going to be able to handle the rest of the evening. He studiously keeps his back to her as he hefts the coffee jug and starts pouring. “We’re not double dating. We’re not even dating. It’s barely a thing. Just- Just please help me get his number?” 

Chapter Text

“Napier wants to see you,” Dent says offhandedly to Jason as he walks into the locker room.

Jason glances up from where he’s buttoning his jeans. They finished training a half-hour ago, and he’d been planning on ducking out to get something to eat as soon as he’d changed out of his gear. “Now?” he asks with a frown.

“Yes now, you troglodyte,” Harvey retorts, yanking open his locker.

“Fuck you,” Jason offers in response, and tugs on a t-shirt, stuffing his cigarette carton into his back pocket as he takes the stairs up to the general manager’s office.

It’s empty when he arrives, so Jason lets himself in and lingers in front of the desk. He drags his gaze over the glossy sheen of framed photographs lining the walls, generations of braying men in black and purple jerseys. Slade’s in a few of them, a stoic statue in the back row, a touch of fortitude in a sea of chaos.

Good to know he’s always been a stick-in-the-mud, Jason thinks to himself, and smirks.

“Ah, Jason.”

He turns his head to greet Jack, drinking in the purple pinstripe trousers and rumpled dress shirt. The tie’s been discarded, and he looks as far from camera-ready as possible, so Jason can only assume he’s been cooped up in his office for a few hours.

Jason’s stomach still clenches at the sight of him, tensing as if in preparation for a fight, despite the fact that Jason’s probably got Jack outclassed when it comes to stature. The man’s got a spindly slip of a figure, his joints knotted like a branch that grew too tall too fast. He’s got the pale complexion of someone who spends all their time under the unforgiving fluorescents of an ice rink, and the haphazard, greased locks of someone who pulls at his hair incessantly.

He’s got the sort of shrewd mind that can run circles around you and have you laughing along right until he suckerpunches you. Jason’s been fooled by that wit one too many a time before, so he’s warier now when it comes to Jack’s sweeping felicitations. The guy also owns him, technically - or at least owns his contract - so Jason’s learnt to toe a fine line when it comes to dealing with Jack.

And Jason’s got better things to do than to be wasting time in Jack’s office, so he crosses his arms over his chest and looks vaguely impatient. “Took you long enough.”

He pats Jason’s ass as he passes, jostling the carton he’s got stashed in his back pocket. “Give me a smoke.”

Jason glowers. “They’re my smokes. I paid for them.”

“And I pay you, so they’re bought with my money,” Jack retorts, slumping into his desk chair and extending a hand. Jason’s jaw tightens, but he tries to drop the terse line of his shoulders under that glinting gaze, shoving his hand into his back pocket. “There you go. Give me a smoke.”

Jason holds out the smoke across the desk, pushing it into Jack’s fingers. Jack’s other hand flashes out, snaring Jason’s wrist and holding him in place as he grins. Jason tenses immediately, but doesn’t pull back.

“Got a light, sweetcheeks?”

Jason fumbles for the lighter in his other pocket, thumbing the sparkwheel and glancing up past the amber flame to see that Jack’s slumped back in his chair, the cigarette pinched between his chapped lips.

He looks smug and victorious, and Jason’s stomach turns at the sight. But he straightens as much as he can with Jack’s slim fingers still digging into the points of his wrist, and walks around the desk.

Jack turns the chair to greet him, knees hitched open and sat deep into the leather, and Jason pointedly props himself up against the edge of Jack’s desk above the drawers, stooping to hold out the lighter. He’s sure Jack notices his choice, but he says nothing as he sucks in the first few breaths and sits back contentedly, his fingers falling from Jason’s wrist to rest against the junction of Jason’s hip and thigh.

If it’s going to be one of those times, then Jason’s definitely going to need that cigarette.

To say that Jack had come onto Jason early after his trade-in would be a misinterpretation. It wasn’t really a courtship; neither of them operated on subtlety. Jason wasn’t Jack’s arm candy or his squeeze or even an occasional fling. If Jason had to give it a word, he’d say he was Jack’s distraction. A side hobby that he indulged infrequently and with elliptical interest. Sometimes Jason was his sole focus, sometimes he was bottom of the pile. It varies on a schedule that Jason isn’t privy to, and he's resigned himself to never knowing exactly where he stands with Jack.

He’d never initiated the sexual aspect of their relationship, but it hangs over them anyway. And Jason can sort of see the path that led to it if he squints back into the darkness. He’d been sort of eager-to-please when the Assassins had traded him into the Jokers, desperate to atone for the biggest career fuck-up of any new player that season. So he’d sort of leaned into Jack’s bright words of praise, geared himself towards improving his game and demonstrated it more ardently whenever the man was in the bleachers.

He couldn’t really say he was surprised that Jack had responded to his determined advances. By the time Jason had realised that he was being led on, they’d been launching into the new season, and Jason’s single-minded focus had turned to performing in the playoffs, so everything else came secondary.

They don’t do all that much anyway. Jack doesn’t ever ask Jason to do anything. It’s mostly the occasional handjob and some light frottage. Jason had even returned the favour once or twice earlier on, when he’d felt guilty about all the attention he was getting. Jack’s got Harley on the side, whenever she’s not piloting the Jokers’ mascot suit, so Jason can safely assume he’s getting his rocks off plenty.

Jason doesn’t see the Jokers’ general manager all that much anyway. The players spend most of their time in the rink training or playing, and Jack’s barely ever in his damn office anyway. They’d be lucky to cross paths more than a dozen times in a season.

So Jason’s not complaining about the special attention, even if he’s not really onboard for the overbearing possessiveness. He’ll take Jack’s over-personalisation over Talia’s emotional distance anyday; it reminds him too much of his time with Bruce, trying and trying again to garnish some sort of acclamation from the stoic man. By comparison, Jack’s blatantly unprofessional affections are a balm on Jason’s flayed self-esteem. Jason will take what he can get.

He cups his hands to his mouth, sucking down the first few lungfuls of nicotine before he pulls them away to exhale. He knows he shouldn’t be smoking, knows anyone on the team would chew his ear off on any goddamn day of the week if they found out he was still doing it casually. It just helps to take the edge off a bit, smooth down the sharp corners of Jason’s life so that he can focus on centering himself. It’s not a fucking crime.

Jack’s never stopped him from smoking in his office before anyway, so Jason figures he must at least tolerate Jason’s bad habit. He pockets his lighter and watches Jack take another drag of his own cigarette, smacking the filter between his lips a bit before he reaches over to put it out in the ashtray across the corner of his desk.

Jason hooks his heel into one of the drawer handles beneath him and tries to let the nicotine smooth down his tense edges.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Jack says conversationally, and Jason nods. “Wanted to check in. See what you’ve got going on.”

Jason shrugs as Jack slides back fully into his seat. “It’s game season.”

“It is,” Jack agrees, and waits for him to continue.

Jason doesn’t really like making idle conversation, but Jack’s his manager, so he taps his knuckles softly against the wood and says, “We moved up in divisionals.”

“We did.”

Jason scowls, hiding it as he shifts his weight a little on the desk. He doesn’t like being at a height to Jack like this, like he’s on a pedestal. Like he has to prove something, like he has to perform. Jason slides his nails through the grain of wood on the underside of the desk and grunts noncommittally.

“Got something to show you,” Jack says offhandedly, but with that razor-thin line of intrigue. Jason can’t read it as anything other than malice. He takes a long, stalling drag before he looks up, and sees that Jack has his monitor screen turned to face Jason, a video playing.

It’s a surveillance tape. Jason knows because he’s spent more hours in that rink than in his own apartment, and because he can see himself floating across the ice in sweats and a Pink Floyd t-shirt. He’s laying out a series of easy doubles, carving up the ice. He’s not alone.

Jason watches as Tim’s slim figure moves into frame, hands resting on his hips as he watches Jason comes back around the outside, his back to the shot.

Jason lifts his gaze back to Jack’s, swallowing hard.

Jack smiles. “You’ve been a busy boy,” he purrs, and doesn’t pause the video.

Jason tries not to look at it. Keeps his eyes on Jack, because the man’s got a manic jealous streak unlike anything Jason’s ever seen. It rears up at odd intervals, only to dissipate just as quickly, and Jason’s left reeling with the repercussions. He doesn’t shift from Jack’s hazel eyes.

“I’m allowed to have free time, Jack,” he says, clipped.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Jack says lightly. “I just like to make sure I know what my boys are doing in my rink.”

Jason’s throat tightens. That’s a fucking prisoner’s dilemma if he ever heard one. Jack’s fond of them, actually, likes to give Jason the opportunity to dig his own grave before he buries him in it. He’d be very good at poker, Jason thinks, and not for the first time.

He takes a drag of his cigarette, stalling, and Jack reaches up to pluck it from his lips. Jason doesn’t stop him. He clears his throat softly. “You know I used to do figures.”

“I do,” Jack agrees.

Jason shrugs. “I’m just checking what the ISU’s got on offer these days. Just a bit of fun, that’s all.”

The butt of Jason’s cigarette flakes, some of the ashes falling on Jack’s trousers. He doesn’t seem to notice. He wheels his chair an inch closer, leaning into Jason’s space as he focuses on keeping his breathing even. “Oh, you sure were having some fun, weren’t you?” Jack says, his tone silky soft, and taps a knuckle gently against the monitor.

Jason’s gaze flicks up to the video, to see Tim suspended high in the air, legs arched in that imperfect Biellmann. His throat dries as he sets Tim down, the two of them coming to an abrupt halt pressed against the barrier on the far side of the frame.

Jason can’t tear his eyes away from the screen, so he jumps when Jack’s hand curls around his hip and cups his groin. Makes an aborted attempt at grabbing the man’s wrist but settles for wrapping his fingers around the lip of the desk instead, because that’s the smarter option. Jason looks down at Jack’s face, unsure exactly what expression he’s broadcasting.

Jack doesn’t stop palming him through his jeans, and Jason clenches his hands until he's sure the wood warps. It doesn’t take long before he’s half-hard, and Jason figures that’s probably for the best. The sooner Jack can have his teaching moment, the sooner Jason gets to leave.

“You fucked up in the semifinals,” Jack says, all-businesslike despite the fact that he’s got his hand pressed around Jason’s cock.

Jason shudders and shifts his weight on the desktop. “Yeah, I cross-checked a guy.”

The cigarette in Jack’s other hand waxes, and Jack casts an absent glance at it, unperturbed when Jason groans softly. “Why do you smoke these?” he asks, his tone switching to a curious murmur, and Jason hates the sound of it.

Jack does this, sometimes. Distracts him while he dances around the point he’s making. Drags in the meaningless clutter of Jason’s life to critique while he plans out exactly how he’s going to fuck Jason over for whatever main infringement he’s gearing up for. Jason hates it, because he can run them on so many fucking detours before he gets to the main event, and Jason’s head is always spinning enough that he’s forgotten the real reason for his punishment, right until it slams up on him like a brick wall.

“They relax me,” Jason answers, and pauses to grunt when Jack changes his rhythm. “They help me wind down.”

“Wind down,” Jack repeats absently, and looks up from the cigarette to meet Jason’s gaze. “You wanna be a skater again, Jason?”

Jason’s scoff lodges in his throat, coming out choked. “No,” he says firmly, and it sounds genuine because he’s being genuinely honest. “Skating was a fuckaround. I prefer hockey. Much less - ungh - less politics.”

Jack smirks. “Do you like your little birdy?”

Jason hesitates, because lying’s gotten him nowhere good before. But on the other hand, Jack’s the sort of guy who would throw his pregnant wife through a plate-glass window if he thought she was cheating. “Is that a problem?” Jason asks instead of answering.

“It’s not a problem if you’re keeping up your contract,” Jack answers in a sultry tone, and Jason’s stomach twists. “Do you think you’re keeping up your contract, Little Wing?”

God, how many people does Jack have reporting back to him? Jason hates the sound of Dick’s nickname on his lips, hates the implication of intimacy that comes with it.

“I cross-checked a guy,” Jason grits out, and whites out a little when Jack squeezes his cock. “I fucked up. I should have seen it. I’m sorry. I’m not going to let it happen again, shit.”

“Why’d you let him penalise you?”

Jason’s brow beetles, a groan slipping from between his pressed lips. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t think-ing, Jack, please-”

“Did you have that birdy stuck on your mind?” Jack asks with razor sharp slivers of sympathy, and Jason’s chest starts strangling him.

“Not gonna fuck up another game,” Jason promises, pressing the words out before he can say anything properly stupid. “Not gonna fuck up, Jack, I promise.”

“No wonder your head’s all blocked up,” Jack purrs, and Jason cants his hips into his grip, knuckles white on the lip of the desk. “That birdy not been taking care of my boy?”

“Can you shut the fuck up, please?” Jason grits out, squeezing his eyes shut.

Jack slaps him. It’s a little more than a love tap, but it still flashes up the left side of Jason’s jaw and cheek, snapping his eyes open. Jack’s still smiling shrewdly, which means Jason hasn’t fucked up totally yet, but if he’s already gearing up for a backhand, he’s in more of a mood than Jason had originally suspected.

Jason sinks his hips down, broadcasting his compliance as Jack works him through his jeans with fast, deliberate strokes.

“What are you going to do?” Jack asks him, and Jason whines.

“Focus, fucking focus,” Jason snarls, but it’s wavering along the chords of need and desperation. “Get my head in the game. Fuck, Jack, I’ll stop fucking thinking about him, okay? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, alright?”

“Get your ass into gear,” Jack orders flatly, streaked with that dangerous edge of aggravation, and Jason withers underneath the blunt ferocity of it. Everything in him coils defensively, and he’s not sure if its the brewing shitstorm or his approaching orgasm that’s to blame. “Screw your little birdy if you have to, but start playing like you’re fucking being paid to.”

“Yes, sorry, yes, Jack, please-”

Jack tips him violently over the cusp of his orgasm, and Jason bites through his lip and all but splinters the desk beneath his palms as he rides it out. When Jason stops whining and devolves into heavy-chested panting, Jack leans back and sucks a breath down Jason’s cigarette.

“These things will give you lung cancer,” he says conversationally, and Jason heaves a breath and lifts his eyes to meet Jack’s. “You won’t have any lungs left if you’re not careful.”

Then he tilts forwards and puts the butt out on the back of Jason’s fist.

Jason screams, but it’s low in his throat and he manages to catch it behind his teeth before it makes it out of his mouth. His hand flexes and cants briefly, but he keeps it wrapped around the fucking desk as Jack grinds the hot ash into his bare skin. Blinks back tears and keeps his gaze on Jack as he drinks in Jason’s expression like a void.

Then he straightens, and Jason lets out a shaky exhale.

“See that you keep your head on straight,” Jack says frankly, and Jason pulls off the desk and makes his hasty exit under the piercing weight of that hazel gaze. 

Chapter Text

Dick runs Tim ragged perfecting his triple combination. He appreciates the criticism and the effort Dick’s putting into making sure his Lutz-Salchow is absolutely flawless, so he doesn’t mind that his feet are practically blistered by the time they warm down. But it’s a little hard to justify the dedication to himself when he knows Dick’s just looking for another way in with Bruce. Tim’s trying to stay optimistic for Dick’s sake, but he’s apprehensive all the same. The likelihood that Bruce will green light his combination has approximately the same success rate as Tim spontaneously sprouting wings. 

Tim’s sitting on the sidelines, warming down his overexerted muscles with slow, painful lunges when he spots Jason loitering near the foyer, gaze lost over the ice. He’s watching Dick chase a handful of young kids around the rink, bellowing something about being the dreaded Mr Freeze with his child-eating Zamboni. 

So Tim straightens and waves until the motion catches Jason’s attention, and doesn’t miss the relief that washes over his face when he spots Tim. He stretches out his obliques while he waits for Jason to make his way past the bleachers, hands buried deep in the pockets of his red sweatshirt. 

“You found me,” Tim murmurs with a lazy smile when Jason slows to watch him lace his fingers and stretch his arms above and over his head. His gaze traces over Tim’s ribs, lingering on his hips before it snaps back up to his eyes. 

“Your rink has finished being refurbished, huh?” Jason asks, and his tone is masked beneath the polite drawl of conversation. Tim shakes out his arms and closes the distance between them, slipping down onto the bench seat beside the taller man. Jason folds after a second’s hesitation, his thigh inches from Tim’s. 

“Best that Wayne money can buy,” Tim answers. “Turns out running your own champion-breeding rink brings in plenty of dough. But I’m sure it’s nothing compared to an NHL salary.” 

Jason smirks and huffs a small laugh. “Not once you factor in how many fines Wilson keeps giving me.” There’s a few beats of silence while Tim tugs on his gloves to stave off the ambient chill of the rink, and Jason watches his long fingers disappear beneath the black leather. “So I guess I won’t see you at Cobblepot’s rink anymore, huh?” 

Tim pauses, flexing his fingers as he chooses his answer carefully. “I could find an excuse,” he settles on, and glances aside at Jason. “Or you could train me here.” 

Jason barks a clipped laugh. “You’re still hooked on me training you? Looks like you’ve got that triple-triple combination down superbly without me.” 

Tim arches a shoulder and meets that deep blue gaze. “Could always improve my axels. And I’ll need some tutoring for that signature quad Lutz triple axel.” 

Jason raises his brows and stares down at his hands, shuffling them in the front of his sweatshirt to keep them warm. “You’re still going to try to perfect that routine. Jesus, you’re determined, princess.” 

“My best and worst trait,” Tim offers, to a quiet chuckle. The sound of it makes him smile. “So what do you say? Want to practice some axels?” 

“I don’t know,” Jason drawls, feigning reluctance. Tim can see the curl of his smile, even as he turns to stare across the ice. “Feel like my talents might be wasted on just doing axels.” 

“We could do a routine,” Tim suggests lazily. 

“I’m only doing a routine to Pink Floyd,” Jason counters, and Tim shrugs. 

“I’m not averse to that. No lyrics though.” 

“Great Gig in the Sky, baby,” Jason leans over to purr into the corner of Tim’s jawline. 

Tim snorts. “You’ve already got this all planned out, don’t you?” 

“You going to wear a backless dress like Virtue?” 

Tim’s mind flashes to a half-remembered routine from Bruce's educational Worlds tapes. “Only if you wear a turtleneck.” 

“Fuck, harsh but fair. And I could rock a turtleneck, princess.” Jason surveys him for a moment, considering. “Say, have you done your Queen routine yet?” 

Tim arches a brow. “Queen routine?” 

“Yeah, it’s a tradition. Dick started it,” Jason adds, as if that explains it all. Tim gets it. “Everyone does at least one routine to a Queen song. Dick did ‘Flash’. God, his outfit was terrible.” 

“Terrible because it was stupidly skintight, or terrible because it was pulled from the 80s?” 

Jason grins and fishes around for his phone in his back pocket. “Knew there was a reason I liked you, princess.” He boots the Youtube app, his fingers flying over the screen before he turns it to face Tim. 

It’s one of Dick’s Regionals routines. Jason hadn’t been wrong about the outfit being terrible. It was a gaudy, sequined two-tone blue piece with a short popped collar, that traced the curves of his calves and spine and his ass. 

Tim snatches the phone up, inspecting the tiny screen as the thrumming drum intro bleats through the tinny speakers, echoed by the dramatic dimmed lighting over the ice. There’s a wide stripe of gold dipping across his chest, and- tassels. Those are tiny golden tassels. He can sort of see the appeal; they flare and catch the light as Dick spins, drawing attention down the taut curves of his body. 

Jason slides a finger under his chin and closes his mouth, tilting him up so he can hold his gaze pointedly. “Yeah,” Jason says with gleeful reverence. “Try being fourteen and training with that.” 

Tim pulls back, mortified, and offers him a consoling look. “You poor bastard.” He looks down at the screen again, picturing the high-cheeked blushes he’s seen on the faces of countless teenagers at the Titans’ rink. “Poor Damian.” 

“Who’s Damian?” 

“Bruce’s kid.” 

Jason snorts, grinning maliciously. “Oh, right. He’s got it bad, huh?” 

“You have no idea,” Tim says, handing back the phone reluctantly. “And Dick Grayson is a hugger. So, I have to pick a Queen song?” 

“Yeah, he started it back when he was competing,” Jason says, and shifts his perch on the bench. His knee skims Tim’s as he settles. “Dick’s parents did a routine to ‘Show Must Go On’, and he sort of ran with it. Even Bruce joined in.” 

“Bruce did a Queen routine?” Tim asks, flicking back through his memorised catalogue. 

“‘Killer Queen’,” Jason supplies, “with Selina. Black leather catsuits.” 

“Holy shit, Bruce in a catsuit?” 

“I gotta say, I miss the ridiculous figures outfits. Hockey jerseys just don’t age as terribly.” 

“What was your song?” 

“‘I Want It All’.” 

“Good choice.” Tim hums, absently lacing his fingers up into Jason’s hairline. Jason stills beneath him, and Tim jerks his hand back, coughing pointedly. “Uh, any recommendations?” 

Jason looks comically betrayed. “Picking a Queen song is a solemn Wayne mentee tradition. You can’t just outsource it, princess." 

“Wait, when did you do your Queen routine?” Tim asks slyly. “I want to see your outfit.” 

Jason hesitates all of five seconds before conceding, “Regionals 2013.” 

Tim’s phone’s already out of his pocket before he finishes speaking. There’s a myriad of still images of Jason flaunting a crisp bronze medal. He can’t be older than fifteen, his features a handsome mix of adolescent and adult. 

But his outfit. “Oh shit,” Tim breathes involuntarily, and pinches into an enlarged podium shot. Jason’s in skintight charcoal-black lycra, and it is doing absolutely nothing to tone down the sheer muscle mass he’s carrying, even at that age. 

The bodysuit cuts off just past his shoulders, exposing the toned ridges of his biceps. There’s a splash of red mesh across his chest that twines up to his collarbone, and more scarlet ribbon lashed around his forearms, shimmering under the spotlights. Two accents circle his thighs and slice up his hips. Tim can’t tell if he’s more impressed by the outfit or the idea of Jason wearing it. 

“Fair’s fair, princess,” Jason purrs after a moment of bathing in Tim’s appreciative speechlessness. “I showed you mine; now you gotta show me yours.” 

So Tim brings up his 2015 Four Continents routine, a flattering action shot of him in an arabesque as he pulls out of a flawless Biellmann. He passes the phone into Jason’s palm and folds his arms so he doesn’t fidget under the secondhand attention. 

Jason stares dumbfoundedly at the screen. “Tell me you didn’t do a My Chem routine for this.” 

Tim resolves not to blush, tilting his chin a fraction higher. “‘Sharpest Lives’,” he confirms with a half-smile. Jason offers him a disbelieving look, to which he shrugs. “I was a rebellious teenager once too. It’s not the worse choice in songs, even if Bruce wasn’t totally onboard.” 

“It’s certainly a statement piece,” Jason says, inspecting the burgundy parade jacket. The black accents stand up against the slice of red Tim had dyed into his hair for the event. “I’m amazed you didn’t smack yourself in the face with those braids,” he adds lightly, gesturing to the golden aiguillettes corded across Tim’s chest. 

“They’re pinned,” Tim offers in explanation. He’d watched too many sessions of Dick slapping himself in the face with all manner of decorative braids to fall for that trap. 

“Loving the glitter,” Jason drawls, and Tim resists the urge to snatch the phone out of his grasp. He’d accented the whole thing with a smattering a black and gold glitter across his cheekbones and temples, at Dick’s behest. Jason glances over to bat his lashes mockingly. “Really brings out your eyes.” 

“Shut up,” Tim growls, but he allows a small smile as he divests Jason of the phone. He shoves it hurriedly into his pocket before Jason can make anymore comments about his eyes. 

Jason grins to himself and glances up to watch Dick herd the small hoard of children off the ice. “He really loves teaching that class, huh?” 

Tim nods. “The Titans are his everything. The highlight of his week, honestly.” Tim sighs, the vice of his chest lacing tight. “He just wants to be on the ice. He confessed that he’s doing doubles the other day.” 

Jason spins to offer him an alarmed expression, and Tim nods accordingly. 

“I know,” he says. “I had the same reaction. But I can’t say I blame him. He just can’t stand not to be doing jumps for the rest of his life. Skating’s a part of him. He’s not giving it up, ankle or no.” 

“He’s going to get himself hurt if he’s not careful,” Jason mutters. 

Tim hums in agreement, watching him stoop to help a little pig-tailed girl loosen her laces. “He said I could spot him, so I’ve been making sure he’s not doing anything above basic doubles. I figure, if you can’t beat him, join him.” 

Jason scoffs. “Sounds about right. I’ve never known a single man who could resist Dickie’s puppy dog eyes.” 

“Hey,” Tim says softly, and Jason glances down at him, alerted by his tone. Tim fidgets with his gloves and tries not to rush through his request. “I was wondering if you’d been thinking about that other night. The- the one on the ice. When we’d- the lifts we did.” 

A surreptitious glance tells him Jason’s smiling, but there’s a guarded reticence to it that Tim can’t place. “Yeah,” he answers. “More than I should be.” 

Tim doesn’t know what to make of that, so he clears his throat and shuffles a little closer, his thigh brushing Jason’s. That piercing blue gaze cuts down immediately to where they’re fused together, and Tim tries to act casual. “I, um, was wondering if you’d be open to doing it again?” 

He can’t bring himself to look higher than Jason’s jaw, but he can see the peek of his canines past rosy lips, so he must be grinning. It makes heat rush unbeckoned to Tim’s cheeks. 

“Are you talking about a date, princess?” 

“What’s this about dates?” 

Tim leaps nearly a foot in the air at the sound of Dick’s chirp, and is only mildly relieved to find Jason’s been caught equally off-guard. Based on the lazy grin Dick sends in his direction, it’s entirely intentional. 

“Uh, training,” Tim blurts. “Dates for training. Jason was going to show me some axels.” 

“Oh?” Dick says curiously, skating in a slow circle in front of the gate. “If you’ve still got energy for that, I should have you do another set of Salchows.” 

Tim winces. “Not-” 

“I can’t do a session today,” Jason cuts in, sparing Tim. He tries not to look too relieved under Dick’s scrutiny. “I’ve got training. We’re in the Second Round now, so I’ve gotta put in the hours.” 

Dick cocks his head with a light frown. “I thought you’d be at training now. Don’t you start at eight, Little Wing?” 

“Press release this morning,” Jason mumbles lowly, hunching his shoulders. “Jack’s gotta make a speech for the paps, since we knocked the Angels out of the playoffs. Training doesn’t start til ten today, so I’ve got the morning spare.” 

“Congratulations,” Dick responds easily. “Who are you versing next?” 

“The Metropolis Jets,” Jason replies. “First game’s on Thursday. So we’re back to the regular training schedule tomorrow. Wilson will fine my ass if I’m late.” 

Dick beams supportively. “Fair enough. Good luck in your next game, then.” 

“Thanks,” Jason says, and glances over at Tim. “But, uh, if you want to do some training in the evenings, let me know. We usually wrap up around eight or nine p.m., so I can come around here if that suits you?” 

“Yeah,” Tim says softly, offering him a smile. 

Dick steps through the gate, hooking his thumbs casually over his hips. “Are you free tonight?” 

Jason’s gaze snaps up to him. “What?” 

“Are you free tonight?” Dick repeats easily, and shifts his weight off his bad ankle. “I’d love to see your triples again. It’s been years. I’m sure there’s plenty for you to work on, Little Wing.” 

“I-” Jason starts, and glances at Tim for guidance. 

“Sure,” Tim answers for him, offering Dick a bright grin. The way Dick’s eyes shine when he meets Tim’s gaze tells him he knows exactly what’s going on, and Tim’s due for a full-length interrogation once Jason’s out of earshot. Tim deflates a little; he’s not sure he can withstand more torture after a whole evening at Steph’s inquisitive mercy. 

Jason shrugs as casually as he can manage, pushing to his feet. “Sure thing. I’ll see you both at ten, then?” 

“Be seeing you, Little Wing,” Dick purrs as Jason shifts his gaze from Tim’s and makes a hasty exit. 

Tim watches until he disappears behind the foyer doors, casting one last half-hearted wave back at them. Tim reciprocates, and then he’s gone and Dick is suddenly immensely close. 

“Hey, grackle.” 

Tim groans and slumps back against the bench. “Please be gentle. Steph already grilled me last night.” 

“Oh no,” Dick assures him coyly. “We’re good. I don’t need to cross-examine you now. I’ll have all evening, and a corroborating witness.” 

Tim offers him a mortified glower. “You’re supposed to be my trusted confidant. This is the first date I’ve had in like, a year. You’re supposed to be supportive.” 

“So it is a date,” Dick points out triumphantly, and Tim swings up to his feet so he doesn’t have to stare up at that perfectly devious grin. 

“Second date,” Tim corrects. “Third, if you count the coffee date.” 

Dick hooks a long, lean arm around Tim’s shoulders before he can escape. “Look at you, grackle, on your third date.” 

“Shut up,” he growls good-naturedly, and shimmies out of Dick’s contortionist grip. “I don’t know if it counts as a date if my third-wheeling mentor is live tweeting it from the sidelines.” 

“It does if you kiss,” Dick purrs sagaciously, and Tim shoots him a heated glare. 

“I’m not kissing in front of you. Ever.” 

Dick drops down onto the bleachers and sighs dramatically as he picks open his laces. “We’ll see, grackle. But first - are you feeling like Cantonese? Because I’m going to need a full stomach before we start discussing your taste in men.” 

“I hate you,” Tim groans as he buries his face in his hands.

Chapter Text

“Watch that knee, Little Wing!” 

Jason skirts the lobe, turning his head to keep Dick in view as he skates up the outside line. Tim’s sitting inside the gate, next to Dick, arms crossed atop his knees as he watches Jason lay out triples. It’s been a while since he’s attempted any jump, let alone a series of triples. At least when he was in full padding he had an excuse for his poor form. Being bone-tired probably isn’t helping any either. Jason knows he’s out of practice, and Dick’s benevolent chirps are starting to grate on him. 

He cuts in close to the barrier, glancing down at Tim’s caged expression before he lifts his gaze to meet Dick’s beaming smile. “Do you have an off-mode for that mentor thing?” Jason asks as he wheels past, and Dick laughs. He grinds to a halt a few feet in front of them. “When you said you wanted to see my triples, I didn’t think you meant we’d spend the whole evening critiquing my technique.” 

“This is a training session, isn’t it?” Dick replies mildly, and Tim tenses irritably beside him. His gaze flickers down to him, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m training you.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Tim mutters under his breath, but they both catch it anyway. 

“Don’t pout, grackle. You’re next.” 

“Are you going to actually get on the ice?” Tim asks without looking up, cutting his blade absently. 

Dick shrugs. “I can get on the ice. I don’t see what difference it makes.” 

“You’d get to skate with us.” 

Dick glances at Jason, raising a brow. “It’s not like I can really keep up with you two. At best I could do some doubles with you, but then I’m done for the evening. I figured you two could do the jumps and I could mentor you. That’s how training usually goes, right?” 

“You could do lifts,” Tim mutters, and Dick’s expression falls slightly. 

“Grackle, we talked about this,” he says softly, and Jason makes a slow circle on the ice, for lack of anything better to do to ease the tension. 

“Not with me,” Tim agrees, straightening to look at him. “But Jason could lift you easily.” 

Dick starts, and Jason feels his nerves flare at that suggestion. Tim’s gaze doesn’t shift off Dick, who gives a light chuckle. “Jason’s not going to lift me,” Dick says dismissively, waving a hand. 

“Why not?” Tim presses, unrelenting. “He’s strong enough.” 

Dick casts him a fleeting glance, his smile looking a bit strained now. “I’m sure he is, but that’s not-” 

Tim overrides him. “You want to skate again. We can help you do that. You just have to-” 

“Tim,” Dick says firmly, and Jason shrinks back from Tim’s responding glower. “We’re not doing lifts. It’s not going to happen.” 

“But you want to-” 

“What I want is irrelevant here,” Dick retorts quickly, his electric blue eyes flashing bright. “I can’t do lifts on my ankle, Tim. We’ve been over this.” 

Tim turns, hooking one skate up on the threshold of the gate as he faces Dick fully. “With an assisted lift, it won’t be an issue. It’s as good a chance as any-” 

“I’m not going to be responsible for injuring one of you,” Dick snaps hotly. “Besides, Jason hasn’t done a lift in years. He didn’t even do pairs back when he was skating.” 

“We’ve been practicing,” Tim points out, shutting that down. “And he’s a lot more equipped to handle you now than he was back then. You’ll get to skate again, Dick.” 

Dick’s tone is hard and unflinching, his glare heated now. Jason can see the yearning in the depths of his eyes though, that heedless desire burning behind his restraint. “Tim, it’s not happening.” 

Jason watches Tim shoot to his feet, stepping back onto the ice. “Then I’m doing my triple-triple combination for Regionals.” 

Panic laces sharply up through Jason’s chest. That sounds like an absolutely terrible idea to Jason. Not because he doesn’t think Tim should do it - he absolutely should - but trying to bluff Dick into doing something he’s dug his heels in about is guaranteed to go poorly. 

Dick looks incensed. “What?” 

Tim’s chin raises an inch as he wheels slowly backwards towards Jason. “Triple Lutz triple Salchow,” he says with a hint of reckless taunting. “Sixth element. Want me to show you?” 

“That’s irresponsible and you know it,” Dick snarls, and Tim shrugs. Jason has a blinding moment of clarity where he wonders if this is what Dick was seeing when he challenged Bruce all those years ago. 

“Do the lifts,” Tim offers in ultimatum, his tone cold and unwavering. 

Dick steps out from around the barrier, touching onto the ice as he stares Tim down. “I’m not doing lifts to stop you from pulling a triple-triple at Regionals. Those sort of combinations so late in your routine are going to get you hurt, Tim. I’m not going to let you risk injuring yourself just so I can do a few lifts.” 

“We’re adults,” Tim says, and Jason wonders vaguely if that statement rings true in the context. “We can make our own decisions. If Jason says he can do the lift, what’s the issue?” 

“Does he?” Dick points out. Everything feels like it’s spiraling, a vortex breaching between them that’s sucking Jason into its orbit. Dick gestures impatiently in his direction. “I haven’t heard him say anything on this yet. And I don’t think Jason’s irresponsible enough to put himself at risk just to give me a few minutes of hang time.” 

“I mean,” Jason stalls, and both sets of eyes flash to him. It’s the wrong answer. It’s absolutely the wrong answer, but it’s the truthful answer too. “I absolutely am.” 

Dick doubles down on that glower, suddenly aware that he’s outnumbered. Tim’s eyes flash with something akin to vicious victory, and Jason immediately regrets letting them drag him into this argument. 

“See? I don’t see what the issue is, Dick, I really don’t. You want to do them, Jason wants to do them. What’s the problem here?” 

Dick’s only a foot off Tim now, a shimmering mirage of restrained fury as he pulls to a sharp halt. Tim braces a heel back against the force of that glower, cold and tenacious. “Even if I wanted to do them, it’s not worth it to me. Yes, I want to skate. God, yes, I want to jump. But I’m not putting either of you at risk for my own selfish pleasure. Not now, not ever. It’s not worth it to me.” 

“What if it’s what we want? Would you deny us what we want? Would you be that selfish?” Tim points out, and Dick flushes, caught like a rabbit in a snare. 

“That’s- it’s- it’s not comparable,” he snaps, and Tim practically bears forward in his irritation at being sidelined. “Even if I wanted to, and you want to- We couldn’t- We shouldn’t-” 

“We can,” Tim insists. “You can skate again, Dick. Just let us do this for you.” 

“I can’t let you-” Dick starts. 

“Why won’t you-” 

“-do that for me. It’s not-” 

“Dick,” Jason says loudly, and both of them lapse into silence. He holds out an open palm. “Come here.” 

Dick looks down at Jason’s hand, and back up again. “You don’t expect me to-” 

“Do you want to fly or not?” Jason asks, and Dick’s expression pinches in something so hopeful, so forlorn, that Jason feels his chest clench in response. The tension visibly washes out of him. 

“Okay,” Dick croaks after a beat, taking his hand, and lets Jason pull him across the rink at a glacial pace. 

“Deep breath, Dickie,” Jason teases with a grin, and Dick scowls. 

“You know how to- how to do this, right?” He sounds viscerally unsure. 

Jason doesn’t flinch. “We’ve been practicing for you.” 

“I’m heavier than Tim,” Dick says immediately, his tone low and strung. 

“And I’m stronger than both of you,” Jason answers, puts his hands on Dick’s waist. Dick freezes up. Jason stills. “We’re not doing this without you, Dick. If you want out, you say so and we’ll stop. Straight away.” 

“Okay,” Dick whispers, and Jason catches the flutter of excitement laced into those words. 

Jason smiles. “But Tim and I put our heads together without killing each other, which is nothing short of a fucking miracle, and came up with a way to get you flying again. So the floor’s yours, Dickiebird. What do you want to do?” 

Dick squeezes his forearm, and Jason’s suddenly transported back to a lifetime of soft, unassuming touches and bright words of praise. Dick talks with his body more than his lips, and it’s been too long since Jason’s spoken that language with him. 

“There you are,” Jason says lowly, and pushes backwards, pulling gently at Dick’s waist. He follows, matching Jason’s pace perfectly, because he’s Dick fucking Grayson and he could skate just as effortlessly in his sleep. 

And Christ, it’s been a while since Jason’s been this close to him. Dick Grayson has the sort of athletic body that Jason as a teen had seen women literally cry over. Jason can admit to himself that there were a few evenings he’d stood in front of a full length mirror and doubted how he could possibly measure up to Dick’s lean, lithe form with such gangly, oddly weighted limbs. Jason had been thirteen and halfway between two growth spurts when he’d been picked up by Bruce at a local competition. Self-esteem was a real bitch at that age. Jason hadn’t exactly been welcome in higher skating circles, not when he was going through his third pair of scuffed second-hand skates because his last ones had officially been damaging the arches of his feet with how much they crowded him. But he'd known Bruce was a figure skating champion even back then. 

Willis had taken the huge man aside while Jason had been busy collecting his jaw off the floor, and Dick had sidled up beside Jason and wrapped an arm over his shoulders. Had beamed down at him with that stupidly perfect smile and told him how impressed he was with Jason’s triple axel. 

Dick’d been eighteen going on nineteen back then, and Jason had been embarrassingly starstruck with how effortlessly handsome Dick Grayson was. He hadn’t even figured out how much of a huge deal he was in the skating world until a month after Bruce had taken him in, and then Jason had been doubly embarrassed and dazed, because the Dick Grayson was grinning at him and telling him how far Jason could go if he focused on his technique and stuck with it. 

Dreams don’t tend to stick around for long once you start waking up to reality. Jason had come into his growth spurts, packing on muscle like it was nobody’s business, and gearing up to tackle harder and harder jumps. And for the most part, Bruce had been encouraging. Had been tempered and rational and thoughtful and supportive. And Jason had needed that, had needed that safety line in his life. That had been the precipice, and then that line had snapped, and everything had gone downhill from there. 

Because Dick had nearly killed himself, and had absolutely killed his career, in one fell swoop, and Jason had spent that whole night curled up in a too big ball in a too small plastic hospital chair, waiting for Dick to come around. And when he had, he’d pulled Jason into his side onto the bed with his good, unbroken arm, even though Jason was nearly his height and much too big to be sitting on a narrow hospital cot. But Dick had grinned and winced and told him he’d be fine, and for a few suspended hours, Jason had thought everything would be okay. 

It hadn’t lasted. Dick had been released from the hospital a few days later, but he’d left his flippant, unconcerned outlook lying in that bed, along with the last hopes that he’d ever skate professionally again. 

And Jason had been stupid and naive enough to think everything would go back to how it had been before. That he’d pick up right where he left off and throw himself back into competitions. Only Bruce was shaken and stern and scared, and at first Jason had been too. Had been patient and understanding. 

But then Bruce hadn’t backed down from his stance on Jason’s triple combinations, and had started curbing him further, spouting shit about how he was being reckless and careless. 

And Jason had been fifteen and capable and angry. 

Angry at Bruce, for not trusting him like he obviously trusted Dick, had always trusted Dick, even up to and after his spill. Angry at Dick, for wiping himself out and dragging Jason’s future down with his. Angry at himself, for not being able to measure up to the perfect Dick Grayson and convince Bruce that he could do this. 

So he’d disobeyed. He’d change doubles to triples and triples to combinations. He’d shouted Bruce down in an empty rink over whether or not he should be allowed to do quads. And then he’d changed out his Worlds routine on the fly with no prior indication to Bruce, and he’d laid out that triple axel triple Lutz combination like it hadn’t even been hard. And he’d felt vindicated and justified and righteous, and Bruce had been so- so- 

Furious. Scared. Disappointed.  

Jason hadn’t known if it was because it was so close to Dick’s final perfect jump, that unbelievable quad Lutz triple axel that had made the whole world grind to a halt while he had held it perfectly in his fist and flown across the surface of the ice. Maybe it was just the difficulty of the triple combination that ticked Bruce off. 

For whatever reason, Bruce hadn’t forgiven it. And he’d benched him. 

And Jason wasn’t having it. Wasn’t going to sit by and watch both his and Dick’s futures wash away down the drain. Not when Dick had put so much time and effort into training him, not when they’d invested so much of both of themselves into Jason’s future. 

Sometimes Jason misses figures. He doesn’t regret taking up hockey; he’s damn fucking good at it, and he needs it more than anything else in his life right now. He’d needed the outlet, needed the purpose, needed to be needed by someone other than himself. 

He likes his team. He likes his position. He likes his fucking life now, beyond Bruce’s stifling concern and disappointed scowls. 

But sometimes, when Jason looks at Dick, and nowadays when he looks at Tim, Jason can’t help but wonder how everything would have turned out if it hadn’t all gone to shit. Whether he’d still be a skater. Whether he’d still be an asshole. Whether he’d ever have really made something of himself. 

And then Jason catches that look in Dick’s eyes, the way he looks at Tim flying through quads like it’s only a quick step and then he’d be flying again alongside him, actually flying, and all the blaring static of Jason’s what ifs fade beneath that chest-splitting desire to make Dick Grayson whole again. 

Jason looks down at Dick, held tentatively in his arms. Looks at him looking out across the ice as if it stretches past the horizon and he could chart them a course through the rest of their lives. Jason squeezes Dick’s hands, draws him back until he’s looking at Jason, looking at him like he looks at the ice, and all of Jason melts beneath that gaze. 

He must smile, because Dick beams back at him hesitantly, like he can see a bit too much pain there. “Ready, Dickie?” 

Dick steps into him, layering over the hard lines of his body like a second skin, and it’s all too easy for Jason’s hand to fall to the arch of Dick’s ribs and the other to twine through his fingers. 

Dick moves like water moves, weightless and consistent in his intangibility. He has none of Tim’s hesitation and all of his grace, and it takes absolutely nothing for Jason to bend just that barest amount and then Dick’s flying. 

Honest-to-God, actually flying. 

And Jason doesn’t know how much Tim can see from over against the boards, but the expression on Dick’s face could keep Jason warm for the rest of his days. 

Jason lets him down slower than a glacier, holding his breath through every millimeter until Dick’s firmly planted on the ice and holding his own weight. They don’t stop moving, and Jason’s still travelling, Dick's fingers searing hot in his palm. 

So he leans in close to Dick’s ear and whispers, “You want to do a platter lift?” 

Dick nearly shoots off the ice with how ecstatic he is, and Jason laughs and turns them slowly until Dick’s trailing him again, and crouches down until Dick can almost fall into his palms. 

He’s not light. Jason never made the mistake of thinking that, but he’s not a gangly fifteen-year-old either, and he’s come a long way since Dick could lean into him just a bit too heavy and send them both fumbling down to the ice. 

But God, he looks weightless. He soars, high above Jason’s head, arms splayed broad across the metal sky. The wind catches in his hair just the barest bit, tossing the dark locks, and Dick laughs and flies and trusts Jason to catch him. Jason would move heaven and earth in that moment to make sure Dick never felt the sensation of falling again. 

Jason flexes his grip around the bones of Dick’s hips, and catches Tim’s eye on the other side of the rink. He’s smiling hugely, and Jason must be broadcasting on about the same frequency, because Tim grins impossibly wider when they make eye contact. 

They come down like they’re rising out of a stupor, all steam and lethargy and reluctance as they break the surface of their dream and Dick touches down to the ice. Winces a bit - not because Jason’s being any less careful - but because it’s been awhile since he’s put his ankle through this much of a workout. 

Dick offers him a consoling smile, as if to apologise as he shifts his weight off his bad leg, and Jason doesn’t wait a second longer to sweep out the backs of his knees and wrap an arm around Dick’s shoulder blades. 

Tim rushes up when Jason carries the pair of them over to the gate, a confused concern in his ice-blue gaze. Jason shakes his head once in a placating gesture, and Tim heaves a relieved sigh as Jason sets Dick down inside the gate. 

Tim follows him through, offering him an arm as Dick hobbles up to the nearest bench with the biggest fucking grin Jason’s ever seen on his lips. He collapses back on it, laying out his ankle. He looks a bit windswept, cheekbones rosy and eyes supernova bright. 

It’s so contagious that Jason wonders if humans are even built to hold this much joy in them. 

Jason crosses his arms and leans over the boards, watching Dick pick at his laces and babble excitedly to Tim. Giving him an immediate, extensive recount of what Tim had literally already been there to see. 

And Tim’s still grinning, nodding along to Dick’s sweeping gestures and loud elation like he’s seeing the sun after too many nights. 

Tim extracts himself eventually, once Dick finally focuses enough to get his skate off and is methodically massaging his ankle. He wanders over to where Jason’s watching them, layering his slim arms over Jason’s strong forearms, and twines their fingers together. 

Jason glances down, a little surprised, and when he glances back up, Tim looks adulating. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, sincerely. “For doing that for Dick. For me.” 

Jason clears his throat, glancing over at Dick, and shuffles nervously. “Whatever gets him flying again, right?” 

Tim gives him a wry smile, like he gets that Jason doesn’t know how to handle gratitude that raw. Then he closes the distance and meets Jason’s stunned, agape lips. 

Jason comes out of it blinking and starstruck and vaguely aware that Dick’s staring at them with the telltale curls of a shit-eating grin. “What was that?” he rasps, suddenly breathless. 

“Princesses give out kisses to their knights in shining armour,” Tim says with dripping mockery, and Jason can tell by the flush on his cheeks that he’s embarrassed too. Like he’s not sure if Jason’s going to shout him down for it. “And to frogs.” 

Jason feels a grin spread across his cheeks. “Frog, is it?” he teases, and there’s relief behind Tim’s broad smile. 

So Jason pushes off the ice and hoists himself up the barrier in one fluid motion so he can wrap a hand around Tim’s jaw and drag him in for something a bit more visceral. 

It’s not like when they first kissed; that was all desperation and inescapable sauna heat. This is sharp, slow, thorough. Jason takes his time exploring Tim, his miniscule movements and the way he folds eagerly into Jason’s lead. Tim feels like a firework against his lips, hot and bright and flushed with colour. Jason drinks him in for as long as he’ll let him, and slides back down to the ice when Tim pulls up for air. 

He stares at Jason, lips plush and a little stunned, before he seems to realise the seconds are stretching out and Jason’s ego is only swelling with each passing moment. “Okay,” he says, and tries again for something more eloquent. “Okay.” 

Jason snorts, and leans around and over Tim’s shoulder to stare pointedly at Dick. “There: now I broke your boy.” 

Chapter Text

“So you can play anywhere between sixteen and twenty-eight games in a season?” Dick asks around his mouthful of pepperoni. He’s perched on Tim’s kitchen counter, long legs swinging absently towards the dining table. 

Jason’s leaned back across one of the chairs, arm crooked over the back and his other elbow resting protectively around his Hawaiian pizza. “I mean, if you’re lucky in the playoffs, yeah.” 

Dick frowns. “Wait, that’s only the playoffs?” 

Jason nods, chewing through a pineapple cube. Tim lifts his mug from under the percolator and wonders absently if Jason's lips would be laced with sweetness after that bite. “The regular season can have around eighty games in it. We started back in October.” 

Dick looks horrified. “And you play the whole way through?” 

“Yeah. Like I said, if you’re lucky,” Jason says with a chuckle. “Almost makes me miss skating season. Between the national comps you’re only looking at about four months commitment. Five if it’s an Olympic year.” 

“Okay, so explain the levels to me again.” 

“For the playoffs, which we’re in now, there’s four rounds. The first two are divisional semifinals and the finals - but we just call them Round One and Round Two. Then you go to Conference, which is where you verse the winning team from the other division in your conference.” At Dick’s intense frown, Jason pauses and resets. “We’re in the Eastern Conference, with the Angels and the Jets,” Jason explains carefully. “When I was with the Assassins, they were Western Conference, because they’re based in Oregon. There’s two divisions per conference, and four teams per division; so, two divisionals. Then Conference.” 

“Okay,” Dick says with a hesitant nod. Tim hides his smirk behind his mug. 

“Both winners from each conference verse each other for the Stanley Cup.” 

“So how do you get to twenty-eight games?” 

“It’s best of seven games per division. So anywhere between four and seven games.” 

“Christ, no wonder you still have the stamina to do axels after six years,” Dick muses. He leans around Tim’s arm to snag a piece of his double-cheese-and-anchovy pizza as he passes the counter, and Tim bats his arm away just a second too late. 

He scowls at Dick’s victorious grin, watching him lean back to consume the stringy cheese as Tim props himself up on the table beside Jason’s folded-back box. “So where are you at in the playoffs now?” 

Jason glances up at him, smiling softly under the attention. “We just knocked the Angels out for Round One, so we’ve got a game against the Metropolis Jets next to kickstart Round Two.” 

“Have you played them before?” Tim asks as he cranes his head back to wolf down his pizza. 

Jason grins at the absurdity of it. “Yeah, we verse them nearly every year. We’re the top rivals in our division, so we almost inevitably end up head-to-head for Round Two. They stole our chance at the Stanley Cup last year though, so tensions are high,” he adds with a waggle of his brows. 

Tim snorts. “Have you ever gotten to the Stanley Cup before?” 

“Huh? Yeah, I, uh,” Jason says, and then pauses, some of the mirth fading as his brow pinches. He looks down at his pizza, frowning. “I got to the Stanley Cup with the Assassins, actually, two years back. They’re pretty much undefeated in their division, so it usually comes down to them and the Keystone City Rapids for Western Conference.” 

“Wow, that’s a pretty big commendation,” Tim points out, and Dick hums his agreement around a mouthful of crust. “You used to play for them, so I guess they have you to thank for that undefeated status, huh?” 

Jason scoffs at Tim’s grin. “I’d hope so. Talia ran us absolutely ragged. If there’s anyone who deserves the Stanley Cup on sheer discipline alone, it’s the Assassins. Poor bastards are practically dead inside. Don’t even feel it when you check them.” 

“What was it like?” Tim asks, and clarifies when Jason crooks a brow, “The Stanley Cup. What was it like playing with the Assassins?” 

His features split in a soft, wondrous joy that gives Tim pause for a moment. “Nothing’s like the Stanley Cup,” he says with reverence. 

“Did you win?” Dick asks, and that pain dampens his expression again. Jason withdraws back to his pizza box, brow creasing in a frown. 

“Uh, no. I, um, cost them a power play in the third period,” he mumbles, picking at a slice of ham. “Flipped the score from 2-3 to 5-3. One of the highest scoring games of the season, actually,” he adds with a bitter laugh. Dick looks up from his pizza, concern blooming in the depths of his blue eyes. Jason still won’t meet either of their stares. “Talia had me traded out next season, which is how I ended up with the Jokers. So it was a little hard not to take that as exile, you know?” 

Tim glances at Dick, his throat tight. “But you like playing for the Jokers, right?” he asks tentatively, and Jason looks up, his expression blooming with reassurance when he catches their concerned looks. 

“Oh, yeah, no, absolutely,” he insists, and it sounds genuine, so Tim smiles in encouragement. Jason seems relieved to have moved past the moment, straightening in his seat. “The Jokers are great, honestly. Wilson’s an ass, and Roman’s a fuckwit. But they’re a great team. We’ve got a good line up this year. We’ll be a shoe-in for the Cup,” he says with broad bravado, and Dick laughs, the tension melting under its cheerfulness. 

“Where do they host the Stanley Cup?” Dick pipes up, sliding off the counter. “We could come watch you play, Little Wing.” 

“Oh,” Jason says with a modicum of surprise, “well, it depends how the Conferences go. If we win, it’ll alternate between us and the Western champs’ home rinks for each game.” 

“Well, then you have to win,” Dick says with levity, grinning as he ferrets around in Tim’s pantry, empty pizza box abandoned. “So we can come watch you. If it’s in Gotham, Bruce might even be able to get some time off to show up.” He straightens, a flattened bag of microwavable popcorn in-hand. “Damian’s a huge hockey fan, so I can’t imagine he’ll miss it.” 

Tim grins. Damian’s an enormous hockey fan, though he’s loathe to admit it to anyone else. Tim’s pretty sure he’s contracted tinnitus from Damian’s mad screeching at the live championship stream on his phone before. He can still picture his broad gesturing and incensed fury as the players had carved across the blindingly white ice. 

Dick meets Tim’s gaze with a hike of his brows, and Tim rolls his eyes at Dick’s obvious wingmanship, turning back to gauge Jay’s excitement. He looks like he’s been suckerpunched, and Tim’s mirth drains instantly. 

“Bruce would come?” Jason asks, and oh, there’s so much going on in those three words. Tim winces, sensing Dick’s contriteness at the sudden implication of his words. He recovers faster than Tim, though Tim doubts Jason’s even seeing Dick across the room right now, churning through his own internal debate. 

“Yeah, absolutely, Jay,” Dick says gently, bending to prop his elbows up against the counter. He fixes Jason with that earnest blue gaze until he meets it, and holds it firmly. “Bruce would definitely want to see you play.” 

Jason barks a laugh that’s too sharp, all jagged edges. “I don’t think Bruce is interested in hockey, Dickie. It’s not really his arena, so to speak.” 

“Bruce is proud of you,” Dick asserts, all his mirth weaponised into sober verity. Jason swallows thickly, and Tim tries not to shrink between their attentions. “You know that, right, Little Wing? He’s so proud of you, of what you made of yourself.” 

Jason doesn’t move, his next words coming out stilted, like he hasn’t said them aloud before. “He’s never said as much.” 

Tim can see exactly how deep that cuts Dick. The man reads like an open book, all emotion bared on his face. Dick lives a very heart-on-his-sleeve lifestyle, and Tim’s chest clenches in solidarity with the raw pain in his expression. 

“Jay,” Dick murmurs, and clears his throat when his voice breaks under the softness of it. “He- he’s wanted to, Jay, he really has. He just didn’t know-” 

“He’s never come to a game,” Jason says with hard finality, and Tim’s heart lodges somewhere down with his stomach in his shoes. 

Because he can imagine Jason gliding across the rink before the bell, stick in his gloved grip as he scans the packed stands with reluctant fervour. Hoping for a familiar face in the crowd, hoping it’ll jump out at him from the heaving masses. And Tim can imagine how hard it must have been to swallow that crestfallen dejection when he came up empty-handed. The wounded resilience it must have forged in Jason’s chest. 

Dick looks like he’s exactly three seconds away from leaping over the counter to swamp Jason in a trademark Dick-Grayson-soul-reviving hug. He doesn’t though, because he can tell as well as Tim can that Jason’s been fortifying this brick wall for years, and one well-meaning off-handed gesture isn’t going to dismantle it. 

“He didn’t know if you’d wanted him there,” Dick breathes, and Jason looks so raw and vulnerable under that assertion. He looks so damn young, six years of buried teenage pining and remorse washing over his features in the space of a second. 

Then it leaches into that hard facade again, and something in Tim shrivels at the sight. “He could have asked.” 

Dick swallows, nodding to himself as he digests that blunt tone. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I guess he could have. That’s on him.” 

Jason looks resolutely in agreement with that. But he shrugs carelessly and digs into his box for another slice of pizza. Tim tries to bury his feelings on the matter, shifting his gaze away from where Dick’s frowning at the counter to meet Jason’s aloofly curious gaze. 

“So, princess, what about you? Where are you at with USFSA?” 

Tim starts, jolting a little with the sudden whiplash, but recovers quickly. “Oh, Sectionals is next week.” 

Jason’s brows rise. “Fuck, already?” 

“It’s figures season,” Tim answers with a shrug. 

“Are you driving up to Pennsylvania?” Jason asks, and Tim realises vividly that Jason probably made this exact trip with Dick when he was doing figures. 

“Yeah,” Dick interjects from the counter, and when Tim glances up he’s shoving the popcorn packet into the microwave. He stabs at the keypad, grinning as it whirs to life. “Same place we stayed when you did Sectionals, Little Wing. Thinking we might stop at Haly’s Confectionarium in on the way up - what d’you think?” 

Jason groans with pleasure. “They have great pretzels. Size of your head. You should bring me back one.” He fixes Tim with a suddenly horrified, adamant expression. “Don’t let him get the funnel cake. He’ll be bouncing off the walls by the time he gets to Pennsylvania.” 

“Hey!” Dick protests as the microwaves chimes. His expression lights up as he scrambles to extract the steaming mountain of golden popcorn. “Those are some quality sweets you’re talking about there. Nobody bad mouths Haly’s in my presence.” 

Tim jumps when Jason’s warm hand snakes around to rest in the curve of his lower back, and he reflexively glances down at the sudden contact, catching the rosy tint to Jason’s cheeks. So Tim leans back on his palms on the table, covertly curling into the touch, and kicks out his legs. 

“You don’t need anymore sugar in you,” Tim concurs, and Dick looks wounded. 

“The only perk I get to being a retired champion athlete, and you both want to deprive me of it,” he moans dramatically, and Tim laughs. 

“You’ve been demolishing their kettle corn bouquets since I was competing,” Jason counters with incredulity. “Maintaining a figures body never stopped you before.” 

Dick empties the steaming hot popcorn into a large metal bowl and sashays around the counter, staring into its depths wistfully. “It’s just not the same,” he commiserates as he heads for the lounge. “Nothing beats Haly’s.” 

“You just like carnival food,” Tim contradicts, wiggling to the edge of the table to follow him. Jason stands with a speed that surprises him, hands winding around Tim’s waist to lift him and set him gently on the timber before Tim can do more than yelp in bewilderment. He freezes when he’s set back on his feet in the shadow of Jason’s bulk, blindingly aware that Dick has stilled near the couch to watch them. 

Jason arches a single brow, his lips crooked in a devilish smile at Tim’s flushed reaction because yeah, and okay, and maybe he likes the idea that Jason can manhandle him so easily. Just maybe, maybe, he’s always kind of liked being the lifted more than the lifter. 

Damned if he’s going to admit that to Jason, here, now, in front of Dick, who will certainly doesn’t need more ammunition to use against the teenage-hormone-disaster that Tim is. 

So he sticks up his chin and meets Jason’s self-congratulatory smirk with a heated glower that’s not entirely indignation, snapping, “Hands off the goods.” 

Jason blinks, stunned, before that mischievous grin returns twofold. He leans down to purr in Tim’s ear as he weaves around him, hiding his words in the nape of his neck as he flicks his pizza box closed. “Thought you liked my hands on your goods, princess.” 

Dick looks radiant, so Tim must be blushing like a nun in a sex shop right now. Jason just chuckles and saunters over to the lounge, completely nonchalant as he folds down next to Dick, who holds Tim’s gaze for a potent second longer. “You coming, grackle?” 

Great choice of verb, Tim thinks, and scurries to follow them, rounding the sofa to find both Dick and Jason have claimed the armrests. Completely intentionally, he suspects, by the way Dick is trying to hide his grin in a mouthful of popcorn and failing. Tim rolls his eyes and slots himself into the gap, very aware of how both Dick and Jason’s thighs sandwich him in against the cushions. He can’t help but imagine how much of a field day Steph would have if she could see him now, pressed between Public Enemy of Tim’s Pubescent Daydreams #1 and the affectionately named Jason “Big Thigh Energy” Todd. 

Jason leans over Tim as he loads up the movie, layering him into Dick’s side with the bulk of his shoulder. Tim yelps in protest as Dick squirms to salvage his kidnapped popcorn, bleating petulantly. 

“I’m saving some for the rest of us,” Jason says nobly, releasing Tim from his temporary muscle-and-biceps prison. Tim feels unbearably hot, and tries to fix his gaze on the innocuous screen as the opening credits begin to roll, pointedly ignoring the slice of Jason’s broad grin in his peripheral. 

Dick and Jason trade quips the whole way through the movie, and if Tim was paying more attention maybe he’d be able to offer a few of his own. But Jason had put his hand on Tim’s thigh exactly forty-seven seconds into the first scene, and it had stayed there for the entire duration, radiating heat into the muscles of Tim’s leg. His only saving grace is that he’d made the executive decision to turn the lights off before they got too far in, so he can pretend that Dick hasn’t noticed yet. 

The hand alone he could have ignored, maybe. Probably. But the gentle squeezes and the slow, incremental strokes of Jason’s thumb up across the ridge of his muscle is its own special form of torture. It only stops when Tim shifts to rest his temple against Jason’s shoulder, and he feels a retributory surge of pride when Jason’s thumb stutters before resuming. 

He shifts again once the quips have died down, lulled into plasticity as he hooks a knee over Dick’s and burrows back into the plush cushions, content. Dick pauses to lean over to him while the dashing on-screen protagonist is making mournful eyes at the damsel, and murmurs, voice pitched low, “So how long have you two been seeing each other?” 

Tim smiles grimly, keeping his gaze fixated on the screen ahead of them. “Now, really?” 

“I didn’t get my cross-examination,” Dick whispers back, his words curling around his grin. “So how long?” 

“A few weeks,” Tim admits. “We had a skating date.” 

“Steph said you two got in each others pants.” 

Tim turns to stare at him under the stark, flickering lights, mortification lighting him up. “You spoke to Steph?” he gulps, and Dick’s grin looks wicked in the gleam. 

“Gotta say, grackle,” Dick purrs, “even I never tried to go down on someone on an ice rink. That’s some next level kinkery right there.” 

Tim flushes, paling. “That’s not what happened.” 

“Really?” Dick says dubiously, his eyes sparkling as his brow pinches, his volume rising to a croon. “So you don’t think he’s ‘really effing hot’?” 

“Steph’s putting words in my mouth,” Tim hisses surreptitiously, glancing across at Jason to see if he’s clued into the conversation. “You know you can’t trust a single thing she-” 

Dick barks a laugh, brows arches in incredulity. “Don’t try to detract from the-” 

Tim claps a hand over Dick’s mouth, jerking his head towards where Jason sits. Or, slumps, more accurately. He’s half-slouched into the cushions, head propped up on an arm against the rest, fringe falling into his closed eyes. 

Dick softens at the sight, eyes brightening as Tim withdraws his hand. “Is he asleep?” he stage whispers, and Tim scowls. 

“I think so,” he confirms, and carefully disengages the huge bowl of stale popcorn from Jason’s protective curl around it. He shuffles a bit when Tim finally gets the bowl free, brow pulling into faint agitation now that his arms are empty, and Tim lets him coil his considerable bulk into the cushions before he sets the bowl down carefully on the coffee table. 

“He must be running himself ragged,” Dick muses, disentangling himself from the cushions with lithe, fluid grace. He steps off the couch, headed for the hall, and Tim balks. 

“Where are you going?” he hisses, mortified that Dick’s really going to leave him alone with the sleeping hockey player. 

“Relax, grackle,” he purrs, returning with a blanket from the hall closet. “Your virtue’s safe with me.” Dick slots himself neatly back into his seat, throwing the blanket across their laps, and positively beams over at Jason. “He’s so big.” 

Tim sweeps Jason’s compacted bulk with a lingering gaze. “Yeah, he’s in the NHL,” he offers in explanation, and Dick shakes his head, locks sashaying around his crown. 

“No, I mean- Well, he never used to be little, I suppose, but…” Tim can see the memory in that gaze, the intimacy Dick shares with Jason, the same affinity he shares with Tim now. The hours and hours spent perfecting form and angles on the ice. Dick sighs, and it’s a little forlorn, a little bit haunted. “He grew so much in six years. He’s just so… So damn big now. He really filled out. He was just this little scrappy teenager yesterday, just my little br-” 

Dick pauses, jaw snapping shut as his gaze flashes down to Tim and back up again. Tim catches the tail end of it when he glances over his shoulder at the older man, who hunkers down a little deeper into the blanket. 

“I’ve missed him, is all,” Dick finishes quietly, and Tim smiles to himself. It washes away when Dick sighs a little heavily, eyes tracing the line of Jason’s jaw and the slope of his long eyelashes. “I kind of ruined everything between him and Bruce, way back when.” 

Guilt washes through Tim, and he frowns. “You didn’t ask for that injury. You didn’t plan any of this.” 

“I know, but he still left figures all the same. I’d hate to think I’m the reason he doesn’t skate anymore. I’d hate to be the one who took that away from him.” 

“He’s an adult, Dick,” Tim points out rationally. “He’s in charge of his own life. Maybe his choices were influenced by what happened to you, but they were his choices. And from what I’ve seen, he really enjoys hockey. So I don't think you’re necessarily the reason why he’s playing hockey and not figures today. Maybe the catalyst, possibly, but not the driving force. That’s all him. He wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

Dick’s smiling down at him, all amused and knowing, and Tim frowns. 

“What?” 

“You’ve got it bad, grackle.” 

Tim elbows him in the ribs, scowling. “Watch the damn movie.” 

Dick chuckles softly to himself, careful not to disturb Jason’s slumber as he wraps an arm over Tim’s shoulders. 

Chapter Text

It’s only a two and a half hour’s drive from Gotham to Havertown, but Dick always insists on booking out a hotel for the event, because he adores road trips. Tim can’t complain; anything to get his head out of the smog of Gotham is a positive in his book, and he kind of likes Pennsylvania. Sometimes, if the scheduling lines up with the competition days, he can duck across to the nearby amphitheatre to catch some local bands. 

Even with all the rigorous hustle and bustle that comes with competitive ice skating, Tim manages to find the time to enjoy the placitude of the vacation. He’ll squeeze in as many sunlit hours as he can into the two-day trip after being subjected to Gotham’s impenetrable gloom. 

Knowing Jason has been here, walking these paths, gives Tim a new perspective on the quiet town too. 

“He liked to read a lot,” Dick says as he hands Tim his duffel from the trunk of the car. “Usually went over to the park to read in the grass. He’d pack like, four books for the weekend,” Dick reminisces with a chuckle. 

“What did he read?” 

Dick squints and shrugs, locking the car and shuffling Damian towards the lift, steering him as he navigates without looking up from his console. “Classics mostly, I think. Anne of Green Gables, Sense and Sensibility. That sort of thing. He always had a different book in his hands each time I saw him. I’d look down for five minutes and he’d be on a new book.” 

“And you stayed in the same hotel?” Tim asks as they step into the elevator out of the parking garage. Damian sucks his teeth in loud disapproval at Tim’s interrogation, and Tim stoically ignores him. 

“Yeah, we’d bunk here every time we came up to Sectionals,” Dick answers, pushing the button for the lobby. A memory lights up his features, and he snickers. “Actually, he was so excited to be staying in a hotel when we came here the first year. I think it might have been his first time in a hotel at all. He bounced right across both beds and broke a lamp, he was so excited.” 

Tim waits until Dick’s signed them in at reception and collected their key cards before he continues. “Did he have a favourite routine song?” 

Dick ushers them back into the elevator, punching the button for their floor. “He liked Audioslave. Pretty sure he did a routine to ‘Sound of a Gun’ at one point.” 

“He mentioned he went to Worlds,” Tim interjects with broad curiosity. 

“Drake,” Damian says, deadpan, and Tim scowls. 

“Shut up, Damian,” he responds, glancing down as a dark streak flashes across Damian’s screen. “Keese,” he warns, and Damian curses, his attention diverted with a flurry of buttons. Tim lifts his gaze to Dick, questioning. 

“Yeah, he went to Worlds twice as a junior,” he replies, alighting from the elevator as it opens onto their floor with a cheerful chime. 

“Tell me about it.” 

Dick glances at him, fishing around in his pocket for the keycard. “What do you want to know?” 

Tim shrugs. “Everything. What outfit did he wear? What song did he use? How’d he place? What elements did he do?” 

Dick chuckles, shouldering open the door. “Why such an interest all of a sudden?” 

“Because Drake's in love,” Damian says without inflection, shouldering past them into the room. Tim resists the overbearing urge to trip him up and watch him faceplant into the paisley carpet. 

Dick snorts, closing the door behind them with an absent heel as Tim trails the teenager with a burning glower. 

Damian sprawls across the queen nearest the floor-to-ceiling window, huffing dramatically. “When’s dinner? I’m starving.” 

“We just ate,” Tim chastises, and sets his duffel on the bag rack next to the desk. 

Dick shoots him a reprimanding look. “He’s growing, Tim.” 

“You’d hope so,” Tim mutters under his breath, and earns a sharp, “What was that, Drake?” 

Dick drops his duffel down beside Tim’s and offers him an expression that’s full of reproach. “Pick your beds,” he instructs. “Someone gets the queen and someone sleeps with me.” 

Tim meets Damian’s gaze, mirroring his wariness. “Rock paper scissors?” 

“Best of three,” he answers and holds out his fist. 

“You two had better be playing for who gets my delightful company,” Dick warns without looking up. Tim sticks out his hand and resolves not to lose. 

Dick’s a habitual sleep-hugger, and Tim’s awoken to find him wrapped around Tim with his contortionist limbs more than once before. The pubescent years had been one hell of a trying time for Tim, with his thighs pressed surreptitiously together beneath the covers, one of Dick’s arms burrowed against his waist and his whole weight curled against Tim’s back, the smell of Dick’s aftershave in his nose. 

He almost feels guilty enough to give it to Damian on principle; he’d been fourteen once too, and subjected to Dick’s unnerving ability to be absolutely oblivious to their silent torment. But the last time he and Dick had bunked together during a Sectionals layover, Dick had slipped into his old habit of sleep-murmuring in that husky purr, directly into the nape of his neck, and Tim had bolted for a cold shower the instant the clock had ticked over to five a.m. 

So as far as he’s concerned, Damian can pry that blessed oasis of a lone queen bed out of Tim’s cold, dead hands. 

It’s fortunate that Tim’s got a solid athlete’s life insurance policy to fall back on, because Damian beats him with a scissors-paper combo, and immediately doubles down on protecting his newly won haven. 

“When’s your sheet, Drake?” he asks as he fluffs one of the pillows, and Tim suspects he may be preening intentionally. 

He turns his back to the teenager and peels off his shirt. “Ten o’clock,” he answers. “Practice ice is open from six though, so I’m going to head in early after warm up. You?” 

“First on at eight,” Damian replies as Tim shimmies into his compression gear. 

“You coming down to the rink?” Tim asks, crossing the room to snag his skates bag. “I’m going to get in some combinations before dinner.” 

“Hey Dami,” Dick calls from the desk, where he's paused in rifling through his event agenda. “Are you pulling that triple in this routine?” 

“Yes,” Damian answers curtly without looking up from his console, thumbs dancing over the buttons. 

“Triple axel, right?” Dick clarifies aloofly, and Tim pauses. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“This’ll be your first triple axel in competition, right?” Dick asks, and meets Tim’s growing grin when Damian grunts in assent. 

“That sorts dinner then,” Tim says mildly, and Damian frowns, his gaze flickering up briefly. 

“It does? Why?” 

“Chili dogs?” Dick chirps at Tim. 

“Chili dogs,” Tim concurs, and Damian sits up straighter, pausing his game. 

“Chili dogs?” he enquires with a hesitant frown. 

“We always get chili dogs to celebrate a first in-comp triple axel,” Tim supplies with a smug grin. “Which means you’re up.” 

Damian’s nose wrinkles. “I highly doubt chili dogs are nutritionally-” 

Dick overrides him, snagging his keys off the desktop. “I’m the adult, so what I say goes. And I say we’re getting chili dogs. It’s tradition.” 

Damian looks wary, and then resigned. “If it’s tradition.” 

“Don’t look too pleased about it,” Tim teases as he snags his coat, following Dick out into the hallway. 

Damian follows, squinting dangerously at him. “I’m sorry, are you going to ask another hero worship question, puppy love?” 

“Fuck off,” Tim answers without any particular malice. 

“Language,” Dicks interjects, and is overridden by the elevator chiming. 

“I had to listen to you gush over teen sensation Jason Todd,” Damian sneers with rich mockery, “the whole drive up here. I don’t understand your fascination with him anyway. He washed out of figures before his career even began.” 

Surprisingly, Dick beats Tim to the figurative and literal punch, nudging a fist gently into the back of Damian’s shoulder. “Don’t badmouth your predecessors. Your father trained him too; you should respect his judgement, even if you don’t like Jason.” 

Damian scoffs. “I have no qualms with Todd. He performed admirably in his time. I disagree with his choice to retire selfishly before his peak.” 

Tim glances at Dick, uneasy, but Dick’s just staring - for once, impassively - at the elevator doors. 

“Jason didn’t have it as easy as you both do,” Dick says softly, and Tim almost misses it in the chime of the doors as they open, and then Dick’s striding forth across the lobby. Damian frowns, falling into step beside him, a hint of curiosity to the line of his brow. 

“He won both championships he competed in,” Damian contests slowly, carefully. “And medalled at Worlds.” 

“And he fought every step of the way to get them,” Dick says firmly, and glances down at him with a sigh, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders. “Jason wasn’t- he wasn’t ever really accepted in figures.” 

“Explain,” Damian says slowly, and then adds, “please.” 

“Have you seen him?” Dick says with a bitter chuckle. “He wasn’t always so- he didn’t carry as much muscle before, but he was never the delicate, refined skater everyone wanted their figures champion to be. And there were very few people who weren’t absolutely eager to tell him as much to his face. He copped a lot of criticism coming up in figures. That’s not easy to handle as a teenager, or as a kid.” 

“Is that why he likes power jumps so much?” Tim asks softly, and Dick’s gaze slices over him before shifting again. 

“He realised pretty early on that he was never going to be their perfect skater,” Dick answers with raw honesty. Tim can hear an element of protectiveness in that tone, as if he could shield Jason from the criticism. “He must have figured that if he was going to be penalised for his musculature anyway, he might as well earn it. And he was untouchable,” Dick adds with raw reverence, his lips quirking in a grin. “No one came close to him. He was pulling triples out of thin air and he made it look easy .” 

“He was thirteen when he landed his first triple axel,” Damian entreats, and shrugs when Tim arches a brow at him. “I do my research, Drake. Unlike some people.” 

“I’m getting my information from the primary source,” Tim retorts, and Damian rolls his eyes. 

“He pulled his first triple-triple combination at junior Worlds 2011,” Dick offers, and Tim starts. “He was fourteen. I didn’t see another kid his age attempt that jump for at least another two years. It was the year before I- before my fall. He would have been doing quads by sixteen if Bruce hadn’t cut him off. I can’t imagine what he would have been like if he’d ever made it to your age, Tim. How he would have ranked at Worlds proper. Quad combinations wouldn’t have been enough for him.” 

There’s a broad pride to Dick's grin, and a hint of awed wonder behind his blue eyes. He comes back to himself after a moment, coughing conspicuously and pulling Damian into his side with an arm over his shoulders. 

“But we’re here to celebrate you tonight, Dami,” he purrs, and Damian rolls his eyes, but Tim can tell he’s pleased. “A triple axel is a big deal.” 

Tim lets him take the front seat, pulling out his phone as he slides into the car and they peel out of the parking garage. There’s a text from Jason waiting for him when he unlocks his cell. 

Tim smirks to himself and fires back a message. 

It takes a few minutes, but then his phone vibrates in his palms, and Tim flicks open the notification. 

Tim snorts softly, feeling a grin curl his lips as he slumps into the leather and hefts his phone up to eye height. 

It’s a few lengthy minutes before his cell pings, and Tim scrambles to unlock it, expecting some snarky response. What he sees drains the blood from his cheeks, and then it rushes back in a tingling sprint. 

He jolts forward in his seat, hunching forward over his cell as he taps the image and enlarges it, pinching to zoom on the unblemished curve of those abdominals. The slick sheen of mid-workout sweat painted across Jason’s tanned skin. The flush lighting up his cheeks that’s not entirely exertion, above where those perfect teeth are biting into his shirt. 

“Holy shit,” Tim hisses, his gut coiling in resounding support as he gapes at the selfie. 

“Something to share, grackle?” Dick calls over his shoulder, and Tim’s cheeks heat as he slams the screen up to his chest, cradling it protectively. 

“No,” he yelps, far, far too quickly to be innocent. 

Damian sucks his teeth, one heel hooked up on the dashboard. He doesn’t even turn when he declares, “It’s a dick pic.” 

Tim scowls ferociously, lips curling back off his teeth. “It’s not a dick pic,” he says firmly. 

Damian scoffs. “Whatever, Drake.” 

Tim glares at the back of his head where it peeks out from behind the headrest. “I’m sure some of us wouldn’t mind a Dick pic, would we?” he mutters venomously, lacing his words directly behind Damian’s ear. 

The teenager spins in his seat with blinding speed, cheeks flushing red and gaze lethal. 

The phone buzzes against his chest, and Tim peels it back, eyes flicking down to the screen as he swipes it on. 

He’s too dazed to notice when Damian arches around the seat and snatches the phone from his palm. Tim shoots forwards with a furious bleat, but Damian’s already hunched against the far corner of the window where it meets the dashboard, seatbelt tucked under his armpit as he evades Tim’s reach. 

He arches a dark brow. “‘Princess’?” he asks, and Tim growls. 

“Damian, give it back-” 

The phone vibrates again, and Damian’s other brow joins his first up near his hairline. “How coy,” he mutters, deadpan, and his jade gaze flickers up to gauge Tim’s pale horror. The corner of his mouth quirks. “You’ve got a real humble man on your hands, Drake.” 

Tim manages to wrap a flailing fist around the top of his seatbelt, yanking hard. Damian jerks forward, but shimmies out of the restraint as the phone buzzes in his palm, and those eyes gleam brightly. 

“It is a dick pic,” Damian all but croons, and Tim is desperate. 

“Hey!” Dick intervenes, reaching over to wrap a firm hand around Damian’s forearm and drag him back into his seat. “Safety first, get in your seat. Put your seatbelt back on.” 

Tim doesn’t wait any longer than he needs to tug on the seatbelt again once Damian’s begrudgingly settled, marrying the blunt motion with a hand to snake around the other side of the seat back. Damian chokes sharply, and Tim wrenches back his phone, glaring. 

“Don’t touch my stuff,” he orders, curling back into his seat and gripping the phone protectively. 

Damian offers him a middle finger over the leather, rubbing at his throat. 

Tim swipes the screen open, heart fluttering arrhythmically at the list of notifications that greet him. 

He hastily thumbs open the lock, rushing through his response. 

Jason replies instantly.

Tim thinks he might faint. He glances at Dick in the driver’s seat, over to where Damian’s got his cheek propped up on his fist against the door, staring boredly out the window. Then he catches his own reflection in his window, hair mussed from the brief fight, and cheeks a bright crimson. He glances back down at the phone in his palms. 

For a minute, he thinks Jason might be disappointed in him, but then his phone chirps. 

Tim swallows thickly and fires back a quick message before he can panic his way out of it. 

Then he jams his phone into his bag and zips it closed before he can regret that impulse-send. 

They reach the rink in no time at all, and Tim loses himself in his workout as he spirals out over the ice, the hours slipping past. It’s not until Dick calls an end to their practice and declares that its chili dog time that Tim trudges through the gate, snagging his phone from his duffel as he beelines for the bathroom. 

A notification is waiting for him, several hours overdue, and Tim frowns at it. 

Then he remembers his promise to Jason, and his knees nearly go out beneath him. Tim slides into the first empty stall, pressing his back to the laminate as he stares down at the conversation, at the very barest slice of Jason’s teasing selfie. 

Tim swallows, hard. Glances down at his tight workout gear, at the flush of cold up his bared arms, and straightens. Shucks his compression pants until they’re barely over his hips, and runs a harsh hand back through his hair, mussing the strands. Then he flicks open his phone and switches to the front-facing camera, analysing his reflection. 

He looks flushed and hot, and the tight clothing goes a long way to negating the need for imagination. The haphazard disarray of his locks looks just shy of sex hair, Tim notes with satisfaction, so he hefts his phone and adjusts the angle, hooking the thumb of his other hand into the waistband of his tights. 

Then he uploads the image and types a snappy message with it. 

The door to the bathroom opens with a soft creak, and Dick’s voice rings out, “Tim? You in here?” 

“Coming,” he calls, and locks his phone screen. 

He forgets to check his phone once there’s a chili dog in his palm and a beaming Dick opposite him, one arm slung around Damian’s shoulders as he cooes like a mother hen. Tim grins at Damian’s put-upon humiliation, pretending to ignore the way he preens over the attention. He devolves into brash boasting by the time they order dessert, and then Dick bundles them back to the hotel for a relatively early bedtime. 

Tim throws his phone on the charger and shucks down to more comfortable nightwear, sliding into bed beside Dick as he kills the bedside lamp. He’s just getting settled when his phone screen lights up with a new notification, and he snags the device with a frown. 

It comes rushing back to him in a blaze of nervous victory, and Tim grips his phone and thumbs open the screen, firing back a text that’s answered immediately. Jason’s message is even less subtle, but entirely jovial, and Tim grins as he shifts to type better. 

They trade blows for a few minutes, until Jason sends through a message that’s 90% pun and 110% innuendo. Tim laughs at Jason’s response, the air hissing from between his teeth as he curls down into the duvet. 

“Tim,” Dick moans, and Tim freezes stiff. There’s a rustle from behind him as Dick turns muzzily over to face the wall, and his heel nudges the back of Tim’s ankle underneath the covers. “If I roll over and cop an eyeful of dick pic, I’m confiscating your phone for the rest of the trip.” 

“I promise I’ll turn it off soon,” Tim murmurs back, pitching his voice low, and Dick grunts his approval. “I’m just saying goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” Dick slurs, already lost to sleep, and Tim can’t tell if it’s an affirmation or a threat. 

The phone thrums in his hand, and Tim’s gaze snaps back to it. He’s halfway to constructing a response when a message that’s blocked full of suggestive emoji lights up his screen, and Tim laughs high in the back of his throat. 

Damian growls groggily from his sprawl across the queen bed, and slugs a pillow in Tim’s direction. “Quit texting your boyfriend and go to sleep, Drake. Some of us need more than three hours to function.” 

Tim smiles and locks his screen, burrowing back down under the covers as Dick’s soft snoring begins to fill the room. 

Chapter Text

Jason’s pretty close to passing out. 

The match has been a fucking gongshow the whole second period. He's barely had time to take a breather since they sounded off, and he can feel the everpresent itch of sweat chafing everywhere his skin touches plastic. His neck guard is giving him the most grief, and his eyes have been stinging for the last four minutes straight with how much perspiration is slicked down his temple. 

Waylon’s been boxed for boarding the Metropolis’ center. The four minute medical stop while they’d tended to the very concussed forward had been a nice reprieve for Jason, but working double to cover Waylon’s gap during the power play has him worn to bare bones. 

Waylon usually plays as their power forward, bowling over defensemen as he and Harvey tear down the ice. Jason’s good at clearing for them, grinding the opposing defensemen against the boards to give them space to score, but with all their offensive power focused solely on Harvey and outnumbered by forwards, Jason’s flat out just ensuring Harvey gets the fucking biscuit. 

He's down to his last second wind. He can hear his breath when it heaves up through his throat like a fish beaching itself. He sounds fucking wrecked, and there's still three minutes on the clock and a minute-and-a-half in the box. Jason’s not sure he's going to last that long. 

The Metropolis’ right defenseman is twigging to Jason’s sluggishness, because he's called over their right wing forward to help corral Jason away so their left side can move in on Harvey. Jason’s running on fumes as it is, and his focus is waning, so when the faceoff is called and right wing slides up to pin Jason into the sideline, he moves on instinct. 

Muscle memory is a real bitch. 

Jason’s halfway into a rotation and entirely airborne by the time he realises he's just jumped into an axel to clear the right wing’s blade. He curses aloud, the sound bitten off as he kicks out and lands on his backfoot. Then he counters while the right wing’s turning to capitalise on his stagnancy, and launches across the neutral zone to shoulder check the goon who’s coming up on Harvey’s one o’clock. 

The goon goes spinning out across the faceoff circle, ducking to catch himself as Harvey snatches the free puck. Jason posts at Harvey’s right flank and runs pace as they carve down the ice, passing around the incensed glares of the scrambling defensemen. 

Harvey is cleaning up the left-hand side, and Jason can almost cut away for a brief breather before he notices Harvey's coiling up for an assist. Jason's nearly directly in line with the goal, maybe fifteen feet from the centreline and staring an enforcer down. If Harvey passes to him now, he's a sitting duck. 

So Jason cuts a fancy step sequence and lurches around their centre forward to receive the backhand pass that Harvey shoots his way. The Jets are already moving to intercept him, so Jason abandons the idea of getting close enough to see where he's actually shooting. He packs down, yanks his stick back and drills directly line-of-sight down the centre. 

It's a clean sweep that bucks the biscuit up off the ice. It rotates through the empty air, skimming the goalie's shoulder pad as it sails through and rings loudly on the metal bar. Jason has enough time to see the puck dive into the netting, hear the pre-emptive swoop as the crowd begins to cheer, and then brace as the centre forward bowls him over. 

He hits the ice with a crunch of plastic, already grinning as the rink vibrates with the sound of the crowd's roar. He shoves the forward off him once they skid to a stop, accepting Harvey's extended glove to pull himself to his feet. 

Someone tackles him from behind once he's upright, wrapping leg pads around his thighs as Jason laughs and wobbles on the ice. Harvey slaps his helmet and yells, "Good going, Todd!" and Jason beams. 

He feels like he's glowing, like he could melt through the ice with how radiant he feels. 

The feeling carries him through the third period, and Jason leads the ecstatic charge back to the locker room, braying loudly. He can barely sit still through Bane’s after-game recap, and he’s still jittery by the time they’re recessed. He snatches the speaker somewhere between shucking his gear, and queues up one of his old favourites. 

A steady, thrumming guitar blasts through the locker room as Jason takes to the top of one of the benches, bellowing the lyrics to the strips of fluorescent lights that line the ceiling. He feels over-energized and absolutely wrecked. His muscles ache and burn, utterly drained, but he feels like he could skate a thousand more laps if he had to. The blinding, all-consuming glee is all that’s keeping him on his feet, he’s aware, and it feels like a game well played. 

He’s still crooning when the last of the Jokers shrug through the door, faces still flushed with exertion and sweat smeared across their brows. They immediately begin shucking their gear, sighing in relief as they ditch the extra thirty pounds of padding and guards. 

“Alright,” Roman sneers, throwing his stick onto his pile. He's down to his undershirt and loose shorts now. “Which one of you cocksuckers has the speaker?” 

“You can suck my dick, Sionis,” Jason snaps back, grinning madly as he air-guitars Morello’s solo and switches effortlessly into an energetic drum sequence. 

“Give me the speaker, Todd,” Roman snarls, and pins him up against the lockers. Jason cuts a foot between his shins, hooking his ankle and planting a hand on his shoulder to flip him back to the floor. 

“I’ve seen fifty thousand names all engraved on a stone,” Jason preens victoriously as Roman sits up, eyes alight and geared for a fight. There’s a smirk curling the edges of Roman’s lips, baring perfect teeth. Jason ducks out of his range when he swipes at him. “Most of them met an early grave-”  

“Todd, you motherfucker,” Roman bellows, and shoulder checks him into the row of lockers. Jason catches it with his waist, layering his arms over Roman’s back as he tries to twist him down to the floor. “Give me the speaker so I can turn this shit off!” 

“Not a fucking chance,” Jason replies, and drives a bare knee into his ribs. Roman gasps, more in offence than pain, and lifts him another few inches up the lockers. Jason makes a show of squirming, bracketing Roman’s ribs with his knees as he drills the hard point of his elbow into his back. 

“You think just because you nailed a bar down,” Roman grunts, but Jason can see he's grinning, “you get control of the music, pretty boy?” 

Roman jerks back, dumping Jason roughly on his feet, and then his arm is hooked around Jason’s neck. Jason bows over with a smothered laugh, fingers biting into the meat of Roman’s arm. “I didn’t just nail that bar down,” he chokes. “I fucking nailed it. Cleaned right up.” 

“Don’t get all high and mighty with me, Hood!” 

“One more game, Mask, one more fucking game.” 

“Fucking conference,” Roman grunts fondly, and switches his grip, pulling Jason flush against his chest as he backs up. Jason staggers, caught in his pull. “Fucking Jets won’t know what hit ‘em. Bunch of uppity, righteous fucks. God, I can’t wait to wipe the smile off Luthor’s weasley face-” 

“Save it for the game, Roman,” Waylon orders, tugging his pants over his broad hips. “I’m fucking starving. Let’s get some damn grub.” 

Roman lets Jason go, shoving him towards the lockers, and Jason catches himself with both hands, snickering. He feels giddy, his pulse jacked and simmering with barely contained heat. “Where the fuck is Wilson?” 

“Still on the ice,” Waylon grunts, and throws on a singlet that stretches so thin Jason can see his abdomen through it. Maybe it's intentional. He throws a black windbreaker over it, just to be contrary. “He can catch up. I’m not waiting for him. Is Dent coming?” 

“Oh-Captain-My-Captain is with Napier,” Roman reports, and fishes his wallet out of his locker. “I’m not going in for the lottery unless he is though. Guy eats like some fancy schmancy lawyer with daddy’s name on the credit card. I’ve paid for his last two buffets. Nearly ran me dry. His card’s gotta get pulled this time. That’s fucking probability or something, right?” 

Jason snorts, not gracing that with an answer, and reaches back to strip off his shirt. 

“What about you, Todd, you joining us?” Waylon asks, pausing as Jason flicks his undershirt into his locker and reaches for the handy bag of toiletries he keeps stashed on-hand for when he has somewhere to be after a game. 

“Nah,” he drawls, and flashes them a grin. “Got a hot date.” 

Roman starts chortling, cooing mockingly at him, so Jason tosses his skates at him. He catches them with a broad laugh, dumping them with his other gear. “Who’s the bird? Do we know her?” 

“Him,” Jason corrects, and can’t keep the grin off his face. “And yeah, it’s that pretty boy skater who was using our rink.” 

“Fuck me,” Roman moans, and looks genuinely put out. “How do assholes like you always manage to get the freaky, bendy sex ones?” 

Jason’s brow pinches in admonishment. “Jesus, Roman. That’s exactly why I get the good ones.” 

“I’m an asshole,” Roman croons pitifully. “And don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it, Todd. You saw the moves he was pulling. I’ll bet you good money he can do some neat shit in bed.” 

“Fuck off, Sionis,” Jason orders, and throws his toiletries bag at him, for lack of anything better to hurl. Roman ducks it with a shit-eating grin, and it rings loudly on the lockers behind him. 

“Are you starting shit again, Sionis?” Harvey demands as he shrugs into the room. He’s already stripped out of his gear, and is wearing a neat button-down over intentionally distressed jeans. He probably thinks he’d fit right in at one of daddy’s political shindigs at the local country club. Jason thinks he looks like he’s asking to be mugged. 

Napier's behind him. Jason cuts his gaze down, some of his hot-headed ecstasy waning at the sight. He swallows down the buzzing chill in his throat and yanks at the cords of his sweatpants as he turns back to his locker. Hopes that Jack will get bored and leave. 

Jason hears the three men slam their lockers closed, bustling out. The sounds of their brayed chiding dies behind them, leeching all the mirth from the room with them, and then Jason's alone with Jack. 

Chapter Text

Jason considers his options. He was planning on getting a shower in before Tim meets him, because he's been stewing in after-game sweat for the better part of an hour while Bane ran them through the match again on the projector and worked over their weak points. 

The game went well, actually. Better than expected. It was a hard slog, through and through, but now they're three for one and on-track to make Conference playoffs. So Jason figures Jack can't be in too bad a mood. Jason hadn't even gotten into any fights this match, and he'd scored a solid goal too. 

He tries to reason that Jack’s not actually here for him. Jason can’t think of anything he’s done to displease the man lately; all his checks have been clean, and his fights have been reactionary. There’s no solid reason why Jack should be here, so Jason convinces himself that he’s just lingering. 

He tries for disinterest. Jason digs his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and briefs, shucking them down to his knees and squaring his shoulders as he goes to step out of them. Keeps his back turned to Jack as he drawls, “I’ve gotta run, Jack. Got plans.” 

Jack’s behind him in an instant. Jason knows because every hair along his neck rises in sharp response to his proximity. His heart tangles up in his throat, and Jason jolts at the contact, spine snapping ramrod straight. He tries to smooth over his reaction, let it roll off his shoulders. Last thing he needs is to give Jack more fuel. 

Hands wind around his bare waist, cold to his glowing skin, and Jason tenses. “You played well tonight,” Jack purrs into the shell of his ear, and Jason’s reminded how the man’s just that much taller than him. He feels small, pinned beneath those pale hands. 

“Yeah,” Jason rasps, and swallows. The benchseat’s between them, the barest barrier, but Jason’s immensely glad for it as he clears his throat and tries to pull away. “Thanks, Jack, but I gotta-” 

Jack’s heel snakes under the bench and hooks in the material of Jason’s sweats, down around his ankles, at the same minute his palm layers down over Jason’s throat. 

Jason staggers, tipping backwards into his tall frame as his balance catches and abandons him. He flails briefly, before one hand touches the wood of the bench and the other reaches back to find Jack’s hip. He regrets it immediately, because the second he tries to lift it away, Jack’s long fingers wrap his wrist and pin it there. 

Jason stills and stops, chest heaving as he tries to hold position, bent backwards over the bench. The backs of his knees bite into the wood, and Jason plants his heels, whining gently in protest as Jack chuckles. 

“Hold still and give me a chance to congratulate you, Jason,” Jack chirps, as if chastising a small child, and Jason hates how his bones ache when Jack’s grip on his wrist shifts, pinning Jason’s palm to his trouser thigh. 

“Jack, please,” Jason says softly, fingers biting. He can’t get enough balance to pull himself off. His fingers can barely brush the seat if he stretches. The only points of stability he’s got right now are where his shoulder is pinned back against Jack’s chest and his hand on that thigh. Jason’s not game enough to drive an elbow back into his ribs when the guy’s got him on the ropes. 

Jack exhales into the crown of Jason’s head, ruffling the curls of sweat-streaked hair that have succumbed to the warmth of the locker room, and he stiffens all the way down his neck, his muscles protesting absently. 

Jason’s chest feels like it's humming with how fast his heart is beating. He feels unbelievably helpless, held and on display, and instantly regrets choosing nudity as a tactic to deter Jack. 

“You played so fiercely that match,” Jack croons, and Jason hates it. Sets his jaw and tries to breathe evenly through his nose so he can ignore the way Jack’s hand is flexing against his windpipe. “I thought maybe you were trying to impress me again. Remember when you used to try to impress me, Little Wing?” 

That sounds like a warning or a threat - Jason can’t tell which when its wrapped up in that coy, petulant tone. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and tests just how much of his weight he can take on his calves. They’re absolutely wrecked from the game, the muscles twitching just from the barest weight Jason’s rocking down onto them now. 

He opens his eyes and he tries to keep his tone even. “I remember,” Jason says carefully, and tries to turn his head into Jack's palm, tries to meet the man's gaze through his lashes. “Trying to impress you, Jack.” 

There’s a fondness to Jack’s gaze that turns Jason’s stomach. Jason tries to look earnest. The taller man nuzzles into the crown of his hair, sighing, and lets go of his wrist. 

Jason almost feels relief. 

But only for the scarce few seconds it takes Jack to wind a hand around his hip and down between his legs. 

Jason bucks, his knees knocking the bench as his weight shifts and he’s thrown off balance by it. Jack steps closer, layering his body along Jason’s back as he runs fingers down his length. Takes his weight like he’s doing Jason a courtesy not letting him fall on his ass. 

A keening whine rips up through Jason’s throat, the sound begging, and Jack rocks his weight back, shifting his balance again as Jason’s stomach clenches. 

Jason reaches back, both his palms digging into the meat of Jack’s thighs to balance himself, and Jack stops trying to drag him around. Jason reads it as what it is; a coy approval, a gift. He doesn’t have any time to feel revolted by it before Jack’s hand squeezes down on him and moves, and Jason’s pulse ricochets up into his throat. 

“Where’s your birdy?” Jack asks, his tone light and curious. 

Jason hates him, down to his bones. Doesn’t think he deserves to know the first damn thing about Tim. Whines sharply when Jack swipes a thumb over the head of his hardening cock, and Jason’s mouth pries open, desperate to distract him. “Sectionals,” he gets out past something that’s halfway to a snarl. “He’s not here. It’s just you, Jack, just y-” 

Jack’s hand compresses against his windpipe, jerking his head back flat against his chest as his air cuts off. Jason writhes, eyes bulging immediately in panic. His knees knock against the seat, but he can’t shift his weight out from under that grip. It’s just north of not-bruising; Jason can still breathe, but only when he doesn’t move. 

He gets the message loud and clear, snapping his jaw shut as Jack chuckles into his ear, breath hot and cloying. “Didn’t think we’d make a liar of you, Jason.” 

Jason winces, wetness blossoming at the corners of his eyes. The ache has spread up to his thighs now, making him rock forwards to flatten out his heels. Pushing himself into Jack’s grip. 

“I’m happy for you, pumpkin,” he purrs, and Jason shudders. Holds still and silent through his trembling and begs for Jack to just tell him what he did to fuck up. “You’ve done so well. And you won! This is the sort of behaviour that deserves to be encouraged.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jason mewls, canting his hips back until the flat of Jack’s thighs pulls him up short. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you crying, pumpkin?” Jack murmurs coyly, and kicks up into a new rhythm that shorts out Jason’s brain, dousing its frozen mass in hot oil. It flares down his spine, choking the breath from him. “You’ve done so well. I’m so proud of you.” 

Jason sobs drily, wraps his fingers in the materials of Jack’s slacks and hunkers down into his palm, willing himself to be done with it, to finish it. 

Jack wrings the orgasm from him, painting his hand and stomach with it as he arches and sinks his nails into Jack’s thighs. The hand clamps down on his windpipe again briefly, and Jason thinks it might be because he’s shouting. 

Every muscle in him snaps, his knees buckling, and only Jack’s arm around his waist keeps him upright as Jason pants through the strangling vice around his chest. He sags into the line of Jack’s body, limp in his hold as Jack croons and plays with the line of Jason’s jaw. It’s intimate and cloying and if he had anything left in him he’d bat Jack’s hand away, but he doesn’t. 

Doesn’t because Jack’s his fucking manager, and this job’s more important to Jason than anything else in his life right now. Because he can't afford to throw his future away a second time. So he heaves until his breath settles and Jack lets him slide down to sit on the bench, trembling with earnest now. His palms slip around to the back of Jason’s neck to run blunt thumbs up along his hairline, and Jason lets his chin fall down to his collarbone. Swallows down the numb, hollow rattling in his chest. 

Jack presses a chaste, mocking kiss to Jason’s sweat-slicked temple. “Make sure that birdy of yours congratulates you for your big win.” 

Then his hands are gone, and Jason’s left alone in the sudden, cloying cold of the locker room with the sound of the door ringing in his ears. He curls his shoulders forward, and when that just conjures up the memory of Jack’s chest pressed against him, he twists down to lay out across the bench. 

Jason blinks up at the fluorescent lights until his pulse kicks down to a more manageable gear and he can let the tension wash out of his limbs. Closes his eyes and lets his head swim, trying not to think about anything or anyone for a while. Jason’s not sure how long he lays there, but it’s long enough that the sweat that’s clinging to him has dried and he’s feeling the first prickles of cold across his bared skin. 

“Jesus Christ, Todd.” 

Jason’s eyes jolt open, zeroing in on Slade as his chest seizes. He curses and fumbles for his pants, yanking them up his calves and ignoring the protests of his core as he hastily tries to cover himself. 

It’s not the first time Slade’s seen his dick. The locker room is pretty open slather. He’s seen more than his own fair share of johnsons while they've been gearing for games and training. It’s the first time Slade’s caught him with his pants around his ankles though. 

“You need a minute?” Slade asks, crooking a white brow, and Jason scowls. 

“I need a minute like I need a crowbar to the fucking head,” he snarls, righting himself. A hand comes at him, and Jason swings on instinct to counter it, panic twisting tight and sharp in his gut. Too late, he recognises it as the other man's offer to help him upright. 

The meat of his knuckles thuds into Slade’s palm, reverberating down the man’s arm, but he doesn’t flinch back. Jason does. Winces and glances up into that flat glare that seconds ago had been coy and amused, and now is just cold. 

Jason swallows and pulls his fist back into the safety of his chest. 

“You good, kid?” Slade demands icily. 

Jason just rises to face his locker and yanks his towel out, trying to ignore the pulse thudding loudly in his ear drums. Fumbles for a few minutes to find his toiletries bag, because it was right here, the simmering panic clawing up his throat. He can feel Slade’s stare drilling into his back the whole while, until he remembers that he threw it at Roman and it’s halfway across the room. 

He keeps his gaze somewhere near Slade's knees when he turns to hunt the bag down, spying it across the room and bolting hastily for it. 

"Kid," Slade repeats firmly, and Jason hates the name, hates how belittled he feels. 

"What?" he snaps, spinning on his heel. Slade doesn't look taken aback by the outburst, but his ice blue gaze narrows while Jason stands there and fumes silently. He tries again, hands curling into fists around his toiletries. “What do you want, Slade?” 

“Are you good?” Slade says, enunciating each word while he pins Jason with that glower. 

Jason doesn’t know which he hates more; Slade patronising him because he doesn’t know, can’t possibly know, and it’s none of his fucking business anyway, or Slade patronising him because he does know, knows about Jason and Jack and all the bullshit he’s been shouldering for the last year. Hates most of all that he can't gauge how deep the man's empathy runs just from that scrutinising, ice blue gaze. His lips curl back, fury pooling in the depths of his gut as he shoulders his towel and beelines for the bathroom. 

“Kid,” Slade barks sharply, and Jason ignores him, secluding himself to the quiet of the shower cubicles, to the solitude. The last thing he wants is someone else watching out for him.

Chapter Text

Jason clears his head with steam and heat, scouring himself clean under the pressure of a scalding shower, and when he steps out onto the tile, he feels more level. He’s still exhausted, that bone-deep fatigue setting in now that the adrenaline has worn him out. Jason shrugs into some jeans and tugs his sleeves down, pausing to inspect the puckered white skin on the back of his hand. 

It’s healed over now, the agitated flesh shiny and pink beneath that pale scar. Jason frowns and tugs the sleeve over it. 

He scrubs a towel through his curling locks and is wholly relieved to find Slade has left the locker room. It helps his heart rate settle the last few beats as he runs some gel through his hair and checks himself once over in the gym wall-mirror. Then Jason huffs, fights down the nerves simmering in his gut, and shoulders out into the barn. 

He spots Tim just past the bleachers, eyes scanning the crowd that’s still milling about, and waves, beelining for him. 

The floor of his stomach falls out when Tim catches sight of him and lights up, heading for him immediately, hands jammed in the pockets of his hoodie. There’s relief then, meddled with excitement; he hasn’t seen Tim since that night they did lifts with Dick, and Jason’s heart both constricts and expands at the sheer proximity of him, at the knowledge that he’s just within arm’s reach. Jason half-skips around a gossiping family in his haste to get to him, a grin searing across his features. Tim falters as he gets closer, a wild confusion blossoming in his gaze as Jason approaches. 

Tim stutters to a halt, eyes fixed somewhere up on Jason’s forehead, and Jason frowns, reaching up to scrub at a mark he can’t see. “What the fuck is in your hair.” 

And then Jason remembers the streak of white he had bleached into his fringe, a few weeks after they’d knocked out the Angels for Divisionals four-to-one. “Oh,” he says, and runs his fingers through it. Tim looks horrified. “I bleached it. For good luck. It’s tradition.” 

“Tradition?” Tim repeats, a gobsmacked grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “You look terrible.” 

Jason scowls, self-conscious as he pats down his unruly fringe. “Fuck you too, princess.” 

Tim notices his discomfort, and laughs, winding arms around his waist. “It’s fine, it is, you just surprised me, and I just-” His cheeks swell as if he’s holding in a laugh with considerable effort, and Jason glares down at him. 

“What?” 

“I’m getting 90’s Justin Timberlake vibes,” Tim snickers. “Guy Fieri-style frosted tips.” 

Jason can feel himself flushing red. “Kristen Stewart looked fucking punk with bleached hair.” 

Tim doubles over with loud guffaws, unable to contain his mirth any longer. "Ramen hair," he wheezes, and Jason tries to pull out of his grip, offended. 

“You goddamn traitor. You fucking Delilah-” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tim giggles, and slides a hand up Jason’s neck to pull him into a kiss that’s ruined by his hiccuping chuckles. When he breaks away, his eyes are shining, and Jason feels his embarrassment melt under its warmth. Tim’s grinning broadly, his gaze tracing the almost-white strands, and the sight lights up in Jason’s chest. “That’s going to take a while to get used to.” 

Jason frowns, a thought occurring to him. “Hang on,” he accuses, “I dyed my hair the weekend you went to Sectionals.” 

“So?” Tim prompts, arms still hooked around his neck. His fingers trace delicately over the short hairline at the base of Jason’s scalp. 

“So it would have been dyed in that selfie I sent you, princess.” 

Tim stills, that flush returning to his cheeks, and Jason grins, pinning him with the hands on his hips so he can’t escape judgement. 

“Princess, were you so distracted by my dashing good looks that you didn’t notice I’d dyed my hair?” 

Tim looks like he wants to curl up under a rock. He’s ducking under Jason’s widening grin, a scowl hitching into his brow. 

Jason ducks to catch his gaze, which Tim seems adamant on keeping anywhere but on Jason. The larger man chases a line of light nips up his jawline, chuckling darkly as Tim tries to squirm away. “C’mon, princess, admit it. Say it for me. You think I’m hotter than the Sahara.” 

“No,” Tim protests, fumbling for an excuse. He looks delectably flustered. “No, I just- Maybe the lighting-” 

“It was clear as goddamn daylight,” Jason cuts him off before he can run with that tangent. His grin feels larger than his lips can contain. “Oh my God, you were horny, weren’t you? Is that why? Too busy drooling over a selfie to-” 

“Shut up,” Tim orders, dragging him down for a harsh kiss, and Jason melds into the heat of it, the way Tim flattens himself against the curl of Jason’s body. He drinks Jason down like they haven’t seen each other in months, and it kind of feels like it's been that long. 

Jason pulls back with a breathy chuckle. “Missed you, princess.” 

“You’re telling me,” Tim replies with a crooked smile. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep two nosy skaters off your back while some beefed up hockey player keeps sending you semi-nudes?” 

“I’ll be more considerate next time,” Jason promises without an ounce of regret. “Won’t even show you a sultry peek of ankle.” 

“You suck,” Tim moans. 

“I might,” Jason mutters back, gaze flashing, and doesn’t miss when Tim swallows. 

Then he scowls, trying to brush off his obvious interest. “None of that. Not here.” 

Jason laughs, pressing a kiss against Tim’s pulse, and lingering to feel the irregular thud beneath his lips. “You got a plan for this date you promised me, princess?” 

“I thought maybe we could take it easy, go back to my place,” Tim admits with a shrug, and cuts Jason off with a glare when he opens his gleeful mouth. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I literally just got stateside; give me a few minutes to sort myself out before you try to climb into my pants.” 

“Those pants are far too tight for anyone to be climbing into, princess.” 

“You’re an ass,” Tim sneers, but there’s a fond bite to his words as he unfurls from Jason and snags his hand with his own. “You got a better idea?” 

“I’m at your mercy,” Jason assures him, squeezing back as Tim weaves them through the sparse crowd. 

“Then we’re going back to mine. Have a nice night in for once. I figured you’d be eager to get some rest after that game.” 

Jason starts a little in surprise. “You saw my game?” 

Tim blushes a little under the streetlight, the heat rushing up on them as they step out of the ice rink. “No, I didn’t get in fast enough. Traffic was a bitch. But I caught the last fifteen minutes or so.” 

“Did you see my goal?” Jason asks curiously, and Tim’s eyes go wide with excitement and pride. 

“You scored a goal?” 

Jason chuckles and pulls Tim against his side as they cross the emptying parking lot. “Yeah, I got a bar down. That’s where you, like, smack the puck on the top of the goal as it goes in,” he explains, gesturing with his free hand in a diving motion. “Makes a sweet ping noise as it goes down. Best fucking sound.” 

Tim’s smiling up at him, something close to adoration in his gaze, and Jason blushes under the intense attention, shuffling a bit as he chuckles to himself. Then a thought occurs to him. 

“Oh shit, I didn’t even think to ask,” he says with a jolt of surprise. “How’d Sectionals go, princess? You ice those other rink queens?” 

Tim laughs, shoulders rising with his mirth as they still on the sidewalk. He turns to face Jason, beaming with satisfaction. “Placed fourth. So, not podium, but-” 

“Oh shit!” Jason shouts, hands jumping to Tim’s shoulders and then up to cup his jaw. “You’re going to Championships!” 

The pure joy in Tim’s smile makes Jason’s heart burn hotter than a supernova as he dips into Jason’s reverent grasp. “Yeah, Salt Lake City,” he proclaims, blue eyes alight, “in a month’s time.” 

“You gotta practice those quads, princess,” Jason says in a deep purr, excitement fizzling through him at the thought of Tim spinning out across the ice. “We’re gonna get you to Worlds if it kills me.” 

Tim huffs in amusement, pulling Jason’s hand away from his jaw so he can step closer into his space. His other hand snags in one of Jason's belt loops, tugging them together. “If I do,” he muses, “this’ll be my first proper Worlds. I’ve only done Juniors up til now.” 

Jason pauses for a second, frowning. “Wait, you’ve only done Juniors? But you’re-” 

Tim crooks a devious brow. “Eighteen. Well, nineteen in July, but-” 

Jason looks mortified. “Fuck, princess, you’re eighteen?” 

Tim scowls at his affront. “And nine months,” he emphasises. “And you’re what, twenty-one?” 

“Twenty-two after Stanley Cup,” Jason groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Oh my God, no wonder Dick was such an asshole about me hitting on you. You’re jailbait, princess.” 

“I’m an adult!” Tim snaps, offended. 

“I’m on a million dollar salary,” Jason gasps, mortified. “Am I a sugar daddy?” 

Tim flushes such a horrific shade of red that it’s nearly enough to dispel Jason’s distress. Then he claps a hand over Jason’s mouth and leans into his confidence. 

“If you ever say that in the presence of a particular blonde lady, I will never forgive you,” he warns, and Jason doesn’t wholly understand, but Tim’s gaze is positively dangerous, so he nods. He gives a stilted little sigh and pulls away, hand trailing down Jason’s side as a smirk tugs at his lips. “Alright, million dollar sugar daddy,” he purrs after a moment, gaze flashing up, and Jason feels heat coil in his gut at that tone. He insistently shoves it down. “Have you got a sweet ride to get us back to mine?” 

Jason draws in a sharp breath. “I’ve got a bike,” he blurts, and Tim’s flat gaze tells him that he’s wholly unsurprised by the clicheness of it all. 

“Of course you do,” he says, and lets Jason steer them towards the private parking at the back of the rink. “Why would I assume otherwise. Tell me it’s not red.” 

Jason winks at him and curls down to mutter directly into Tim’s ear. “It’s alright, princess. I know you were just looking for an excuse to wrap those legs around my thighs.” 

Tim socks him in the arm, but Jason’s already belting laughter. 

Chapter Text

“Sorry, my heating’s on the fritz at the moment,” Tim apologises as they shrug into his apartment. Jason sets his helmet on the table when Tim does, watching the smaller man wrestle his hoodie over his shoulders. 

“Don’t worry, princess,” Jason teases, watching his shirt catch and reveal the smooth, muscled curve of his abdomen under the fluorescent lights. Jason swallows and works on keeping his tone evenly mocking. Tries not to linger for too long on the flex of those abdominals beneath Tim’s frustrated shimmy. “I’m hot enough for the both of us.” 

Tim huffs and tosses the clothing over the back of a dining chair, offering him an apologetic smirk as he tugs his shirt back down. Jason’s eyes follow the dip of his hands, before rising swiftly back to his face. “I’ve been meaning to get someone out to look at it, but, you know.” Tim shrugs in explanation, and Jason scoffs. 

“With the state of this place, you wouldn’t think you were a national medalist, princess,” he croons, and Tim rolls his eyes, amused. Jason casts his gaze around, skimming over the lounge where they’d watched movies with Dick that night. “So what’s the plan for tonight? Another movie?” 

“Don’t know,” Tim quips back. “You kind of fell asleep on me last time. Think we should do something that can hold your attention for a bit longer, hmm?” 

Jason scowls playfully. “I work hard to maintain this smokin’ hot bod, princess,” he says, ironically flexing to prove his point. Tim’s gaze hones in on his biceps through the shirt, heat pooling in his gaze, and Jason swallows under that focus, lowering them. “I think I earned that beauty nap.” 

“Uh huh,” Tim says dubiously, and brushes past him into the kitchen. 

Standing in the void between the counter and the lounge feels too uncomfortable, so Jason leans his hips up against the dining table  and crosses his arms over his chest as casually as he can manage. 

“You want a drink?” Tim asks as he yanks open the fridge and bends down to rifle through the crisper. “I left some snacks in here, but I think Steph got to them before me.” 

“Uh,” Jason stalls, because Tim’s wearing goddamn compression tights again, and that ass is just- “N-nah, I’m good,” he rushes when Tim starts to straighten. 

He shifts a hip, cocking it slightly as he continues to search for something in the depths of the fridge. Jason doesn’t realise he’s tilting forward to get a better peek around the fridge door until Tim straightens suddenly and Jason slams his hips back into the dining table. It screeches back across the floorboards obnoxiously, and Jason flushes. 

Tim crooks an eyebrow at him, coming up empty-handed as he closes the door. He has the sort of shit-eating grin that tells Jason he knows exactly what he was doing. “Can I help you?” 

“Just wondering,” Jason stalls, and wracks his brain for a plausible excuse. Tim props his elbows up on the counter, lips pressed into a coy smile as he waits for Jason’s answer. “I was just, uh-” 

And then Jason’s gaze slides down the curve of his shoulders, the taunt strain of lean muscle down those arms, leading to those delicate wrists. They’re so tiny, Jason thinks, I could wrap my hands twice around them if I tried. 

Tim clears his throat in something that can only be construed as a prompt, and Jason jerks his chin up, a startled, “Huh?” falling from his lips. 

“You had something you wanted to ask me,” Tim says mildly, leaning forwards over the counter, but Jason’s stare is lingering on the curve of collarbone exposed by his gaping shirt. “Jason.” 

Jason looks up, cheeks heating. He doesn’t understand how it can be so impossibly hard to keep his eyes on Tim’s face, because God, that’s a gorgeous face. Softly pouted lips, long dark lashes over high arching cheekbones, that heated blue gaze. 

Oh, Jason thinks when he catches sight of those eyes. Because Tim looks both ravenous and desperate, and Jason knew he wasn’t alone in this torture, but Tim looks like it’s an ordeal to keep his hands to himself. 

“Do I have to make it more obvious?” Tim asks, and there’s a strained quality to those words, his hands clenching into fists on the counter top. 

Jason blinks, drinks that expression down for one more selfish second. “Yes,” he croaks. 

Tim’s nails flash as he shoves up off the counter, and Jason surges forward before he’s even cleared it, meeting him halfway. Tim’s knee crashes into his shin, but then his palms are fused against Tim’s jawbone, and Tim’s lips are on him. 

Jason’s lifting him before they even pull up for air, hands sliding down that arched spine to grip his thighs. Tim moans into his mouth when he sets him up on the counter, leaning his weight between Tim’s spread knees. Tim’s fingers are laced through his hair, grip tight on the strands, as if he can’t get Jason close enough. 

The taller man breaks off with a desperate gasp of air, and those plush lips jump to his throat. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus enough past the featherlight brush of a mouth on his pulse to say, “We’re not fucking on a kitchen counter.” 

“Bedroom,” Tim grunts in response, and Jason leans into him, scooping him up off the counter to a bleat of surprise. Tim locks his ankles around Jason’s hips as he turns them into the bedroom adjoining the living room. He sits on the edge of the covers, sprawling back across them and dragging Tim down onto all fours over him. He seems more than eager to occupy Jason’s breathing space, lurching up to claim his lips again. 

Tim straddles him, layering his weight down over Jason’s huge frame, and Jason’s more than a little thrilled to feel the hard resistance of Tim’s toned abdomen when he skirts a hand up under his shirt. He can feel Tim’s hard-on against his thigh too, and wraps his arm up over the small of his back, pulling him tight against his body as he crooks a knee up between Tim’s legs. 

Tim groans into his mouth, shuddering as he grinds down against the friction, a little desperate. Jason pulls back to get a better look at Tim’s softly parted lips and pinched brow before he reaches down to grab a hard handful of his ass. 

Tim yelps, eyes flying open, and Jason laughs at his betrayed look. His pupils are flat and dark, and his lips twist in half-hearted challenge as he leans down and openly mouths up the length of Jason’s throat. 

It sends a curl of heat down to Jason’s abdomen, where it glows and stews like magma. But there’s sparks there too, fizzling and sending sharp stabs of pain up Jason’s insides with the memory of pale lips on his throat. 

Jason shifts to get more comfortable, shoving the thoughts back as far as they can go into the dark, fuzzy edges of his mind as he claims Tim’s mouth again. Because Tim’s whining softly into his lips and running his nails lightly up Jason’s sides. It’s a maddening combination of sensations, and Jason moans into it, sitting upright to pull Tim into his lap. 

Tim brackets his knees against Jason’s flanks immediately, fingers carding up through his hair as Jason bears down and devours him. They don’t say anything, but Jason doesn’t think there’s enough words for this anyway, and settles for groaning his pleasure against Tim’s lips. 

He pulls away with a sharp gasp, eyes rolling to find Jason, his length very obvious against both their stomachs as he flexes his hips and grips the back of Jason’s neck. 

It’s stupid, and he hates it, but those too-pale fingers come back to run sharp nails and feathered strokes up Jason’s neck, and he tenses against the touch. Tim pauses, and Jason tries to mask his reaction by nipping into the line of his throat. 

“Jay,” Tim murmurs, a little breathless. “Jason, what’s-” 

Jason makes a dissenting noise into the corner of his jaw, frowning slightly as he slides a hand between them and runs the flat of his thumb up the line of Tim’s cock. 

Tim lifts and arches and groans, and Jason feels that note thrum heady through his chest. Tim’s biting his lip, worrying at the chapped pink flesh, and Jason can’t help but feel he’s being robbed. 

So he layers one hand over Tim’s spine between his shoulder blades and twists them both down onto the bed, yanking at the waistband of Tim’s jeans with the hand between his legs. Jason gets his knees onto the covers, pressing Tim’s thighs up and back as he writhes beneath him, looking fucking delectable. 

Tim arches up pliantly to help him get the jeans and boxer briefs down to mid-thigh, and then Jason chuckles and layers his weight over Tim, pinning him just to enjoy the way he whines and squirms beneath him. 

“Jay, c’mon, Jay please,” he groans, flexing his hips up. Jason doesn’t give him an inch, dipping down to wrap his fingers around Tim’s length and set up a slow and torturous rhythm. 

Tim lists back against the sheets in equal measures frustration and desperation, his hair splaying out around his flushed face. Jason nips at the line of his jaw. 

“You look fucking gorgeous, princess,” he murmurs, and doesn’t miss the way Tim jolts at the nickname and grinds down. Jason’s grin turns positively wolfish. “You like that, princess?” 

Tim nods drunkenly, shimmying his hips down in the small leeway Jason has created between them, until the tops of Jason’s thighs are pressing down against the backs of his. His palms go to Jason’s chest, his back curving in a neat arch as he beckons with his hips. 

Jason’s hard as fucking steel in his pants, but he doesn’t reach for himself. Doesn’t give Tim what he wants yet, because what he wants is to see him fall apart literally in the palm of Jason’s hand. 

“You look amazing, doll,” Jason purrs into the hollow of his throat, and then sucks a hickey into his collarbone. Tim cries out weakly and drags his nails across Jason’s scalp, gripping fiercely at his hair. He seems desperate for contact, unable to get Jason close enough, as if he wants to fuse their sweat-slicked skin together. It drives Jason absolutely mad. 

Tim jerks, a hard shiver running the whole length of his coiled body when Jason swipes a thumb over the head of his cock, and then Tim’s hands are yanking at his hair, guiding Jason’s lips down to meet his own. Tim’s mouth is ravenous on him, all teeth and tongue and desperation. 

Jason folds his hips down into him, smothering Tim as he works him to a fever pitch. Tim pleads and begs and writhes under him, pinned. He stills for the barest half-second as he crests his orgasm, and then he’s shuddering beneath Jason, shouting loud and hard in the ear that Jason’s turned against his jaw so he can suck a mark into Tim’s neck. 

Jason doesn’t stop until Tim’s shifting and clinging to him, mewling sharp pleas into Jason’s forehead, oversensitive. Jason unwraps his fist slowly, revelling in the heavy exhale Tim huffs into his hair as he cranes his neck back to look up at him. 

Tim looks a bit dazed, flushed bright red with the ends of his hair slicking to his forehead. Jason nips under his chin, and Tim ducks down to catch his lips. 

“Jay, Jay, Jay,” he babbles softly when they break apart, chasing the heat up over Jason’s cheekbones with featherlight kisses. 

Jason chuckles and pulls back a little to give them some breathing space, hands sliding down to wrap around the arches of Tim’s hips. “You good, princess?” 

“Better,” Tim breathes reverently, and then he pats the back of Jason’s hand with his. “Turn us over. I wanna ride you.” 

God, it’s unbelievable how easily Tim can still knock the air from his lungs, even when he’s still trembling from an orgasm. Jason slides a heel back, pulling Tim tight against him as he twists his hips and slumps back against the covers, righting Tim. 

The smaller man looks a little starstruck at how easily Jason manoeuvres him, and Jason grins. 

“You look a little surprised, princess,” Jason offers and Tim flexes his hands in Jason’s shirt absently. “I’d almost think you’re a little bit keen to be manhandled.” 

“Call it ballerina’s envy,” Tim quips blankly, and Jason arches a brow. Tim shrugs, but the hungry look in his eyes marrs his nonchalance. “Love to see just how high someone can lift me.” 

“You did ballet?” Jason asks, and that curiosity is nothing but wicked. 

Tim grins, shifting until he’s sitting just below Jason's abdomen, legs crooked back beside Jason’s hips. Boxing him in. “Used to, when I was a kid. Put me in good stead to be a skater.” 

“No kidding,” Jason breathes, and Tim swoops down to claim his lips again, hands curling into the sides of his hair. His thumbs hook under the corners of Jason’s jaw, stroking the hot skin there as he pins him in place, exactly where Tim wants Jason to be. 

Tim grinds down against the front of Jason’s pants, and Jason’s mouth falls open of its own accord because fuck that feels good. Tim doesn’t stop circling his hips, even as he pulls back to chuckle at Jason’s delighted expression. 

“You look a little surprised, princess,” Tim croons, way too proud of himself, and Jason scowls. Bites his bottom lip and groans as he flexes his hips up to meet Tim. 

Tim leans back and layers his palms down across the tops of Jason’s thighs, adding weight until Jason’s forced to let his legs fall back to the bed with a mewl of regret. He wants to be good for Tim, wants this to be good for them both. Wants to trust Tim with this part of himself, knows that he can. It sends a lightning thrill sizzling up through Jason’s chest. 

“What was that about being manhandled?” Tim purrs down at him, like he can read Jason’s every thought. Jason huffs and sinks his fingers into the backs of Tim’s calves, up near where his knees are crooked. 

“Fuck you,” he offers coyly, smiling as Tim shifts a palm to grind down against his trapped cock. Jason groans and tilts his hips into his touch. 

“That’s the idea,” Tim replies around a grin, and Jason openly mewls at that blatant invitation. 

Jason gasps in a sharp breath, grip constricting around Tim’s knees as he glances down at the jeans that are still peeled back off his hips, exposing Tim’s half-hard cock. 

“Teenagers,” Jason says, half-wistfully, and Tim responds by grinding his ass back against the head of Jason’s trapped cock, and Jason falls apart again beneath him. 

Somehow Tim manages to get his buttons open and his fly undone with one hand, fingers delving under the elastic of Jason’s briefs to wrap around his cock. Jason whines and tries to tilt up into his touch, but Tim’s expertly settled his weight back to pin Jason down. 

Jason must looks absolutely desperate, because he certainly feels it as Tim's palm curls up the length of his cock and circles the head. 

Tim's grinning, his eyes alight with adulation and wonder as he drinks in Jason's every gasp and groan. "Baby, baby, baby," he sing-songs in a low voice, too wrecked to be chastising or teasing, and Jason shivers beneath him. 

"Princess, Tim, God, please," Jason all but screams, jostling him with the shudder that rips through him. He squeezes hard into the meat of Tim's slim calves, before his fingers skate up to delve into Tim's jeans. 

He gives an ecstatic groan when the warmth of Jason's fist closes around him, tilting forward slightly to cant into his grip. His mouth falls open slightly, brow pinching, and Jason's heart pounds in his chest. Can't think of anything other than how delicate and resilient and exquisite Tim looks, poised above him. It’s one of the most perfect moments of Jason’s life. 

Tim shifts so he can yank Jason’s pants further down his thighs, and as soon as the cold air grips him, Jason freezes up. Tim stills over him immediately, warm hand layered over his cock as he searches out Jason’s gaze. 

“Jay?” he asks, and doesn't move an inch except to settle his balance against Jason’s thighs. “Jay, are you good?” 

Jason feels like he’s being pinned to the bed, his skin crawling wherever the cold touches. The ghosts of soft, persistent fingers trickle over his bared thighs, and Jason’s chest feels like an anvil’s pressing down on it. He shifts his hips up the bed slightly, heels pressing against the floor as he shakes his head. 

Tim’s hand snaps away from him, eyes unblinking where he’s holding Jason’s gaze, waiting for an instruction. Jason can’t look at him, his gaze roaming as he tries to shove the sensation from his mind. 

“Jay, look at me,” Tim says, tone gentle but firm, and Jason does. His whole form is rigid where he sits on Jason’s hips, arms pressed flat to his sides and hands wrapped around his own ankles. He’s focused to a razor thin point on Jason’s face, tense and hesitant. Giving Jason the space he needs. “What do you want me to do, Jay? I’m all yours.” 

His words punch a small hole in the side of Jason’s chest, but then the pressure deflates and he feels like he can breathe again. Jason swallows and tries for a weak smile. 

“Hey,” Jason says placatingly, but it sounds flat even to him. Tim frowns questioningly, and puts some more space between them, but doesn’t pull off entirely. Jason feels a swell of gratitude. “Can we, uh, take it easy tonight? I just need to get my mind off shit for a bit.” 

“Yeah,” Tim chirps, brightening up. He shuffles back down Jason’s thighs until his toes find the floor. “Yeah, absolutely. No problem." 

He goes to pull off, and Jason whines in protest, fingers hooking into his belt loops, because he’s not ready to let Tim go just yet. Doesn’t want that, but doesn’t not want Tim either. Tim grins down at him, nails biting into the taut skin of Jason’s abdomen as he pauses. 

“I’m just gonna go clean up,” he assures Jason, prying away his hands and turning over his palms to kiss each in turn. “Five minute shower so I can take care of - this. I’ll be right back, I promise.” 

“Don't be long,” Jason begs, and Tim smirks and swings off his thighs. 

Jason slumps back into the covers once he hears the bathroom door latch shut, and exhales a heavy breath. Tries to shove back the guilt and shuffles his hips up the bed until he's got better support. 

He can feel tears pressing behind his eyes, feel the well of despair and fear and shame forcing its way up through his lungs. And he’s surprised to find he’s angry too. It’s a spiralling gyre, lashing his insides with unguided, sharp heat. All Jason can picture is the image Tim had made, poised unequalled above him, and how that image is shattering around him, cracking across his thoughts as he swallows down guilt and the heavy weight of unfairness. 

Jason reaches down to tuck himself back into his pants, focusing on dealing with that little problem as he rearranges and buttons up his jeans. He focuses on the spines of the books on the shelf across the room, makes himself trace the lines of every title until he’s able to bury that raw hatred deep enough that he’s not trembling anymore. He sinks his nails into his palms, and tugs down his sleeve sharply when the scar catches in his peripheral. 

Jason stares at the ceiling and thinks of Tim. Of how he’d looked in that lift on their first date, soaring high above Jason. Of how he’d leaned over the diner booth table from the aisle and pecked Jason on the cheek as he’d departed, flushed red. Of how he’d rippled above him just now, arched back under Jason’s adulating ministrations like he could shatter if Jason let him go. Jason thinks of Tim above him, suspended in that ineffable glory, and thinks that if he just reached, he could be there too, beside him. 

By the time Tim emerges from the bathroom, hair still damp and dripping, with that broad unassuming smile plastered across his face, Jason’s levelled out enough that he can return it. 

“Hey, princess,” he purrs, and watches the line of Tim’s shoulders visibly relax as he approaches, pausing in front of Jason’s knees. 

He reaches up to yank down the collar of his shirt, exposing the blooming mark wrapped around his collarbone with a wry smile. “Thanks.” 

Jason’s stomach swoops a bit at the sight, at how proud Tim looks to have a reminder of Jason stamped on his skin. He smiles, and Tim lets Jason pull his hips back down to the covers. It feels easier to breathe with Tim here, like the mad spinning vortex of Jason’s life can pull itself together and steady itself around Tim’s gravity pool. 

Jason runs a hand up Tim’s hip and squeezes his flank, imparting reassurance as Tim flops back to the bed at his side. 

Tim rolls onto his stomach, propping his chin up into his palm as Jason shuffle to tuck himself into Tim’s side, the top of his head pressed to Tim’s ribs. He’s half-covered by Tim’s lithe form this way, and the atmosphere goes a long way to making Jason feel protected, safe. 

Jason wraps a hand around Tim’s crooked elbow anyway, just to feel the heat of him, and runs careless fingers up the limb to his shoulder, feeling the goosebumps that rise to meet him. He keeps his gaze pinned to Tim’s poorly organised bookshelf though, aware that those soft ice-blue eyes are still on him. 

“Hey, Jay,” Tim enquires gently, and Jason braces for an interrogation. It doesn’t come. Tim just breathes evenly, his ribs shifting softly against the crown of Jason’s head, imparting stability. “Can I kiss you?” 

Jason tilts his head back to meet those eyes, mouth falling open a bit in his surprise. There’s an earnest look in Tim’s eyes, and the fingers of his free hand twist in the covers down near Jason's ribs, fretting as if he wants to have his hands on Jason but isn’t sure he’s allowed to.  

“Yeah,” he breathes, the relief instant. He winds his hand down to lace his fingers through Tim’s, prying his hand off the covers and searing it into his side. Tim’s grip tightens immediately, comforting. Jason arches up to meet his lips, tugging Tim down with a hand on his neck. “Absolutely.” 

It’s soft and slow and underscored by the heat that passes between them, but Tim doesn’t force the kiss. Lets Jason guide them through it, work his way around Tim’s mouth as Tim shifts pliantly to accommodate him. 

When they break apart, Jason huffs and slumps back to the covers. He shoves down the guilty need to apologise, because Tim doesn’t need it. Doesn’t want his apology or an explanation. His careless trust soothes Jason’s nerves like a balm. 

Tim leans his cheek back into his palm, delicately slipping his hand from Jason’s as he stares down fondly at him. The hand cards up over Jason’s scalp, and then fingers pick through Jason’s bleached locks. “Steph invited me to this free-for-all evening her derby team are hosting. We could go there if you want? Might be a good way to blow off some steam?” 

Getting elbow-slammed into the ice by a hundred-and-thirty pound derby queen sounds like a fantastic way to clear his head. Jason grins and tilts back to meet his gaze. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely, princess. I’m going to suplex the fuck out of you.” 

Chapter Text

The Iceberg Lounge is another of Cobblepot’s collection of rinks, designed for public use. It’s been decked out in a slew of purples and reds and blues tonight, gaudy caricatures of bloodthirsty players hung from the walls. A huge banner draped over the entrance declares, ‘Free-For-All Bruiseday: Ice Derby Sign-Ups Tonight’. 

Jason and Tim circle the away end of the rink to warm up, running lazily through some offhanded step sequences while Tim hums under his breath. Jason’s hands are fused to his hip and waist, curled around the small of his back, and Tim’s heated skin is searing into him. All he can think about is how Tim had looked staring down at him, all broad wonder, and Jason’s nearly tripped over himself twice he’s been so distracted.  

“Todd!” someone barks, and Jason turns as the young woman screeches up in a sharp stop, gouging the ice. “You look like absolute shit.” 

Jason grins, abandoning Tim briefly to pull her into a hug. “Rose, how’re things?” 

“Keeping busy.” Her gaze rises to his hair when she pulls back. “Good Lord you actually held up with tradition. You know no one else is going to do that shit to their hair, right?”

“You can talk,” he says with a nod at her stark platinum-white locks. 

“You bleached like, three strands. You’re a solo class act, Todd.” She steps back and crosses her arms over her chest. “What are you doing on my turf?” To the untrained ear, it’s a gravelling threat; but Jason’s known Rose since she still had braces, so he doesn’t take any shit from her. Doesn’t stop him from dealing it out either. 

“Just poaching all the good-looking Birds,” Jason shoots back. “Or at least, the ones you haven’t had a go at yet. List is getting shorter by the day.” 

“You’re an asshole,” she announces, her silver-blue gaze cutting down to Tim. “Who’s this?” 

Jason wraps an arm around Tim’s waist, pulling him forwards under Rose's scrutiny. “This is Tim Drake,” he declares with a crooked smile. “Tim, this is Rose.” 

“Nice to meet you,” he says with all that charm at his disposal. He offers Rose a polite smile that she returns with bared teeth. Jason likes to think Tim’s just a tad intimated. “Have you known Jason for long?” 

Rose scoffs and reaches back to wind her bleached-white hair up off shoulders. “Too long.” 

“Rose is Wilson’s daughter,” Jason elaborates, and Tim starts, his brows rising in surprise. He sweeps her again, his gaze more scrutinising this time, and Jason wonders if Tim realises he can be a bit stiff and analytical when he meets new people. “She’s been coming to our training sessions for years. Since before I joined the team.” 

She smirks and crosses her arms over her chest again, her knuckles knocking over her plastic elbow guards. “What’s your poison, Drake? You don’t look like much of a centerman to me.” 

“I do figures,” Tim supplies with a small smile. “I did pairs with Steph.” 

Rose's eyebrows rise, clarity blooming over her sharp features. “Oh, you’re Spoiler’s arm candy.” Jason snorts, and Tim scowls, elbowing him. 

“Is that her derby name?” Tim asks curiously, and Rose nods. 

“What’s yours?” Jason quips. “‘Daddy’s Little Monster’?” 

“We’d have to save something for you, Todd,” Rose shoots back, before answering, “Ravager.” 

“Edgy,” Jason says. 

“You two have to choose derby names too,” she informs them, ignoring Jason’s jabs. “Everyone in the Birds of Prey has a stage name. No one gets on the ice without one.” 

“Is there a theme?” Tim asks. 

Rose shrugs. “It varies. The first gens were Oracle, Black Canary and Huntress. Nowadays we’ve got Orphan, Misfit, Bluebird. Starling retired last month, so Kate's our oldest vet - she goes by Batwoman.” 

Jason casts his gaze across the ice. “How many on the team?” 

“Fifteen. We’ve got a turnout of about nine, since a lot like Steph are prepping for the local and regional comps.” Rose crooks a brow at Tim. “Surprised that you’d show up; aren’t you competing?” 

“Just finished Sectionals,” he replies, and she hums in understanding. Tim grins up at Jason, winding an arm around his waist. “Thought we’d come see what all the fuss is about. Steph won’t shut up about you guys, so I figured it must be worth our while.” 

“Let’s get you armoured up then,” Rose says, and pauses to run her gaze over Jason. “God, you’re a fucking mountain," she says scathingly, and Jason can’t help but preen under the attention. “You’re gonna be a bitch to fit out.” 

At five eleven, Rose is no delicate flower herself. But Jason can see he easily swamps most of the women here with his hockey-honed physique. If anything, Tim’s slim frame seems to fit in most amongst the Birds. 

“Your father is six foot five,” Jason reminds her, following as she makes her way leisurely back across the ice. He slows to curl an arm around Tim’s shoulders when he falls into line beside him. “I’m a babe in comparison.” 

Rose tosses him a tight-lipped smirk over her shoulder, turning to face them as she leads them through the gates and towards an array of plastic boxes that have drawn a crowd. “Babe, my ass, Todd. You’re a goddamn heartbreaker.” She glances over at Tim, sweeping his petite form with an assessing gaze. “You’re about Spoiler’s height, right? You could probably borrow her gear for the night.” 

When she hoists a sleek black container onto the bleachers and pops the lid, Jason’s heart soars. 

“Of course it’s purple,” Tim sighs, but there’s a fondness there. Jason presses a smirking kiss behind his right ear. 

“You’re going to look fucking adorable,” he growls into his hairline, and doesn’t miss the trail of goosebumps that lace up Tim’s neck. 

Tim shrugs out of his light hold with a twisted smile, dropping down onto the bleachers to begin assembling his armour. “Don’t push your luck.” 

“Todd,” Rose says, beckoning him over. She’s got a haphazard array of oversized guards cradled in her arms, and she dumps them into his open hands. “You’re up. I’ll find you a helmet. Red’s your colour-of-choice, right, Hood?” 

Jason flips off her smug smile, ignoring her chuckle as she peels away from the crowd. He meanders back to Tim, who has shimmied into the knee pads and is pulling on the elbow guards. 

“Loving the colour scheme, princess,” Jason purrs as he drops down onto the bench beside him, dumping his spoils between his skates. 

Tim twirls the purple helmet between his palms, offering Jason a coy smile that sends heat curling down his spine. “Team colours, right? Purple and black?” 

“For the Jokers?” Jason realises with a start, and huffs a laugh. “Yeah, actually. Very cute, princess.” 

“Steph’s a huge fan,” he explains, sliding smoothly into the ribbed wrist guards. “I’ll have to make sure to get some priceless memorabilia off you. She’s a big fan of your thighs.” 

Jason crooks a brow. “Is she now?” 

“Not the only one,” Tim mutters lightly, and Jason nearly chokes on his surprise. 

He runs his fingers up through the back of Tim’s hair, turning his forehead inwards so he can press a kiss to it. “You’re a fucking tease, princess,” he murmurs into his fringe, grinning. 

Tim hums and winds fingers into his shirt, teeth flashing in his smile. “Only ‘cause you like it.” 

“You two are disgustingly sweet,” Rose groans, making a reappearance as Tim slips out of Jason’s touch with a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I’m putting you on separate teams. If one of you hasn’t drawn blood by the end of the match, I’m having Dad fine you," she adds, jabbing an accusing finger at Jason. 

He straightens with a mortified expression. “Hey! That’s my motherfucking salary we’re talking about there.” 

“Boo hoo,” Rose simpers, deadpan. “Go cry into your piles of money, you fucking millionaire.” 

“Preppy,” Jason snaps waspishly. 

“Duster.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Rose offers him a middle finger. “Regards from Blair Academy, you fucking hoser,” she sneers, but she’s grinning. Jason waves her off with a smirk, focusing on his knee pads. 

He and Rose have been back-and-forth like this for years. Jason’s a stickler for homemade traditions. And any seventeen-year-old girl who can talk as much smack as the men on the Jokers is not to be trifled with in Jason’s book. 

He pushes up to his feet once he’s slid on his borrowed elbow guards, wiggling fingers through the wrists braces. Rose slaps them out of her face, glaring, and Jason chuckles. 

“So how do you play this sorry excuse for a sport, Ravager?” 

“Jealous that I spend my weekends surrounded by fifteen women and you’re contracted to a veritable sausage fest, Todd?” 

Jason shrugs easily, smirking, not backing down. “Makes no difference to me, Rosie; you know I swing both ways. I just gotta know how you make a sport out of skating in circles for sixty minutes.” 

“Says the guy who gets paid to chase a glorified frisbee.” 

Jason levels a finger in her direction. “But I do get paid.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Not all of us have millionaire daddies. Some of us have to work for our supper.” 

Rose arches a dark brow. “Are you implying you’re a sugar daddy, Todd?” 

Jason opens his mouth, freezes, and closes it again. Becomes intimately aware that Tim has paled drastically on the bench beside him. He can feel heat gathering in his face, and can only imagine how red his own cheeks are. 

“Touchè,” he concedes under her vicious smirk. “But also fuck you.” 

“Even stevens,” she says, and turns her attention to Tim, her tone taking on a more commanding edge. It reminds Jason of her father. “But enough of that. We’ve got to pick your positions.” 

“Positions?” Tim repeats desperately, and Jason thinks he might be trying to seize the offered diversion by the horns. 

“You look like you can wiggle through some niche spaces,” Rose says with broad scrutiny, and hands Tim a decorative helmet cover with an emblazoned black star. “You’re going to be our jammer for tonight.” 

“Okay, what do I do?” Tim asks, shuffling the cover on. 

Rose’s lips crook in an amused smirk. “You skate fast, and you dodge anyone who gets in your way. Use those fancy jumps if you have to. Your job is to make as many laps of the rink as you can in two minutes, without getting barricaded in.” 

Tim shrugs and brushes his palms off, rising to his feet. “Sounds straightforward.” 

“If you get pinched, you can pass the star to me,” Rose explains, rolling her orange-clad shoulders. Jason watches the embellished skulls there shimmer under the fluorescent lighting. “I’m the pivot, which makes me the playmaker. You can pass off to me if you need to take a break or get walled up, to continue play.” 

Jason leans a broad forearm up against her shoulder guard, not flinching as Rose turns an icy eye on him. “What about me?” 

Rose barks a sharp laugh. “Blocker, definitely. All you’ve got to do is keep pace with the line and put those big scary muscles to use. Shouldn’t be too mentally straining for you, right?” 

Tim snickers as she extracts herself from under his lean and Jason cants over to snag his waist, pulling him in tight. Tim goes easily, melting into his side with a pleased grin, and Jason drags a thumb up the back of his spine, feeling Tim press back into his touch. 

“One more thing,” Rose warns, and tosses two lumps of white cloth in their direction. Jason plucks his out of the air, unfurling it to stare down at the plain singlet. Rose braces a hand on her hip and brandishes a sharpie at him. “Derby names. Write them on the backs of the singlets. And maybe come up with each other’s,” she adds, glancing between them with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Keep it interesting.” 

Tim starts a little, before twisting to glare at Jason as he plucks the pen from her fingers. “If you choose Princess, I will disown you on grounds of unoriginality,” he warns flatly, and Jason scoffs, retracting his arm so he can flatten the singlet down against the nearest bench. 

“Please,” he sneers, unable to curb his grin as he squats down, raising the felt tip. “And pass up this golden opportunity? You’re going to regret not settling for Princess, princess.” 

Tim turns to lay out his own canvas, but not before Jason catches him rolling his eyes. He makes quick work, folding up the singlet as he hands the pen to Tim. He braces his hands on Tim’s waist as he bends to write, stroking his thumbs up the smaller man’s sides as he buries his nose in Tim’s hair and watches his neat cursive. 

“Loosely Mauled Montpummelry?” Jason reads, and Tim shrugs under a beaming smile. 

“Anne of Green Gables. Thought you’d like it.” 

Jason pecks a quick kiss to Tim’s throat, grinning as he hands him his own singlet. “Your turn.” 

“Bruise Pain’s Slice Queen,” Tim quotes drily upon unfurling it, and fixes Jason with a disparaging look. “Oh look, I’ve graduated.” 

“Not Princess though,” Jason points out, shucking his shirt and shrugging into his singlet. Then he lifts his arms to scoff at the gaping sides. It's a size too small, hugging the curves of his waist and straining tight over his abdomen. It still gapes down lower than is necessary, cut low to expose his ribs. 

Tim’s tied his singlet in a neat knot just above his navel, exposing his midriff and the cradle of his hips beneath the tight compression pants. It still somehow manages to hang loose on him, slipping off one leanly muscled shoulder. Jason can see the smooth flex of his abdominals and the slide of his hipbones as he cocks his weight to one side, smirking at Jason’s dumbfounded expression. 

“You’ve, uh, got a little drool there,” he says lightly, tracing an absent thumb up the curve of his own lower lip as he steps out onto the ice, and Jason scowls, snapping his jaw shut. 

“Pride’s a sin, princess,” Jason reminds him through a pained growl, following him. 

Tim glides over, purring low as he circles around Jason’s back with a mischievous grin. “Then I’ve been positively wicked. Just absolutely depraved. A downright deviant.” 

Jason groans and lunges to snag his waist, but Tim dances out of his reach with a chiming laugh. 

“Uh, uh,” he warns, the grin splitting his features and making him positively glow. “We’re enemies now, remember? Can’t be seen consorting with opposing team members.” 

“Star-crossed lovers,” Jason croons sarcastically, and turns to follow Tim as he draws neat circles in the ice around him. “Your regular Romeo and Juliet on ice.” 

“You’re so sappy,” Tim laughs. 

“You strike me more as the Lady MacBeth type, princess.” 

Tim mocks offense. “Unsex me here.” 

“Filled with direst cruelty,” Jason agrees, nodding. 

Tim winks, and crosses over to where Rose is beckoning them to a starting line. “Catch me if you can.”

Chapter Text

Jason’s having a hard time focusing. It’s a three-pronged attack on his senses, which is honestly pretty unfair. 

The fluorescents of the ambulance dance overhead, pressing on him like a tangible force, squeezing down on his skull until a groan pries itself from Jason’s lips. He can hear a paramedic rifling through something a few feet away, and it’s too loud in the confined space. 

There’s something sliding down into his eyebrow, slow and marked by a trail he can’t see. He closes the eye, wanting to reach up and smear it away from it’s inevitable trek down his forehead, but he knows he’s not supposed to do that. So Jason sighs and blinks up at the blinding light overhead until someone wraps fingers around his chin and tugs it down gently. 

Blue eyes, swimming with painful concern, swamp his vision, and Jason grins down at Tim where he’s crouched on the bitumen. He’s squatting between Jason’s knees where they’re hooked over the lip of the ambulance's back gate, expression pinched into something guilty and worried. 

Jason slides the blunt of his thumb over Tim’s cheek, offering him an even broader smile. The muscles pull at the gash on his forehead, but Jason doesn’t mind. “Keep looking at me with that face and the wind’ll freeze it like that,” he warns with amusement, and Tim scowls. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, again, and Jason rolls his eyes softly. He reaches out to snag the hem of Tim’s singlet, tugging him closer so the smaller man rises to his feet. 

Jason tilts his head back to hold his gaze, wrapping his arms around Tim’s hips. “This ain’t my first concussion, princess,” he teases, and Tim flushes with guilt. Jason squeezes a little harder. Draws his focus back. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. At least my salary is saved.” 

Tim frowns. “Your salary?” 

Jason snickers. “Rose said she’d fine me if one of us didn’t draw blood. So cheers, princess.” His brow is still pinched, so Jason’s pinches too. “Hey. Don’t make me regret agreeing to let you call an ambulance. Honestly, princess, two aspirin and I’ll be right as rain.” 

“You’re playing this down to make me feel better,” Tim warns with a distrustful gaze, and Jason snorts. 

“Do you honestly think I wouldn’t take the opportunity to rub this in? If you didn’t play up the damn puppy dog eyes so much, I’d never let you forget it, princess. Probably won’t anyway; the boys will go apeshit when I tell them little old you decked me on the ice. You’ll have an all-season free pass to the locker rooms. They might kick me off the team and have you play offence instead. Pit you against some meatheads. With a mean right hook like that, they won’t know what hit ‘em.” 

Tim huffs softly, glancing down, but there’s humour there. Jason’s grin widens. 

“Guess ‘Slice Queen’ fits better than I thought, huh?” 

Tim rolls his eyes, the corner of his lips twitching in a smile. “Oh yeah, that name’ll get me mad street cred. Deathstroke will wish he was me.” 

Jason groans, pressing a kiss to Tim’s exposed midriff. Doesn’t miss when he sucks in a sharp, flustered breath. “Please don’t make me think of Slade Wilson when I’ve got my hands on your ass.” 

“You don’t have your hands on my ass,” Tim points out wryly. 

“I don’t?” Jason starts, and shifts to pull Tim even closer, hands falling to the backs of his thighs. “I can fix that.” 

Tim plants a firm palm on his shoulder and presses a soft knee into his ribs to brace against Jason’s insistent tug. “You’re not groping me in front of the paramedics,” Tim warns with only the barest mortification, and Jason whines loudly. 

“Don’t worry,” the paramedic says from right next to Jason, and Tim’s gaze flicks to him. Jason turns his head to acknowledge him. The man squats at Jason’s right side, scrubs crinkling as he raises a swab to his temple. “I’ve heard worse. Had someone with a concussion propose to me once.” He sweeps Jason with a smirk. “I could do worse than you though.” 

Jason grins up at Tim’s faint scowl. “See, princess? He thinks I’m hot. That’s a compliment, for someone like you to settle for a beefcake like me. You’re one hell of a catch.” 

Tim blinks at him, and then bursts into raucous laughter. The paramedic even manages a chuckle as he scrapes at Jason’s forehead with an ointment that stings. When he pulls back to dive back into his supplies, Tim laces his fingers up through the back of Jason’s hair, smirking fondly. 

“I know you’re a bit concussed right now,” he says, “but you’re a huge sap.” 

“I’m a romantic,” Jason purrs with a lopsided grin, and hooks his thumbs over Tim’s exposed hips so he can press fingers into Tim’s lower back. Pull him an inch closer, until his knees are knocking the inside of Jason’s thighs. He lets his tone drop to a sultry, needling purr. “Gonna need someone to take care of me now I’ve been laid out. It’ll be weeks before I can subsist on anything but chicken soup and forehead kisses.” 

Tim barks a laugh. “I’m not kissing your forehead with all that blood. That’s gross.” 

“What about if I get a sweet scar out of it?” Jason prompts with wide, eager eyes. “Would you kiss my scar?” 

Tim grins and curls his fingers around Jason’s hand, tugging it lose so he can brush his lips against the knuckles. “Absolutely.” 

He lets Jason go when the paramedic returns, gauze in hand. "Alright, hold still for me and we'll wrap you up. Then you and loverboy can go back to your date." 

"Hear that," Jason says as the man starts wrapping a roll of white bandages around his forehead. "Nurse called you loverboy, princess. That's a cute name." 

"I prefer princess," Tim replies with a smile. "And I'm pretty sure he was referring to you." 

Jason frowns, holding still as the paramedic pins the gauze in place with a clasp. "You think?" 

"One of the great mysteries of the universe," the paramedic replies slyly, and slides back up to his full height. "Alright, I'm going to write you up a report and then I'll discharge you. Give me five minutes and you'll be good to go." 

"No problem, doc," Jason replies as the man folds himself into the cabin and closes the door behind him. Tim hums and drags his fingers slowly across Jason’s scalp, playing gently with his hair as he dips into Jason’s touch. 

He looks content beneath Jason’s awed stare, the fluorescents casting his hair in a stark pitch against his pallor. But there’s a soft glow to his cheeks that curls Jason’s lips. He presses them into Tim’s collarbone, over the hickey, pausing to feel him shiver in the bare cold before he pulls back again. 

Jason lifts his hand to press tentative fingers against the bandage, testing its give. Tim’s gaze follows, eyes flaring with brief alarm before they harden. 

“What’s that?” Tim asks. 

“Huh?” Jason asks, glancing up and turning his hand to spot what’s captured Tim’s attention. A sharp flare of panic flickers up through his chest when his gaze alights on the cigarette burn. Jason swallows hard, brow pinching. “Uh,” he says unintelligibly, trying to map his way through an excuse with no preparation. That concussion is really doing a number on him. 

Tim’s fingers lace out to snatch his hand before he can bury it beneath his thigh, grip firm as he turns the scar into the light. All that warmth and glow is gone, compressed beneath a tight displeasure that rakes down the lines of Tim’s frame. There’s a downturn to his lips that has Jason’s stomach knotting, but it’s the flat ire in his gaze that’s making Jason shrink. 

“Jay,” he says flatly, and his calm sounds practiced. Jason focuses on not wincing beneath the attention. Tim’s gaze lifts, pinning him in place, and Jason loses that battle. 

He must look seriously panicked, because Tim’s expression softens around those hard eyes. His fingers curl around Jason’s hand, wrapping over the burn and imparting support as he squeezes gently. 

“Jay,” he repeats, but it’s unbearably soft this time. “Jay, what’s this?” 

It feels like an age before he can force out, “A burn.” 

Tim’s eyes feel like daggers raking down his skin. Jason’s gaze flicks down to his hand, held captive in Tim’s sturdy grip. Then there’s fingers, filtering slowly through his hair. 

“Jason,” Tim says evenly, his tone pitched until its just between them. “I need you to answer me honestly. Please. Are you okay?” 

His chest feels like it’s wrapped in iron. Jason sucks in a sharp breath under the vice, closing his eyes before he summons the resolve to meet Tim’s gaze. “Princess,” he murmurs, offering a smile that he hopes looks genuine. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” 

Tim doesn’t waver. “Are you sure?” 

Jason’s mind flickers to Jack, to the steady certainty in that hazel gaze. Remembers the way he’d looked watching that surveillance tape, those amused eyes tracking Tim like an owl tracks a mouse. Bile curls up the back of Jason’s throat, and he swallows roughly, but evens out his tone. “Yes, honestly. I’ve got this under control.” 

“Did someone on the team do that?” Tim asks flatly, and Jason’s brow furrows. 

“No, it wasn’t-” 

“You don’t have to put up with that sort of shit just to stay on a team, Jay,” Tim says pointedly, and Jason’s gut clenches in panic, green eyes swimming behind his eyelids. 

“I’m- I’m not,” he forces out, grip tightening on the singlet bunched in Tim’s lower back. The last thing Jason wants is Tim throwing himself on Jack’s sword for Jason; he doesn’t need a martyr. “Trust me, Tim. I’m handling this. I appreciate your concern, I do. But I’ll tell you if I need you, okay?” 

Tim’s lips thin with the words, displeasure making itself known in the set of his jaw. 

“Okay, princess?” Jason insists, hand skirting up to tug his head down. He presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead, inhaling him as Tim gradually unfolds and releases Jason’s hand. 

“Okay,” Tim agrees reluctantly. “But tell me, if you need me. For anything. Alright, Jay?” 

Jason’s throat feels unexpectedly sore, the words too thick to pass his lips, so he nods against the crown of Tim’s head and hums an affirmation. “Love you, princess.” 

Tim stills against him, fingers pausing on their trek through his hair, and it isn’t until Jason pulls back that he realises what he’s said. He blanches, scrambling to wrestle the blame onto the concussion, the sight of Tim, the damn moonlight if he has to- 

And then Tim’s lips part in a smile that’s so soft and genuine that Jason’s overcome with awe for it. Tim leans down and presses open his lips with his own, drinking him down slowly in the gleam of the fluorescents. When he pulls back, Jason exhales, blinking his eyes open as if the moment will disintegrate if he startles it. 

“I love you, too,” Tim says with a hint of stiltedness, blushing under Jason’s wide stare. “And I’m hoping that wasn’t just the concussion talking.” 

Jason grins, a laugh bubbling up into his throat, but before he can get any words out there’s a distinct gasp off to the side. 

There’s a young blonde woman standing at the back of the ambulance, decked out head-to-toe in nauseating purple, with what looks like a skate bag slung over one shoulder. “Holy shit, did you two just use the L-word?” she whispers, and Tim groans and buries his face against Jason’s shoulder. 

“Hi,” Jason offers as she approaches with visible glee. He arches a curious brow when she dumps the skate bag beside Tim’s left calf. “What L-word are we talking about?” 

Tim groans something against his neck that might be ‘lesbians’, and the woman nudges him before fixing Jason with a blindingly bright smile. It reminds him a little of Dick. 

“Steph Brown,” she introduces. “Tim’s pre-selected best man. Best woman? Bridesmaid? Bridesman? Who’s wearing the dress?” she asks, index finger swivelling between them. 

“Who-?” Jason starts, gaze slanting to pin Tim as he tilts his head back in some exasperated prayer. 

“Jason, this is my worst best friend, Stephanie Brown. Steph,” he adds with a hint of retribution in his tone, and fixes her with a glare, “this is your teenage crush, Jason motherfucking Todd.” 

Steph pales with the words, a blush lighting up her cheeks a split second later, and Jason snorts. “Not like- not like that!” she protests with a furrowed brow as Jason grins between the pair of them. She fixes Jason with an earnest, imploring gaze. “I like hockey! I like the Jokers; they’re my favourite team. And you’re- you’re really good.” 

When Tim crooks a brow at her dopey, reassuring grin, Steph blanches and clarifies. 

“A really good player! You do the-” She mimes an assist, swinging back what might be a hockey stick or a golf putter. Steph immediately looks mortified, dropping her hands and clenching them into fists at her sides. “The shooting, you shoot real good. Really well! Fuck. Can we just pretend this never happened?” 

Jason laughs, and winds an arm around Tim’s waist as Tim turns to hide his fond, smug smile where Steph can’t see it. “Yeah sure, no problem. I’ll make you a deal. You don’t ask how terrible I am at derby, and we’ll pretend this whole interaction never happened.” 

Steph crooks a curious brow in Tim’s direction, but offers a stiff, solemn hand. “Deal. Steph Brown.”  

Jason shakes it with a grin. “Hi, Steph. I’m Jason motherfucking Todd. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Nice headband,” she says, nodding at his bandages. “Did you drop gloves with one of the Jets or something?” 

“Ha, no,” Jason answers, and Tim deems the conversation on safe enough ground to turn to face them, leaning into Jason’s side. “Princess here decked me cold. Tripped me up and clocked me on the way down.” 

Steph’s brows raise, lips puckering as if she’s holding in a laugh. “Princess?” she repeats slyly, and Tim only blushes barely. 

“Big thigh energy,” Tim repeats bluntly, and Steph’s mirth snaps off immediately. Jason frowns, glancing between them, but Steph’s quick to change tacts. Tim’s lips curl in a cruel grin before she can get the words out. “Steph’s a big fan of your thighs,” he explains, and Steph’s flushes red. 

“Anyway! I just finished training,” she announces loudly, and then explains for Jason’s benefit, “I used to skate with Tim. Bruce let me off early, even though I’d already missed the game. So I thought I’d stop by and see if Rose needed a hand with the newbies.” 

“Oh, right, you’re Spoiler,” Jason exclaims with bright realisation, and Steph beams. Jason jerks his head in Tim’s direction, hand tightening around him. “Tim borrowed your gear. You missed seeing him in all purple, Brown.” 

Steph’s brow pinches, and Tim rolls his eyes. “Next time,” he promises, which seems to soothe her slightly. 

“Hey, Todd,” Steph chirps, turning back to him as if something has just occurred to her. “I just realised: we have to establish who’s the better skater.” 

“Derby kicked my ass, Brown,” Jason offers immediately. 

“Don't worry, hockey kicked mine,” Steph returns with a grimace. “I meant figures. I watched some of your old routines. You cut a mean axel.” 

Jason’s lips curl in a smile. “Are you issuing me a challenge, Brown?” 

Steph returns it. “Best triple.” 

“Okay,” Jason agrees thoughtfully. “Who judges?” 

“I can judge,” Tim interjects. 

“No,” Jason and Steph say in unison, and Tim frowns. 

“Straight favouritism, princess,” Jason explains with a shake of his head, and then presses a consoling kiss into the side of his throat. “Besides, if Steph’s getting training from Bruce, I want my own figures champion coach. Fair’s fair.” 

Tim’s lips twist in a wry smirk, and Jason’s grin widens. 

“Dick judges,” Steph suggests sagely, and Jason agrees with a firm hum. 

Even Tim nods in affirmation. “What’s the prize?” he asks, glancing between the pair. 

Jason and Steph share a dangerous look. 

“Winner gets to put Princess in a toe lasso lift,” Steph murmurs quickly, and Jason’s response is out of his mouth the split second she finishes. 

“Deal,” he snaps. He’s not even sure he’s witnessed a toe lasso before, but damned if he’s going to pass that opportunity up. Tim glares, mouth opening to protest until Jason lifts his knuckles to press a kiss to them. “Hope I win the honour of lifting you again, princess.” 

Tim gives him a severe smile. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

Jason beams. “You’re lucky I’m undefeated in triple axels. That lift is mine.”

Chapter Text

“You’re tying laces, not defusing a bomb, princess,” Jason offers with an amused smile as Tim reties his skates for the third time. 

“They’re new skates,” Tim counters, admiring the sleek black leather. Jason knew from the second he’d pulled them out of their bag that they weren’t regulation colour. That Tim had bought them purely because sometimes Tim likes uselessly fast-looking things. “I want to make sure they’re broken in correctly.” 

“Black’s very slimming. But I don’t think Bruce’ll let you wear them for Championships.” 

Tim looks mock-horrified. “But where else am I going to find new skates a week out?” 

Jason snorts and extends a hand to help him to his feet. “What made you trade up from the white?” 

Tim twists his ankle to inspect the glint of the fluorescents across the black fabric. “Don’t know. Thought the red racing stripes might suit the black more than the white.” 

Jason laughs, pulling Tim into his side as they turn towards the gate. There’s a handful of younger kids at one end of the rink, but Dick has preemptively cordoned off the top end for their mock-competition. 

“You picked out your song for Championships yet?” Jason asks as they meander down the walkway. Steph hasn’t shown yet, so they’ve got some time to warm up before diving into the cut-throat tournament for Tim’s honour. Tim hums his affirmation, and Jason glances down at him with a small smile. “You going to tell me?” 

“No,” Tim answers with a coy grin. 

Jason frowns. “You know I probably won’t be able to make it to see you skate, right? Unless I get taken out by injury, or the Jokers flunk conference. Which I’m not aiming for, but-” 

“Jay,” Tim says with a chuckle, leaning into his side. “You don’t have to watch me skate. It’ll be televised anyway. We’re both working; I get that that’s not always going to be compatible, or convenient. But I do want to see at least one of your games before the season’s up.” 

Jason hums and rests his cheek on the crown of Tim’s head. “Okay, how about a truce? You come to the Stanley Cup when the Jokers get to finals, and I get front row seat on your couch, fresh bowl of popcorn, and we watch your routine’s playback the week you get back from winning Championships?” 

Tim laughs, winding his fingers into Jason’s. “Absolutely.” 

“And if I have any questions, maybe you can give me a live demonstration,” Jason purrs behind his ear, and grins when Tim shivers. He pulls back and fixes Jason with a cool stare. 

“That can be arranged.” 

They’re interrupted by a gaggle of preteens bursting through the front doors, and one surly looking teenager trailing behind them. Tim pauses to adjust his laces, one hand on the barrier for balance, while Jason watches the teen skulk towards them. There’s a scowl on his face so fierce that it looks two minutes from being permanently etched into his features, and it’s directed towards a console cradled in his grip as he navigates the bleachers with blind intuition. 

“Who’s the five foot ray of sunshine?” Jason asks as the teen approaches, because Tim knows most of the kids who attend the Titans rink by name. 

Tim spares him the barest glance before he goes back to lacing up his skates. “He’s Bruce’s kid.” 

Jason crooks an eyebrow. “That’s Bruce’s kid?” 

“Yeah, that’s Damian.” 

Jason sweeps him with another glance, taking in the skates bag hitched over one shoulder and the purple Jokers cap pulled down onto an overly gelled fringe. There’s definitely some Bruce in him; he’s got the old man’s heavyset brow and hard jawline, but paired with his jade eyes and the restrained twist of his lips, the scowl is sharper on his youthful features than Bruce’s ever was. 

“I’m consistently amazed by how many of your friends seem to worship the Jokers,” Jason muses aloud, “and yet you had no idea who I was, princess.” 

Tim glances up from his skates with a scrunched expression. “Damian’s not going to be blown away by your celebrity charm like Steph was, you know.” 

“We’ll see,” Jason returns, and ignores Tim’s eye roll. 

He waits until the kid is within earshot before he catches his attention. 

“You’re a fan, huh?” Jason prods, pointing to his embroidered cap. 

The squirt surveys him over his console, an irritated glint to his eyes at being interrupted. “What’s it to you?” 

Jason shrugs. “I’m their left wing forward,” he offers, and the kid’s demeanour changes immediately. 

Damian’s eyes widen. “You’re with the Jokers?” 

A cocky grin settles onto Jason’s face, and he casts Tim a pointed look as he squats down to Damian’s height. “Yeah, I am. You barrack for them?” 

Indignation paints Damian’s features. “Obviously. Hey,” he says, eyes widening as he pats himself down for a pen, and Jason settles back on his heels because he’s familiar with fans. He likes signing a few autographs for the kids after the games, gets a kick out of lighting up their faces with such a simple gesture. 

Damian thrusts his cap into Jason’s palm. “Can you get Killer Croc’s signature for me?” 

There’s a few beats of absolute silence, wherein Jason stares at the kid in front of him in mute astonishment. Then Tim doubles over with an obnoxious guffaw, gripping the barrier for support. 

Damian glances over at Tim with an arched brow while Jason tries to shove down the half-blush half-glower that’s ripping across his face. “You good, Drake?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim snickers, and devolves into giggles again while Jason’s grip constricts on the cap. 

Damian stares back at Jason as if he’s atonic. “Do you know who Killer Croc is?” he asks tentatively, and Jason can’t help but scowl. 

“I- he- yes, I know him,” Jason stutters, straightening to his full height, and huffs a sharp breath. “I know Waylon. You can keep the hat,” he adds, extending it back to Damian, who takes it with a disappointed frown. “I’ll ask him if he’s got any of his old sticks lying around. He can probably sign one of those for you.” 

Damian’s face positively glows. “Shit! That would be awesome!” 

“Swearing,” Tim presses out around his tears, sobering briefly. 

“Bite me, Drake,” Damian shoots back. 

“I’ll tell Dick,” Tim warns, and Damian blanches for the barest second before his eyes narrow. 

“Does Dick know you and Todd are intimate?” 

“We’re not,” Tim snaps immediately, just a breath too fast, and Damian arches a dubious brow. “We’re not- intimate, we’re just-” 

The squirt’s tone is pointed, and just the barest bit smug. “Is Dick going to assume that?” 

Tim’s gaze looks haunted. “Screw you.” 

“Truce,” Damian offers casually, and Tim’s lips press into a thin line. 

“Truce,” he agrees with familiar acquiescence, and Jason assumes they must have a thing going between them. The closest Jason’s ever gotten to a sibling relationship was when Dick was mentoring him; looks like the tradition has continued on with Dick’s two new trainees. 

Damian sweeps Jason with quick scrutiny. “That was a pretty good assist you did last match.” 

Jason sticks his hands in his pockets. “Thanks. Were you there for the game?” 

Damian shakes his head sharply. “I was in Oregon for the Assassins versus the Pilots.” 

“How’d they go?” 

“It was the Coast City Pilots,” Damian points out, and Jason grunts his agreement. “Assassins won four-to-one,” Damian reports, running a quick hand through his hair to settle his unruly locks before he jams the cap back over them. Jason squints at him. 

“Do I know you? You sound familiar.” 

Damian goes very still for a moment, holding Jason’s gaze. “I’m Talia al Ghul’s son,” he says with a flawless lack of a Jersey accent. 

“Holy shit,” Jason says, and is aware that even Tim is listening in. “Holy shit, I knew I recognised you. You’re Talia’s kid. You were like,” Jason adds, gesturing to his hip. Damian scowls. “You were nine or something?” 

“Twelve,” Damian corrects tersely. 

“You have two accents, don’t you?” Jason says with a crooked grin. “Do you use that one when you stay with her?” 

Damian looks vaguely uncomfortable, and exceptionally nervous, like he's been caught out in a lie. “That’s irrelevant,” he says, clipped. Jason doesn’t miss that he drops back into his perfect Eastern drawl. 

“You two know each other?” Tim injects, and Damian scowls at his console screen. 

“Yeah,” Jason says, and scrubs into his hairline. “I met him when I was with the Assassins, since his mom manages them. Well, technically, I met him when he was like, five years old or something, back when I was with Bruce. But I didn’t put two and two together." He turns back to Damian. "Do you only pick up the al Ghul name when it’s your mom’s turn for custody?” 

Damian looks like he’s on the cusp of chewing Jason out. “Wouldn’t you?” is what he settles on, and Jason shrugs, because yeah, he can understand wanting to shift people’s preconceptions of you like that. 

“So it’s Wayne in Jersey and al Ghul in Port Oswego? You’re a regular double agent, kid.” 

“I go by al Ghul here too, sometimes,” Damian mutters defensively. His tone is quiet, like he’s half-hoping Jason won’t hear him. 

“Can’t see the point in- oh.” 

“What?” Tim cuts in, frowning. Damian ducks low under his cap. 

“Oh shit, kid, you really got the raw end of the custody battle, huh?” 

Damian shoots Jason a glare. Tim glances between them, not joining the dots. “What do you mean?” 

“He’s Ra’s kid,” Jason quips. “Ra's owns the Jokers. He’s the one who strongarmed Talia into transferring me over from the Assassins. So, there’s bad blood there. Can’t believe she shacked up with Bruce.” 

“Do you mind?” Damian sneers, and Jason laughs. 

“You doing figures or hockey?” Jason asks instead of apologising. 

“What makes you think I’m doing either?” Damian snaps, and when Jason casts him a reproachful look, he shuffles irritably. “Figures. I do hockey on weekends.” 

“You’re what, a sophomore? You on a high school team?” Damian nods, looking appreciative that Jason isn't going to measure him up against his father's skating career. “You going to try out for Junior League in a few years?” 

Damian shrugs petulantly. “Dunno yet. Considering it.” 

“Well, if you need a reference let me know,” Jason offers. “I went through the whole rigmarole of Juniors and AHL on my own, so I can give you some advice, if you want it.” 

“Thanks,” Damian says reluctantly, and Jason smirks. 

“Don’t sound too overjoyed, kid.” 

Damian jerks his chin over at Tim. “You and Drake. Are you, uh…?”  

Jason arches a brow. “Together? I, well,” Jason stumbles over the words, and lifts his gaze to meet Tim’s. “Yeah, we’re together. Right, princess?” 

Damian’s nose scrunches at the epithet, but he looks vaguely amused as he catches Tim’s eye. “Blink twice if you're under duress.” 

“Shove off,” Tim answers, and Damian gives them a private smirk as he climbs deeper into the bleachers, eyes glued back to his console. Tim’s leans up against Jason, and it strikes him as inherently possessive. 

“Seems like a good kid,” Jason admits. 

“He’s an asshole,” Tim says with a roll of his eyes, but it’s fond. "One hell of a skater though." 

“I’d expect nothing less from Talia’s blood. How’s his hockey skills?” 

Tim starts, and then looks sheepish. “We, uh, haven’t asked. We don’t really talk about stuff outside of figures, because well, we’re training all the time.” 

“What, Bruce neglecting to take an interest in his son’s hockey interests?” Jason says, deadpan. “Shocking.” 

Tim winces, frowning. “It’s not like he’s intentionally ignoring his interests. Bruce is just working all the time. He has to manage a school of national and international champion skaters. That takes dedication.” 

“So does being a father,” Jason presses, not letting up on the figurative bruise. Tim’s soft scowl deepens. 

“If Damian wanted Bruce to be involved in his hobbies, I’m sure he’d tell him as much,” he cuts across pointedly, and then his expression softens. “Bruce isn’t a bad father. He’s come a long way since-” 

Jason feels his chest tighten beneath a ring of barbed wire. “Since, what, me?” 

Tim fixes him with a chastising look. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“What did you mean, then?” 

“He’s been trying, Jay. He’s trying to do better. He’s trying to do better by Damian than he did by you. Bruce knows he can’t undo what’s been done, and he’s trying to do the best he can by his son.” 

“And he still won’t let you do quads,” Jason interjects sourly. “Doesn’t sound like he’s changed much to me, princess. Bruce sounds like the same old Bruce; controlling, paranoid, and overbearing every time except when you need him to be.” 

Tim sighs and kicks absently into the felt of the walkway. “Maybe so. But you haven’t seen him in six years. Try to give him a chance before you throw him under the bus, okay? He might surprise you.” 

“Sure,” Jason replies without any particular weight, and is distracted by Dick bustling through the foyer, engaged in a heated conversation with Steph. “Quick, look neutral, princess, my sworn arch nemesis is here.” 

“Gosh, that’ll be hard,” Tim replies with scathing amusement, and waves them over. 

Steph beelines for them, arriving exactly two paces before Dick. She uses the advantage to spill her guts. “Dick’s usurping our competition.” 

“I am not,” Dick replies, arriving with a pinched brow as Jason glances between the pair of them. Dick blinds him with a dazzling smile that screams of preemptive apology to Jason. “I thought I could use your competition as an example to my class on how to pull a triple axel.” 

“Your class is rated between six and twelve years old, Dick,” Tim interjects before Jason can smack that down. The last thing he wants is a trapped audience. “They’re not going to be doing even single axels for a while yet, let alone triples.” 

Dick scowls at having been caught out, and Jason finds the expression oddly endearing on the older man. “Fine, you got me. I wanted to take advantage of having six singles champions under the same roof. I thought maybe the kids could benefit from that stardom. Arrest me.” 

“Jason and Steph are the only ones skating,” Tim says, and Steph aggressively grunts her agreement. “Unless you roped Damian in too. What did you bribe him with - hockey tickets?” 

“You’re all being selfish,” Dick starts. 

Steph overrides him. “You hijacked our contest-” 

“Who’s the sixth?” Jason asks, and everyone stops to look at him. Jason counts down five fingers, and then sticks up a lone thumb. “You, me, Tim, Steph, the squirt - and?” 

Tim and Steph’s gazes swivel to Dick, who against all odds maintains his bravado as he says, with completely misplaced confidence: “Bruce.” 

Jason raises both hands. “I’m out.” 

“Valid,” Steph interjects as Dick’s expression falls. He reaches for Jason’s sleeve as he turns back to the bleachers to shuck his skates. 

“Hey, Little Wing, wait-” 

Jason ducks out of his grip with a pointed scowl. “I’m not playing into your meddling, Dick. You know I don’t want to see Bruce’s ugly mug, and you know I’m damn well justified. It’s not happening.” 

“You haven’t even seen him in six years,” Dick babbles quickly, as if he thinks if he can get the words out before Jason protests, they’ll somehow bypass the walls of denial he’s painstakingly constructed. “You live in the same city, Little Wing. You’re going to run into each other eventually. Better to bite the bullet and do it now, where you can control the discussion-” 

“No,” Jason protests firmly, glaring up as he drops onto the nearest bench and bends to unbind his skates. “I’ve been doing just fine avoiding him so far. I’m pretty sure I can manage it for another decade, so long as I don’t let myself be dragged into a shitty playdate by my former mentor, who should know better than to set me up with Bruce fucking Wayne.” 

Dick’s foot snaps out to pin the laces bound around Jason’s ankle with the toe of his sneaker, and Jason considers straight up smacking him. At this distance, he might even manage to knock some sense into the blind idiot. To his unending surprise, he manages to contain it to a glower that’s so full of hatred that even Steph and Tim blanch behind Dick’s unreceptive form. 

“It’s been six years,” Dick repeats firmly, calmly, like he’s disciplining one of his students, and Jason nearly goes spare at his tone alone. “It’s a good opportunity to reconnect.” 

“He benched me, Dick,” Jason says in a low, gravelly tone that’s streaked with barely constrained violence. 

“It’s a fresh start.” 

“He ended my figures career.” 

“You said you wanted him to be involved in your life,” Dick points out sharply, and Jason hates him. He forges onwards, unwilling to let Jason breathe and clear his head. “You wanted him to show an interest in your career.” 

“No,” Jason snaps. “I wanted him to admit I was right, Dick. I wanted him to apologise to me, six years ago, when he punished me for something I didn’t fucking do.” 

“So you’re just going to punish the man for all eternity?” Dick huffs with broad exasperation, arms flapping uselessly at his sides as he circles them through the air. “He’s changed. You’ve changed, Little Wing. And revenge is an ugly colour on you, Jay. Give him one chance to show he’s remorseful. Just one shot,” he overrides when Jason opens his mouth. “And if he blows it, then fine, you can make your dramatic exit and I won’t stop you.” 

Jason snaps his jaw closed, glaring up a storm that Dick doesn’t waver in the face of. He settles for jabbing an accusing finger in Dick’s face, which he does, satisfyingly, reel back from. “I’ll give him two minutes, and then I’m booking it. And you’re not allowed to say shit about it. After this, Bruce and I are officially and completely over. Am I understood?” 

“Five minutes,” Dick barters. 

Jason blinks, and then his lip curls back. “Two minutes.” 

“Five,” Dick repeats, deadpan. 

“Fine,” Jason agrees, and Dick’s face lights up. Jason continues before he can back out of his tentative agreement. “But, you get Tim’s triple combination in his Championships routine or I walk.” 

Tim starts in surprise, and it takes all of Jason’s willpower not to let his gaze waver from the man directly in front of him. Dick’s lips flatten into a terse, solemn line, but he nods. “Okay. Done.” 

Jason reties his skate with harsh, forceful motions, feeling like he just lost a bet. “Glad we understand each other.”

Chapter Text

Tim's not sure who's more tightly wound at this point: Jason or Damian. 

They'd taken to the ice shortly after Bruce arrived, mostly because Bruce hasn't had the opportunity to actually be on his own rink in a while, Tim suspects. And partly because it gives him and Jason the illusion of privacy for their reconciliation chat. 

A gaggle of women had materialised the instant Bruce had donned skates, cooing over the barrier. He has to wonder if they would be so obvious if Selina was around. Tim understands why the overbearing mothers of a bunch of upcoming sports prodigies would find a stable, attractive middle-aged man with a kid appealing, but after a certain point, it's just obscene. 

Bruce is attractive for his age, and fit as a fiddle athletically speaking. But he's also in a committed relationship. Tim’s not the least bit surprised when Bruce bypasses them all to approach Jason. 

Dick had taken it upon himself to drag the attention away, if only to give Bruce and Jason some privacy. The gaggle of cougars had switched immediately upon seeing the classically handsome singles champ drape himself over the barrier with a smile that was all teeth and charm. Tim had tailed Bruce and Jason, so he can step in if things get horribly heated. He’s not absolutely sure how much damage either of them could do in five minutes, if they really put their minds to it. 

In all honesty, Tim has no gauge on how this forced reconciliation is going to go. Jason seemed for the most part resigned to it by the time Bruce had arrived, but the tension in his shoulders and the forward tilt of his body - as if he’s expecting a physical fight - tells Tim leagues as to his mental state. 

Bruce had been… well, Bruce. Quiet and non-confrontational, despite Jason’s poorly masked unease, with the calmness of someone who’s familiar with their surroundings and their audience. Tim wonders for the first time if having this talk at Bruce’s rink was in Jason’s best interests, and feels a curl of unease when he considers if this was intentional on Dick’s part. He doubts Jason would have let his walls down anywhere he felt he was in the public eye. All things considered, this is about as private as they’re going to get short of doing this at Bruce’s house. 

Damian had come down from the bleachers not long after Dick’s diversion, and hasn’t parted from Bruce’s left elbow since. Tim knows the kid tends to be pretty possessive of his father’s time and attention. And Jason’s an unknown variable. As stoic and self-contained as the kid may be (and isn’t that a glowing recommendation on his parentage), Tim’s never seen him once back down from a heckler or a challenge. Damian doesn’t make himself a target, but once one’s been painted on him or his self-appointed charges, he meets the threat head on. 

It’s not until Bruce shifts to offer his hand in greeting to Jason and Damian subtly cuts that gesture off with a shoulder block that Tim considers Bruce might not be Damian’s only charge in this encounter. 

Jason doesn’t notice the almost-slip. His eyes are fixed up on Bruce’s face, dissecting his microexpressions with an analytical franticism, as if he can predict how this conversation is going to go if he catches the cues beforehand. He seems perfectly content to wait out his five minutes in harsh, hollow silence, so Tim’s not surprised when Bruce’s posture loosens slightly and then straightens with surety. 

“So,” Bruce says with forced casualness, “I hear you’re in hockey now.” 

“The big show,” Jason forces back in reply, the levity lost in his curt tone. 

Bruce’s brow furrows only slightly, and Tim skirts a stride closer across the ice. “What-?” 

“He’s referring to the NHL,” Damian provides in his crisp tone, but Tim can read the tension beneath it. “Todd competes in the National League.” 

“Thank you, Damian,” Bruce says quietly, in a tone that tells Tim he’s aware of the nuances. It’s not chastising, but Damian nods anyway, glancing between the pair of men. 

Steph, who until now has been hovering in Tim’s vicinity, leans down to whisper in his ear with a broad stage whisper, “I’m going to go rescue, Dick. Good luck with this lot.” 

She’s shot across the rink in the next minute, with conviction Tim desperately wishes he had right now. But he can’t leave Jason at the mercy of Bruce’s fumbling reassurances, won’t leave him. Jason needs to know he’s not alone in this, that the odds aren’t stacked against him like they have been every time before. 

Bruce’s gaze returns to Jason at Steph’s abrupt departure. He clears his throat, trying for a polite smile, and continues, “So you’re a forward wing?” 

“Left wing forward,” Damian mutters at his elbow. Jason glances down at him once before returning to Bruce’s gaze. 

“Yeah, left wing,” Jason confirms in a toneless voice. His face is carefully arranged into a mask of impassiveness. 

“How’s the game?” When Jason just stares, Bruce clarifies with a half-encouraging curl of a smile, “I heard you were in the semi-final?” 

“Round Two,” Jason corrects. His words are blunt, harsh. Tim doesn’t think he notices. “Going for Conference.” 

“There’s a Conference?” Bruce asks, mildly puzzled. 

“Eastern and Western Conference,” Damian provides clinically. “They’re playoffs. They commence after Divisionals, which the Jokers are competing in now. Whoever succeeds at each Conference plays for the Stanley Cup.” 

Bruce’s frown develops. “And how’s your team-” 

“The Gotham City Jokers,” Damian rattles off. 

“-placing at the moment?” Bruce asks. 

Jason’s lips twist. “We’re leading three to one on the Metropolis Jets.” 

Bruce’s brows rise. “That sounds pretty impressive. You must be proud of yourself.” 

“I’m a teamplayer,” Jason responds with an edge of bitterness, and Tim clears his throat less than surreptitiously. Damian squints over at him, but Jason gets the message. He schools his features into polite interest and asks, “What have you been up to, Bruce?” 

Bruce comes as close to a casual shrug as Tim has ever seen him achieve. “I’ve been dedicating myself to maintaining the school. Dick helps; he has his own class now, alongside his mentoring. And I still coach.” 

“Yeah,” Jason says, and Tim knows what’s brewing from the cold ferocity in his tone alone. “Heard you moved onto a new prodigy.” 

Tim winces, unable to stifle how that slices through his chest. Jason looks guilty for the barest moment, hand unfurling as if he wants to reach for Tim, soothe that bite. He doesn’t though, as if that’s a weakness he’s unwilling to concede in front of Bruce, that defensiveness suring his posture. 

“I have three mentees now,” Bruce answers, and the diplomacy is not lost on Tim. Or Jason, apparently. 

“That didn’t take long,” he adds, and Bruce looks like he’d expected this backlash. 

Tim’s the one whose hard tone cuts down, drawing Jason’s abrupt attention. “Actually, Bruce didn’t take me on until nearly two years after Worlds 2013.” Your last Worlds, he adds mentally, and he knows Jason gets the emphasis from the contriteness that he sends in Tim’s direction. Tim tries not to dwell on how he’d literally had to beg Bruce to take on his training, so soon after his last champion’s departure from the skating world. 

Tim continues anyway, “And he didn’t take Steph or Damian on for another year after that.” 

“That’s,” Jason starts, and clears his throat, swallowing. “I didn’t know that.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to have,” Tim says gently. 

The silence lingers for a moment between them, but Tim can read the soft gratitude in his gaze. Bruce shifts, glancing between the pair of them, and Damian matches the movement, a hesitant shadow. 

“How did you and Tim meet?” Bruce asks cordially, and Tim has a brief moment of panic where he wonders if Bruce knows. He hadn’t even thought about how Bruce would react to their budding relationship, whether he’d approve. Hadn’t considered how that might stress the relationship between the three of them. 

“Tim’s been training at the Jokers’ rink,” Jason answers without pause, aloofly clinical. Tim’s grateful. “We got to talking, and turns out we’ve got a lot in common. We hit it off.” 

Tim doesn’t think he needs to mention how that ‘hitting it off’ included shoving his hand down Jason’s pants in an empty, ice cold rink. “He, Dick and I have been hanging out,” Tim supplies strategically. Better to nip this rumour in the bud before Bruce catches wind that Tim and Jason had been doing unsanctioned lifts with Bruce’s beloved first prodigy. “Movie nights and such. Jason’s met Damian too. Again,” he adds with a frown that clears almost immediately. “So he’s nearly met the whole family now.” 

Bruce’s gaze travels from Tim to Jason, a hint of gratification in those blue orbs. Jason doubles down under the weight of it, shoulders tightening. 

“Damian said you were going to get him a club, signed by one of his hockey idols,” Bruce says. 

“Stick,” Damian stresses with a glower. 

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Bruce continues without acknowledging the slip. 

Jason shrugs stiffly. “Someone has to take an interest in the kid’s hobbies, I guess. About time too, from the sounds of it.” 

Tim’s stomach knots with guilt, and the look he sends Jason next is reproachful. Jason ignores him. 

“I coach Damian in figure skating,” Bruce answers evenly, not rising to the bait. “He has a coach for his school hockey team. How they coach Damian in hockey is none of my business, and not my area of expertise.” 

“I’m not asking you to be his mentor,” Jason grinds out flatly. “I’m telling you to be his father and go to one of his games once in a damn while.” 

That hits Tim square in the chest. It’s vicious enough that it even rocks Bruce back an inch, his expression folding into confused bitterness before it evens out again. He can see Jason coiling, gearing up to match Bruce as he braces to reply. 

“Don’t make me your scapegoat,” Damian snarls around his father, green gaze flashing. His tone cuts through the lapse like a bullet. 

Jason starts, like he’s forgotten Damian was even there. 

“Father’s busy,” Damian continues petulantly. Tim doesn’t imagine the stiffness to his tone, and the false flippancy of it stings. “He doesn’t need to attend one of my hockey games. If you’ve got an issue with my father, spit it out, Todd.” 

“Okay, fine,” Jason snaps, and faces Bruce head-on. “Let’s just address the elephant in the room, shall we? You benched me.” 

“It was for your safety,” Bruce retorts immediately, like he has the answer on tap. Tim’s stomach tightens into a knot of Gordian proportions. 

Jason looks surprisingly contained. “No, it wasn’t. It was you trying to control what I could do.” 

“I was your coach, it was my job-” 

“Your job was to train me, improve my ability. Not cut me off when I was clearly capable of more-” 

“You weren’t capable of executing the elements you were attempting,” Bruce barks coldly. “You were overreaching and overextending yourself.” 

“Yeah, I was pushing my limits. That’s my job, as a skater. Your job is to help me do that safely.” 

“You weren’t being safe. You were going to get yourself injured.” 

Jason’s gaze flares with rage, smothered beneath his exasperation. “I wasn’t going to injure myself! I was perfectly capable-” 

“You weren’t capable, Jason. You were being reckless, and you were going to get yourself hurt. Just like Di-” 

“I’M NOT DICK,” Jason bellows, loud enough to have the man in question turn from where he’s leaned up on the barriers. “I was never Dick, and I’m never going to be Dick, Bruce. I’m my own fucking person, and you need to respect that. I’m not skating darling Dick Grayson. I’m not a goddamn singles prodigy, okay?” Jason swallows harshly, like he’s trying to shove back tears. He glances away before adding bitterly, “But I thought I could be.” 

Bruce stares, his expression drawn and tight. 

Jason sucks in a harsh breath through his nose that Tim chooses not to interpret as a sniffle. “That was your job. To make me as good as Dick. I was… I was really good at figures. You knew that. And you benched me anyway.” 

“I was worried for you,” Bruce says softly, and Tim watches his fist clench like he wants to reach for Jason. The younger man doesn’t waver.  

“I needed you to trust me,” Jason says firmly. “I needed you to trust that I knew myself, that I knew the jumps I was attempting. I needed you to take me at my word. You were my safety net. You were supposed to be there for me, to catch me. In that last comp, at Worlds, you weren’t there, Bruce, not in any way that mattered. So yeah, I attempted some dangerous jumps. But benching me wasn’t the right way to answer that.” 

“It was the only way I could get you to see that your behaviour was putting you at risk of serious injury.” 

Jason’s glare is flat. “Then tell me that. Justify your decision. Don’t just ground me like some bad kid. I’d gotten enough of that from school, at home. I needed you to understand me, to respect me. To explain to me why you thought I shouldn’t be attempting those jumps before it even came to benching me. And not just sweep it under the rug because you thought it was dangerous. Everything we do is dangerous, Bruce; that’s the sport. People wipe out. People break limbs. That’s not a reason. That’s just your fear.” 

“You wouldn’t listen to me,” Bruce begins, but Jason cuts him off. 

“You weren’t talking. You were panicking. You were freaking out over Dick’s injury, and you didn’t care that I wasn’t injured. And I didn’t injure myself, Bruce. I stuck those jumps like a fucking pro, like I had every single time before. Nothing changed for me, but suddenly, every time you looked at me, you saw Dick. That had nothing to do with me. That was all you. You and your irrational fear, and you ended my career over it.” 

“I’m sorry, Jason.” 

It comes so easily, without any hesitation, that Tim doesn’t think he’s heard right for a second. Jason rocks back a little, equally shocked, and it’s the only proof Tim’s got that he’s not alone in his hallucination. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeats quietly. “I’m not saying you were right to attempt those jumps. But I was wrong to retire you.” 

Jason stares at him, and then a harsh laughs bubbles in the top of his throat, sharp and pointed. “It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter if you were wrong or I was wrong because that was five years ago, Bruce. And regardless of where the blame rests, neither of us gets to change what happened. I’ve moved on. And you? You’re still holding back your students.” 

“What?” Tim bleats, and Jason’s gaze flashes to him. 

“What are you talking about?” Bruce asks. 

“You haven’t learnt anything.” Jason gestures to where Tim stands. “Tim’s ready for quads. I’ve seen him pulling quads.” 

Bruce’s gaze slides to Tim, and there’s caged disappointment there. A distrust that has Tim wincing. 

“He’s a fucking natural,” Jason continues. “And here you are, making him beg for triple combinations. Making him prove to you that he can do every little thing he attempts - just like you tried to make me prove I could do the jumps I’d been pulling for months before Dick’s accident. He’s not here to prove himself to you; he’s here to be coached, to improve his form, his technique. That’s your job, as his coach. And you’re leaving him high and dry, with all this damn responsibility on his shoulders. So how about you do your fucking job, Bruce?” 

“I’m trying-” 

“Try harder.” 

Bruce scowls, still recovering from being on the back foot. Tim’s not sure he’s ever seen him caught so off-guard. “I’m doing my b-” 

“Do better,” Jason snarls. “Do better than you did for me. Do better because it’s not me. Do better because this is Tim’s career, not mine, not Dick’s. Tim’s not going to wipe out, Bruce. He’s too fucking good to do something that reckless. He’s too good to fuck up that badly. So trust him, Bruce, even if you don’t trust me.” 

Bruce draws in a deep breath, eyes slipping shut like he’s composing himself. Jason crosses his arms over his chest, the motion defensive. After a long moment, Bruce opens his eyes again, and his voice is calm when he says, “I will discuss with Tim whether or not he’s satisfied with his training. In confidence. Thank you,” he adds firmly but with sincerity, when Jason opens his mouth to protest, “for bringing it to my attention. Your perspective is… valued.” 

Jason blinks, some of the tension sliding off his stiff shoulders. 

“As I said earlier, it was a mistake to retire you after your Worlds routine. I was overly critical of you, and I reacted poorly under the circumstances. You were reckless to be pulling those jumps - but I should have managed your expectations better, as your coach. It’s unfortunate, what happened,” he admits with a scowl of displeasure. “But notwithstanding what came between us, I’m proud of you, Jason. You stood by your convictions, and you made the most of a new opportunity. And as unfamiliar as I am with it-” 

Tim sucks in a sharp breath. Jason doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. 

Bruce’s gaze flickers up, holds Jason’s with conviction. “-I’d like to learn more about your career, if you’ll allow me.” 

“You should come to a game,” Tim blurts into the silence that follows, and all sets of eyes snap over to him. 

Jason looks immediately uncomfortable. “No, that’s alright, y-you don’t have to-” 

“Father,” Damian interjects with barely contained glee, “we should go to a game. There’s one next week, but I expect the tickets will have sold already. However, the game the week following-” 

“Not next week,” Jason cuts in, and looks supremely agitated. Tim has the sudden urge to wrap his fingers around Jason’s, reassure him that he’s here for him. “Or the week after. I’m not-” 

Ready to let you in yet, Tim thinks. 

“You should come to the Stanley Cup,” Jason finishes hurriedly. 

Damian frowns. “The Stanley Cup isn’t for another two months, earliest.” 

“Then it’s good motivation to win in the semi-finals,” Tim interjects, and doesn’t meet Jason’s glower. “And it will be after Championships, so Bruce should have some time cleared in his schedule to attend.” 

No excuses, Tim thinks spitefully. 

“I’ll buy the tickets,” Bruce says, slipping back into that calm demeanour he always seems to uphold. As if the last tumultuous minutes have no hold on him. “And an extra, so you can come with us if the semi-finals aren’t in your favour.” 

“You’d-” Jason starts, and pauses to digest that. “You’d still want to come to a hockey game with me, even if I wasn’t in it?” 

Bruce doesn’t flinch. “It’s your world,” is all he says. 

Tim’s under the impression that Jason’s about hit the edge of his capacity to handle this much sentimentality from a former mentor. They’re well past their allotted five minutes, and well through six years of unresolved bad blood. It’s not a fix, but it’s a start. 

And Tim can see that Bruce is trying, like Dick said he would. When Jason’s not reeling, he might be in better stead to appreciate that, but right now he looks like he wants to bolt. 

So Tim turns to Damian and announces, “You’re going to have to brief your dad on the terminology. And the gameplay. Otherwise he’s going to have no clue what’s happening.” 

Damian’s expression glows at that suggestion, before he smothers it beneath hesitation, glancing up at his father. Bruce offers him an encouraging smile, and some of that beam returns. Tim works to hide his smile from the teenager. . 

Then, as if aware of the attention on him, Damian stiffens imperiously. “I’ll take it upon myself to ensure Father is familiar with standard League rules. The terminology may take longer, though I’m sure two months will be adequate. I’m not confident whether his appreciation for the sport will develop before our deadline, however,” he adds with a small smirk. 

Bruce has the good sense to look offended. “You think I don’t appreciate ice sports?” 

Damian scoffs, some of the tension loosening from his tight shoulders. “With due respect, Father, I don’t believe you’d know the difference between a hockey puck and a shuffleboard puck if it were to hit you in the forehead.” 

“What’s a puck?” Bruce returns with suspended sarcasm, and Damian scowls. 

Tim laughs, slipping away as Damian launches into a dissertation on the importance of good puck control at a national level of play. Jason’s still a little stunned, fidgeting aimlessly until Tim slides up and hooks a finger into a belt loop on his jeans. 

Jason glances down at him, a little relieved, and Tim offers him a consoling smile. 

“You want a distraction or an out?” Tim asks him surreptitiously, and nods over at Steph, where she's leaned up on the barrier next to Dick. “I can bring Steph over for your contest if you want to get your mind off things.” 

“Tell Blondie I’ll take a raincheck,” Jason answers a little numbly, and tries to return his smile. Then he exhales roughly, scrubbing at the back of his hair. “I think I’m gonna head home. I need some… space. To process everything that just happened.” 

“You want company?” 

Jason smirks, some of himself returning in that expression, and leans down to peck a kiss to Tim’s cheek. “Thanks, princess,” he says softly. “But I think I’m gonna take this moment for myself. How about we do this again, just the two of us, Wednesday after my game? You can watch me mow through some Jets.” 

Tim tangles his fingers in Jason’s when he pulls back, snaring his gaze. “Wednesday. Promise?” 

“Promise,” Jason answers, and lifts his ensnared hand to brush lips over Tim’s knuckles. 

When he drops them, Tim becomes aware that the conversation beside them has stopped. He can’t bring himself to look at Bruce just yet, but Jason’s sharp glance in that direction tells him their public affection hasn’t gone unnoticed. 

Jason snorts to himself and reaches a hand up to smother Tim’s jawline, obscure their lips as he leans in to kiss him. It’s short, and too brief, and leaves Tim caught between the urge to drag him closer and the urge to insist on plausible deniability. “Good luck with that one, princess,” Jason teases with a wry grin, as if he can read every last thought in Tim’s head. 

Tim scowls when he pulls away, heat flushing to his cheeks. “Traitor.” 

“This is repayment for the concussion,” Jason retorts, heading for the gate. “Thought you’d leap at the chance to make it up to me.” 

“Love you,” Tim calls, because he’s pretty much dug his grave already. 

“Love you too,” Jason responds with one last flash of a smile, and looks lighter than he has in weeks. 

Chapter Text

Wednesday rolls around with all the aches and bruises of a game well-won. It’s not that Jason hadn’t expected them to thrash the Jets, but there’s no small reason why the Jokers’ and the Jets’ Divisional final has been the decider for Conference for six years running. It’s a coin toss either way as to who could win; they’re so evenly matched that it makes the Angels look like a goddamn aperitif in comparison. 

And Jason knows it doesn’t get any easier from here on out, but the realisation is underscored by a bubbling excitement that doesn’t dissipate through the day’s training session. He hasn’t been to the Stanley Cup in a year. Jason knows he’s not the only one who’s itching to get back into the big show. 

He’s just racking up his gear, fresh from the showers, when Tim shrugs into the locker room, glancing around with intrigue. Jason waves him over, even though they’re alone, and pulls him into a kiss as soon as he’s within range. 

“Missed you, princess,” he purrs, and kisses his cheek. Tim smiles and steps back to let him shrug off his old jersey, tossing it into his locker as he reaches for a fresh shirt. 

Tim catches sight of his newly taped shoulder and gasps, his brow pinching. “Did you do that at derby?” 

Jason follows his gaze, and shakes his head, rolling it over once. “Nah, I got checked in the last game. Didn’t angle it right when I took it. Happens sometimes.” 

“Are you going to be alright to play?” Tim asks with concern. 

“We’re four for two now,” Jason replies and shrugs on the t-shirt. “Which means I’ve got a week spare to heal up before we hit Conference.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, and Jason knows he doesn’t understand the gravity of that statement. 

He chuckles and winds his palms over Tim’s waist, pulling him close as he steps up against him. “Which means I’ve got a week spare to practice lifts with you before they need me back on the ice.” 

Tim’s breath hitches, and Jason feels a little thrill lace up his spine at the thought that he did that to Tim. “Maybe not lifts then, with that shoulder,” Tim says softly, and looks up to meet his gaze. “But you can help me with my routine.” 

Jason turns back to push his locker door closed. “I’ve already told you what I think about your routine, princess.” 

“And I took your criticisms under advisement,” Tim answers easily. “I meant my other routine; Dick’s routine.” 

Jason glances back at him, nudging the door open with his hip and holding it wide for Tim to slip through. “You still trying to perfect his Worlds?” 

“I’ve got the spins down,” Tim informs him. “And I can stick the quad nine times out of ten.” 

“But not his combination,” Jason says wryly, and Tim huffs softly as they cross past the stands and towards the ice. Tim turns back when they reach the gate, his lips pressed into an unhappy line as he digs through Jason’s eyes, hard and analytical. 

“It’s not exactly easily.” 

Jason scoffs, and leans down to press his way into Tim’s mouth. Tim lets him, his eyes fluttering open again when Jason pulls back from the soft kiss. “It’s never going to be easy, princess. It’s Dick Grayson.” 

“What a dick,” Tim breathes, and Jason laughs. 

“You’re the one who wanted to relearn his routine,” Jason points out, and brushes past him to step onto the ice. It’s empty but for a few players passing a puck lazily back and forth; they’re just chatting, burning time on the ice. Most of the players have hit the showers, eager to start their week off right, so the rink is almost empty. Jason already knows exactly how he intends to spend his time off. 

Tim follows him with an exasperated eye roll. “Yeah, but honestly, who puts a combination like that so deep in a routine?” 

“I used to do triple-triple combinations as my fifth and sixth elements all the time,” Jason answers with just a tiny bit of satisfaction. “Gotta collect that ten percent bonus.” 

“Did you ever put that combination in, though?” Tim asks pointedly, and Jason chuckles softly, pushing off from the wall so that Tim can trail him. 

“No one ever uses that combination.” 

“Exactly! You’d get a better starting value from a quad-quad. There's no damn sense in doing a triple axel off a quad Lutz.” 

“Since when has Dick Grayson ever been sensible?” Jason points out, pressing a hand into Tim’s hip as he parallels him. Tim shifts to fall into line beside him. “He picked that combination because no one ever uses it. Because it’s not about the points to him; it’s about recognising the art of the sport. He knew he could do it, so he did it. He didn’t do it for the points. He did it for the accolade he’d get from other skaters. And honestly? Mad props to him.” 

Tim arches a brow, a little surprised. “I didn’t think I’d hear the day when you gave Dick a compliment.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, turning the pair of them in a slow arch around the end lobe. “I trained with him, jackass. I can respect someone who’s willing to pull such a high-powered jump at the end of their routine. It’s the sort of thing Bruce would have yelled at me for. And I can appreciate that Dick had the technical accuracy to pull it off perfectly. I certainly couldn’t.” 

“No?” 

“Execution was never my strong point, princess.” 

“I could do it,” Tim says after a moment’s thought. “If I had the lift.” 

“You could do a quad Lutz triple axel?” Jason says with broad dubiety. 

Tim glares, but it’s soft. “I have the technical skill for it, is what I meant. Just not the power.” 

“Can’t get enough rotations or can’t get enough lift?” 

“A bit of both, I think. If I focus on the rotations, I don’t gear up enough for the lift. If I get the lift right, there's too much momentum to stick the landing. It’s a lose-lose. I can’t find the middle ground.” 

“You’re overthinking it, princess. You technical types always do.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you’ve got a suggestion, I’ll hear it,” he prompts, doing a neat crossover that Jason trails, fingers tangling with Tim’s. 

Jason pauses. “What if I gave you the lift?” 

“What?” Tim says sharply, pulling up hard. The ice protests a bit beneath him. 

Jason has to cut a quick stop to avoid running into him, gouging the ice as he skids around him in a tight circle. Tim turns slowly to follow him, frowning. “What if I helped you with the lift for it? As long as I stay out of the camera’s frame, it shouldn’t make a difference, right?” 

“And make it into a throw?” 

Jason tilts his head, thinking that over. “I mean, I guess, technically. I’m just giving you enough lift to get you over the line. It won’t be a proper throw.” 

Tim’s gaze hasn’t left him. “A throw’s a lot more difficult than a lift,” he says with heavy hesitation, and Jason nods. 

“I know.” 

“A lot more dangerous, too.” 

“I’m aware.” 

Tim’s gaze flickers between Jason’s eyes, assessing. “Have you ever trained in a throw?” 

“No,” Jason answers, and before Tim can shut him down adds, “but I picked up lifts pretty quickly, princess. And unless you’re on a schedule I don’t know about, we’ve got all the time in the world to practice.” 

“A throw is significantly more dangerous than a lift,” Tim begins, and Jason sighs softly, dropping his palms to Tim’s waist. 

“Heard you the first time, princess. I’m taking this seriously, I promise. But I’m telling you I’m open to the idea, if you’re open to teaching me. And I’m not talking about us doing a throw right this minute; I’m talking about training for this, taking it step by step.” 

He can see Tim chewing it over, dissecting it in the cogs of his mind, so Jason smiles and lifts his hands to brush his lips over Tim’s knuckles, drawing him back out of his head. 

“Food for thought, princess. I don’t need an answer right now.” He trails the back of his own knuckles up Tim’s ribs, catching them in the thin material of his shirt. “So how’d your chat with Bruce go?” 

Tim’s lips twist in a wry smirk. “Better than expected.” 

Jason fakes shock, letting his mouth fall open. “You’re telling me Bruce Wayne didn’t give you the talk about how I’m a bad influence? How I’ll convince you to do reckless shit like quads and lifts with no regard for personal safety-” 

“I didn’t mention the lifts,” Tim says with a grin. 

“Lucky you didn’t,” Jason returns. “If I recall correctly, princess, it was you who badgered me into doing those lifts. So if anything, Bruce owes me a talk on how much of a bad influence little Timmy Drake can be.” 

Tim snorts, cocking a hip and jabbing a thumb at his own chest. “Resident bad boy, right here. I’ve got the edgy haircut and the leather jacket and the hotrod red motorcycle to prove it. Oh wait, I’m getting us confused-” 

Jason laughs and bends down to silence him with a litter of nips and kisses across Tim’s lower lip. “Point taken. But seriously, how did he take it?”

“Bruce chewed me out for the quad,” Tim admits. Jason glares, a flash of fury licking through his chest, thumbs sliding over Tim’s cheekbones. “But he did approve my triple combination for Championships.” 

Jason feels his brows lift in surprise. “That’s a big concession for him.” 

“It’s an improvement,” Tim agrees. “I did have Dick to back me up. It’s going to be a triple Salchow combo; it’s my best jump.” 

“You’ll ace that easy, princess,” Jason purrs, letting his hands drop. “They’d have to be crazy to overlook you for Worlds with a combination like that.” 

Tim shrugs, but he’s smiling. “I would’ve liked to have a quad element too, but baby steps.” 

“He’ll come around,” Jason agrees easily. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll be your coach.” 

“You will, will you?” Tim teases, grinning as he crooks a brow. 

“Absolutely, princess. I’m a World champ, you know. And a hockey legend. Any skater would be lucky to have me as their coach.” 

Tim’s smile is enticing, and Jason lets himself be pulled down into a shallow kiss. “I’m lucky to have you,” he says softly, and Jason’s entire being warms at the words. 

“You’re getting sappy on me, princess,” Jason murmurs into his jawline. 

“Maybe,” Tim admits, and then his gaze lifts past Jason’s shoulder. “Who’s that?” 

Jason turns to follow it, his heart sinking down somewhere into his skates. 

Slade’s leaned up casually against the barrier, arms crossed over his chest and expression artfully blank as he chats with Jack. Jason swallows and tries not to flinch when Jack’s gaze rises to spot them on the far side of the rink. He smiles, crooks a single finger at them, and Jason’s moving reluctantly forward before he even thinks of Tim. 

He starts a little when Tim falls in beside him, curious. “That’s Jack,” Jason explains with a tight throat, grinding the words out. “He’s the Joker’s GM.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, and waves a hand at Slade when he turns over his shoulder to glance at them. He returns a lazy two-fingered salute, and Tim must smile, because Jack’s features split into a grin at their approach. Jason has the sudden realisation that above all else, he wants to be between Tim and Jack. 

He has no idea what Jack is willing to do in front of an audience - if he’s even intending to do anything - but regardless, Jason’s not going to wait for Jack to make any move towards Tim. Maybe he’s being overprotective, but Jason thinks he’s justified. 

Unfortunately, Tim doesn’t seem to be on the same receiving wavelength as Jason, because he skirts ahead and steps up through the gate, palm extended to Jack before Jason can bleat a warning. 

“Tim Drake,” he introduces as Jack grips the hand, and Jason nearly seizes with panic. “Thank you for subletting your rink to me; it was a huge help with my practice.” 

Jack’s eyes light up at the gratitude, and Jason forces a breath into his lungs. Slade’s gaze swivels over him, a curious frown hitching into his brow the barest inch before he returns to Jack. Tim’s still smiling politely, and Jack returns his hand to him with a charming, “Pleasure. Always so good to see camaraderie between professionals. I understand you’ve been spending time with our left wing here.” 

Tim gives him a blinding smile, shrugging amicably. Jason isn’t sure he’s actually breathing anymore. “Jason used to do figures. He was teaching me some moves.” 

“Yes, he’s a font of experience,” Jack purrs, and there’s something in his amused gaze that reminds Jason of the surveillance tape saved directly to Jack’s desktop. The one with Tim hot and panting beneath Jason’s desperate hands. He can taste bile in the back of his throat. 

“I’m sorry to have taken him away from his training,” Tim says with the sort of laughter Jason’s used to hearing at the Jokers’ annual fundraiser galas. It’s not disingenuous exactly, just careless. Jason can’t afford to be careless with Jack. 

“We haven’t trained that much,” Jason cuts in sharply, aware that his tone is too harsh, and feels Tim’s gaze flick up to him. “We were just reviewing one of his routines.” 

“Championships,” Tim supplies with an encouraging smile, hand knocking absently against Jason’s without taking it. He thinks it might be a check-in, a consolation. Jason doesn’t have the capacity to spare to reassure him; his brain is a screeching train wreck in the face of the slow smile Jack levels on the pair of them. “They’re next week.” 

“So our Jason’s been helping you practice,” Jack deduces, and Jason internally translates that fond our to a possessive my. “Always knew him to be a gentleman.” 

“He is,” Tim replies, and all Jason can think is, shut up shut up shut up-  

“You should come to the dinner,” Slade says gruffly, and Tim arches a curious brow at him. 

Jack lights up, and Jason vaguely recalls mention of the annual pre-Conference team dinner happening this week. Jack steps forward to clap Tim on the shoulder, only the barest bit too rough to be amicable. Enough to be written off as a miscalculation of strength, and Tim’s brow creases a little as he glances down at that hand before he dismisses it as such. 

Jason’s nails are shredding his palms. His brain won’t turn over, won’t come up with one decent fucking reason to have Tim excused from the invitation before- 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Tim gushes, smiling politely. Jack’s arm weaves over his shoulders, squeezing Tim against his side as if they’re old friends. He’s towering a whole head above Tim, and Jason’s hands twitch towards him, desperate to yank him out from under Jack’s malicious smirk. 

He can’t move. 

“Not at all,” Jack croons, and Tim slips out from under the contact, courteously uncomfortable. “Networking is everything these days. Hosting fellow athletes is an important pillar of our little community. We’re just about to head off to the restaurant. Wilson, rouse the lads, will you?” he adds with a twinkle of good-natured bravado. 

Slade grunts an affirmation and peels off the barrier to head towards the locker room. Jack turns to watch him disappear down the corridor, and Jason carefully hooks an arm around Tim to pull him back a step, until Jason’s closer to Jack than he is. He drops his hand from Tim’s waist before Jack finishes turning. 

The man still pauses for a moment, gaze flickering over to meet Jason’s, like he knows exactly what’s going on, and then he grins. “Well, I’ll see you shortly, Tim.” 

The way Tim’s name falls off those lips makes a slice of goosebumps break up the ridge of Jason’s spine, and he knows he flinches. 

“Sure thing,” Tim answers confidently, and then Jack peels away. 

Jason rounds on him as soon as Jack’s out of earshot. “Why did you say yes?” 

Tim starts a little, surprised by his ferocity. “I thought it was polite-” 

“You shouldn’t have,” Jason snaps, and his chest aches when Tim recoils from him an inch. He fumbles for Tim’s waist, brow pinching in sharp remorse. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t-” 

“Did you not want me to come?” Tim asks, trying to mask his disappointment. 

Jason balks, hands suring around Tim. “No! No, it’s not that. I just, I didn’t think you’d want to spend an evening with a bunch of hockey players. They’re not exactly refined.” 

Tim snorts. “Why would that bother me? I spend enough time around you to be over that by now.” 

Jason’s responding chuckle is a beat behind Tim’s and too high-pitched. He flinches when Tim catches on the sound, and doubles down on his efforts to pull Tim flush against his side. “Okay, you’ve convinced me,” Jason says, and Tim seems a little confused by that statement, as if it were never really a contest. “Let’s get this over with, princess.” 

Tim’s palm is warm on his ribs when he returns the gesture, falling in step with Jason as he guides them towards the locker room. He smiles wryly and plasters himself along Jason’s side. “You make it sound like it’s going to be an interrogation.” 

It is, Jason thinks, but offers him a broad smile and shoves open the doors.

Chapter Text

Jason hasn’t stopped fidgeting since they got to the restaurant. His complexion is a queasy ashen pale, and the rest of the Jokers are either too drunk or too tired to notice it, but Tim has. 

Jason has returned every single one of his check-ins, squeezing Tim’s hand under the table and masking every motion with an uproarious laugh as he shares the banter flitting around the table. Tim had expected him to be a little nervous about introducing him to the team - and in all honesty, Tim had been nervous himself - but introductions were half an hour ago and Jason’s still keyed up. 

Tim’s beginning to distrust his reassurances. 

He doesn’t know what’s making Jason so nervous. Everyone has been fully welcoming of Tim, and aside from a few lighthearted jabs, no one’s made any negative comment on their relationship. The only one who isn’t partaking in the raucous festivities is Slade, but Tim suspects that’s more his personality at play than a genuine cold shoulder. 

And Tim may not be able to read people in the blink of an eye like Dick can, but he can read the panic on Jason with his eyes closed. So when he winds his arm around Jason’s on the dinner table and Jason flinches like he’s been shot, Tim swivels to demand his full attention. 

Tim flashes his most dazzling smile and lets Jason’s shoulders unhitch from their stiff brace. “Get me a mocktail?” Tim asks, and Jason looks oddly relieved. Tim wonders exactly how tightly wound he is that he’d take such a simple diversion as an out. 

He picks the most complicated cocktail he can find off the menu and changes out half the ingredients, because he knows Jason will fixate on it. Hopefully enough to get his mind off whatever’s got his attention. 

Jason bends to kiss him on the cheek as he rises from his seat, then pauses, thinks better of it, and heads for the bar. Tim tries to swallow down the unease and disappointment that’s crawling up his throat. It doesn’t dissipate when Jason leans over the bar and rattles off the order, and the company at the table is starting to grate on Tim too. 

He excuses himself to the bathroom, weaving through the array of tables to the back of the restaurant. He exhales once he’s inside, stepping into a stall and leaning up against the door. 

Jason’s stress is rubbing off on him. And the last thing Jason needs right now is someone as frantic as he is. Whatever has got him so wound up, it’s nothing that Tim can’t soothe for a few more hours. At least until they can get home and Tim can finally ask what the hell has got him so distressed. He just needs to keep his cool until then. For Jason. 

Tim runs his hands through his hair with a sigh, and then spends the next few minutes patting it back down into an acceptable mess. The door opens and closes a handful of times, but Tim pays it no mind until he steps out and nearly runs up against Jack. 

“Oh,” Tim says, recovering with a polite smile. He sidesteps the man to shove his hands under one of the faucets. “Hi, Jack. Nearly ran into you there.” 

Jack hums, sticking a hand in his pocket as he leans up against the divider of the two stalls, meeting Tim’s gaze through the mirror. He can see the faint sheen of teeth in that smile, but his eyes are flat, and Tim pauses with his hands in the sink. 

“How long have you two been an item?” Jack asks, tone light and curious. 

Tim shrugs sheepishly, wringing his hands out. “Not long. A few weeks, a month, maybe?”

“Hmm,” Jack purrs, and Tim can’t get a read off that response. He swivels to yank a paper towel out of the dispenser, and when he next looks up into the mirror, Jack’s right behind him. 

Tim stills, meeting those reflected hazel orbs with the barest frown. 

“What’s our Jason to you?” Jack asks mildly, and confusion strikes through him. 

“Pardon?” 

When Tim blinks, Jack’s mouth is beside his ear, breath warm and cloying as it washes over his skin. 

“I said, what do you think Jason is to you?” 

Tim’s frown forms fully. “If you’re concerned about me taking Jason away from practice, or compromising his commitment to the Jokers, then I can assure you-” 

The words die in Tim’s throat with his jolt of surprise when Jack lays a condoling hand over his shoulder. 

“I don’t think Jason has any illusion as to his commitments,” Jack purrs, lip twitching in a jagged smile. Tim swallows, innately uncomfortable by the proximity of the other, larger man. “I think Jason knows exactly where he belongs.” 

“With the Jokers,” Tim entreats, shrugging out of Jack’s hold and turning on his heel for the door. Finds that he can’t duck around Jack’s slim frame, draped across his path. Tim’s gaze flickers up to meet his. “I get it, Jack, I do. I’m a professional athlete; I understand commitment. But I’m not here to steal Jason away from the Jokers, at all. I’m happy for him. I’m glad he has commitments like this.” 

“Oh, little birdy,” Jack murmurs, aloofly amused as he lifts a hand to stroke a nail over Tim’s cheekbone. “You don’t get the half of it. Jason, the Jokers, they all belong to me. His only commitment is to me.” 

Tim bats his hand away before he can think better of it, skin crawling beneath that taunting touch. Jack’s hand sures on his wrist, snatching it out of the air with a grip that’s instantly bruising. A surprised gulp pries itself from Tim’s lips at the pressure, and he takes an instinctive step back. Jack doesn’t let go. 

“You’ve got to understand, birdy - I’m not threatened by you. Not in the slightest. Jason’s mine, and it’s by my good graces that I’m letting him indulge this little fling of yours. At the end of the day, he owes everything to me. You can puff and preen all you want, and wrap yourself around his little finger for everyone at that table to see, but he always has and always will answer to me. Everyone knows it, birdy.” 

Tim can feel his bones grinding against one another, those gaunt fingers biting into his flesh. He takes another, more insistent step back, eyes wide as unease stands to wind up his throat like a slowly filling dam. 

Jack follows him through, taking his momentum and amplifying it with a cant of Tim’s captive wrist. His back hits the tiled wall with a grunt, and Tim feels a cold ribbon of fear lace around his neck, yanking tight. 

Jack’s breath is cloying, stale and intolerably warm where it fans across Tim’s forehead and cheek when he bends down. “Just remember that it’s me you have to thank, for allowing you two lovebirds to flourish. And if you want to pretend that you own him - if you want to order my dear boy around like he’s your pup - I’ll put an end to it.” 

“I don’t own him,” Tim manages to choke out, but it’s more hushed than he would have liked. There’s a horrified rage underscoring it that Tim feels in his core, untampered by his fear. “Jason doesn’t belong me, and he doesn’t belong to you. I don’t order him-” 

Jack’s other hand is at his throat in an instant, hitched over the top of his windpipe, thumbnail digging into the soft skin beneath Tim’s jaw. He coughs and wrenches his head back at the foreign sensation, and hits the tile with a blunt ache. His pulse thrums loud in his eardrums. 

“Don’t lie to me, little birdy,” Jack whispers, hissing the words around a pointed, entertained laugh. “I saw him stumble off to get you that drink like an obedient pup. ” 

He punctuates the word with a sharp constriction of his grip, and Tim’s hand flies up to latch onto his wrist, short nails gouging his pale skin. Jack doesn’t seem to take any notice. 

“If you try to usurp his commitment to me, to this team,” Jack warns, “I’ll take a pretty little stick to that pretty little knee of yours, am I understood? Then you can join your mentor in the line up of figure skating has-beens. Hmm,” he adds, pausing for a thought, “maybe I should take a stick to pretty boy too? Really drive the message home.” 

Tim’s lips curl back in a snarl, his other hand lashing out for Jack’s eye socket, his ear, that sick beguiling smile- 

Jack’s reach is longer than his, so he just leers back from Tim’s hasty grab in midair, crushing his captive hand back against the tile with ease as his grip constricts again. Tim chokes and slips down the tile, fumbling back towards that bared wrist at his throat. 

“Is Jason really worth that much to you?” Jack presses in a coo, and Tim braces back against the wall, kicking out wildly with his heel. It sails past Jack, and in the next breath he’s plastered against Tim, pressing him into the tile with all of his bulk. Too close to do anything other that gasp up towards that leer. “Is he worth fucking your career over for, birdy?” 

Tim hears the door open. Can’t summon the sense to look at who’s walked in on Tim having his lungs compressed against a bathroom wall before a hand is closing around Jack’s shoulder and wrenching him off Tim. 

He skitters sideways immediately, shoulder slamming into the corner with a force that’s immediately painful, but Tim’s putting distance between him and Jack, and that’s all that matters right now. 

When he’s managed to massage his sore throat and suck in a shaky breath to clear his reeling skull, Tim glances up in time to see Wilson slam Jack back against the tile with a forearm over his throat. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Wilson snarls, the single ice blue eye that Tim can see flashing violently. “Laying hands on the kid like that - what the fuck are you doing, Jack?” 

Jack just throws back his head, sweat-streaked hair parting over his pale forehead, and laughs like this is all some big joke, some hilarious misunderstanding. Tim’s hands are shaking, so he braces them back against the chilled tile. “Just having a little chat with the birdy about our Jason.” 

Wilson’s eye narrows, and Tim’s just opening his mouth to reject that suggestion when the door flies open again, and Jason materialises. He looks grief-stricken, gaze rising first from Wilson to Jack and then Tim in the corner, widening with abject horror. 

Tim shoves forward to meet him halfway across the cramped space, and Jason’s arms are around him in an instant, hands trembling violently where they’re wrapped over his shoulders. 

“Todd,” Wilson barks, making Jason jolt sharply. Tim feels his gaze lift, meeting Wilson’s eyes over Tim’s shoulder. “Take the kid outside.” 

Tim glares, twisting to try to meet Wilson’s gaze even as he snaps, “Don’t talk to him like-” 

“Get him out,” Wilson bellows, the sound ringing around the enclosed room and thrumming in Tim’s ears. Jason’s shoving open the door in the next second, dragging Tim out with him as they stumble into the hall. 

Jason grabs him before Tim can stagger more than a few steps, hands hot where they grip his shoulders, and then his neck, and then his jaw and his cheeks and Jason’s eyes are so wet that he’s almost crying, and in a second Tim’s breath’s snatched away. 

“Are you okay?” Jason demands in a rasp, gaze flitting between Tim’s eyes, like he’s trying to glean an answer from his silence. When Tim can’t press the words up through his stunned throat, Jason makes a panicked little noise and drops his gaze to Tim’s wrists, thumbs smoothing over his bruised pulse. “Oh, princess, oh my god, what did he do?” 

“It’s okay,” Tim murmurs sluggishly, feeling like he’s sinking now that the adrenaline is leaking out of his system. Jason’s inspecting his wrists with growing horror, brow pinching and flushed with panic. “Jay, I’m okay, I swear-” 

“What did he do to you?” Jason hisses, lifting a hand to press to the tender spot beneath Tim’s jaw. He groans a little when Jason does, the site flaring with dull pain, and Jason wrenches his hand back like he’s been struck. “Princess, tell me what happened, please.” 

“I’m okay, he just-” Tim swallows, wincing as he straightens from his half-slump. Jason braces him with a firm grip around his elbows, hands shaky. “He threatened me, that’s all. He just threatened me. I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m just-” 

Then Tim notices how Jason’s literally rattling, shaking from head to foot like he’s going to shatter into a hundred pieces, and Tim’s reaching for him before he even makes the conscious decision to. His hands brush along Jason’s cheek, smearing a stray tear there. 

“Hey, hey, Jay, look at me,” Tim whispers through a raw throat, and doesn’t continue until Jason’s blue-green gaze is fixed on him like a star in a black hole’s pull. “Jay, are you okay?” 

Jason twitches, like he’s trying to shake his head but can’t hold it together enough to manage it. His breath is sharp and short when it whistles between his lips, and Tim’s gaze widens in horror when he starts to sway. 

“Woah, Jay, hey, sit down,” he instructs, guiding him firmly backwards until there’s a wall behind him and he’s sliding down to the floorboards. Tim settles between his legs, unwilling to relinquish his grip on Jason’s knees as Jason bows over and tucks his head down. “Breathe, deep breaths. What can I do for you? Tell me what to do.” 

“Count,” Jason gasps, eyes panicked beneath their haze. 

It takes Tim a moment to catch on, but then he's shifting to massage circles into Jason’s palms as he says, “I’m going to count your breaths through for you, okay? Just do your best.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jason chokes out, and Tim ignores him in favour of counting him through several steady, long exhales. “Princess, I’m so sorry.” 

“Jay,” Tim murmurs once he’s certain Jason’s not going to pass out. “It’s not your fault. I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine, I promise. But you’re not, Jay. You’re not even close to okay. So I need you to take a minute to let yourself calm down. And then I need you to tell me what’s going on here.” 

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” Jason whines. “Shouldn’t have left you with him. I know what he’s like. I know what he does, and I-” 

Tim’s throat feels tight, static buzzing between his ears, growing in volume. “Jack?” he clarifies, and Jason shudders, but nods. 

“Yeah, princess. Shouldn’t have brought you to this party. Should’ve known better. This is my fault. Princess, I’m so sorry.” 

“Jay, I’m fine. Look at- look at me, Jay. I’m okay. I’m alright. He didn’t hurt me.” 

The relief that falls onto Jason’s features is so sharp, so encompassing, that it feels like a fist to Tim’s gut. It’s the sort of relief that bypasses sympathy entirely and slams right up into empathy, with all the nasty little connotations attached. Tim can taste acid in his throat. 

“Jay,” he rasps cautiously, and has to clear his throat before he can meet Jason’s gaze. He looks calmer - looks like the relief has sapped all the energy, all the fight out of him. His thumbs stroke over Tim’s knees where he kneels. “What did Jack do to you?” 

The blood drains from Jason’s features, taking the fleeting relief with it, and Tim can’t help the guilt that spirals through him at robbing Jason of that. He clamps down on it, because this is more important, Jason is more important than how sorry he feels for himself right now. 

Tim sighs and runs his fingers through the hairs at Jason’s temple, stroking the blunt of his thumb over Jason’s cheek. “Jason, I need you to tell me, please. I need to know how to protect you. And who to protect you from. I can’t let this - whatever it is - happen again.” 

Jason looks like he needs to retch, and Tim’s stomach twists and lodges up in his throat at the sight, but he holds firm. “Jack,” Jason croaks after a long, difficult minute. “He, uh, we’ve been- He and I, we-” 

The words catch in his throat, but Tim can construe enough from the tight expression on his features. 

He strokes his knuckles down the sweep of Jason’s jaw, soothing. “How long, Jay?” he asks quietly. 

Jason swallows, looking so shaken. “Two years. Since I- since I joined.” 

Tim can feel that static returning, vicious and resentful and red hot between his ears, slamming against the inner walls of his skull like it wants to erupt. Like it wants to drown out reason and rationality and just burn. He keeps his touch gentle as he strokes down Jason’s temple again, summoning restraint. “He’s never laying hands on you again,” Tim murmurs, the deep timbre of his own tone surprising even him. “Not a single fucking finger. Never again.” 

Jason stills, blinks up at him from where he sits against the wall. He’s stunned, but there’s an awe there too, an astonishment Tim can’t place. Then he winces, and swallows, and entreats, “He’s my manager, princess. I have to-” 

“You don’t have to do anything,” Tim snaps, teeth clacking loudly when they slam shut. Jason startles at the ferocity, and Tim focuses on schooling the fury in his tone, for Jason’s sake. “You’re not spending another second in that bastard’s presence. Not if I have a single word to say about it. No. No, Jay. It’s not- I’m not letting him near you again.” 

Jason’s hands come up to smooth over his wrists, a weak, grateful smile filtering onto his lips as Tim stares, humming with ferocity. “Princess, this is my job. This is my team, I’m not giving them up just for- just for him, okay? He’s my manager. He’s the Jokers’ manager. And if I want to play, then I’ve got to answer to him.” 

“Fine,” Tim growls, feeling anything but, and pulls upright with a sudden flare of confidence. Jason’s hands sure around his wrists, anchoring him. “Let go, Jay.” 

“Where are you going?” Jason demands, that terror creeping back into his tone. “What are you doing?” 

Tim tugs once on his wrists and pauses to announce, “I’m going to beat him to a bloody goddamn pulp, is what I’m going to do.” 

Horror blooms on Jason’s features as Tim tries to pull away again. “Princess, Tim, no,” he pleads, grip tightening desperately as Tim manages to twist one wrist free. “Tim, baby, please, don’t do it. I don’t want him to- I can’t let him hurt you, princess, I can’t.” 

Tim meets his stare, and he must look savage, because Jason’s terror begins to spiral. “If you’re going to spend a single second longer in that mongrel’s presence, then I’m going to ensure he doesn’t even dream of breathing in your vicinity, Jason.” 

“Princess,” Jason hisses desperately, but is overridden by Wilson shrugging into the corridor, alone. Tim doesn’t wait a second longer to yank his other wrist from Jason’s slackening grip and lunge towards the bathroom with a feral snarl. 

Wilson snags him around the waist with an arm that’s at least as long as Tim’s entire torso, and flings him back towards Jason. Tim sinks nails into the exposed skin on the back of his hand, shoving around his grip as he tries to divert Wilson’s block. 

But Wilson’s definitely a defenseman, because he deftly catches a handful of Tim’s shirt and drags him back around to front and center with a force that Tim can’t hope to counteract. He staggers back towards Jason with a bleat of fury, rage burning in his core. 

“Go home,” Wilson growls flatly, blue eyes flaring with warning. When Tim bristles, eyeing the door, Wilson steps into his path with a glower. “Take Todd, get your things and go the fuck home, Drake. Leave it alone.” 

“Princess,” Jason whispers, shoving upright off the wall as he reaches tentatively for him. 

“I want to see him,” Tim snaps, meeting Wilson’s glare. 

“It’s not happening, kid,” Wilson answers bluntly, killing Tim’s dissent in the cradle. “Todd needs you now more than that scumbag does. Do yourselves both a favour and go the fuck home.” 

“We’re going,” Jason croaks, wrapping a huge palm over Tim’s trembling wrist. “Princess?” 

Tim holds position for half a second longer, growling. “Fine. We’re going. But this isn’t even close to over.” 

Wilson’s stare looks icy when Tim grips Jason’s arm and heads hastily for the exit, blindingly aware of the dark bruise beneath his chin, and his mussed hair, and the way the entire team’s eyes follow them for hours after they’ve left the restaurant.

Chapter Text

They had talked about it. 

Jason had sprawled out on the bed in Tim’s apartment with his head nestled in Tim’s lap, and told him as much as he could stand to tell him. Had told him about how supportive Jack had been, so welcoming at a time when Jason was still raw from single-handedly costing the Assassins the Stanley Cup. Had said how Jack had leaned up on the barrier and called platitudes out to him whenever Jason had been training. How he had stroked and soothed Jason's ego before Jason had even known he had been seeking it. 

And Jason, who probably hadn’t heard a single positive word on his performance since before Dick’s incident, had understandably lapped it up. 

Jason told Tim about how platitudes had turned to questions about his career coming up in the AHL, and how he'd played eagerly into discussions on how he could use his unique size and speed to give him an extra edge over defensemen like Wilson or Sionis. Jason had nodded along with Jack, had taken his advice to heart and started employing it in his practice routines. 

Tim doesn’t need Jason to tell him how Jack’s praises had only grown from there. How Jason had slid into the casualness of it all. How encouraging hands on his shoulder had turned to playful smacks on his chest, to light squeezes of his waist. Tim can see it in Jason’s pinched, self-admonishing expression, can feel it in the guilt that radiates from him. 

It makes Tim absolutely livid. He isn’t even sure he’s ever been this angry before. He’s so enraged that it’s looped around on itself, knotted his ire into a tight ball of silent seething as he strokes down the creases of Jason’s forehead and plays softly with his hair. 

“Hey, princess.” 

“Hmm?” Tim hums, glancing down at that mesmerising teal as his hand pauses. “Yeah?” 

“Thanks,” Jason murmurs, his tone devolving into a hoarse croak, “for listening to me. For… believing me, I guess.” 

Tim starts. “Jay, of course I’d believe you. Always. Every time.” 

“I wasn’t honest with you,” Jason mutters, and won’t meet his gaze. “You asked me if I was okay, and I lied to you. I told you I was fine, and I thought I was, but-” 

Tim’s grip tightens where it’s fisted in his shirt. “You don’t owe me anything, Jason. You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m glad you told me. So, so glad. But you weren’t obligated to tell me anything.” 

“I just,” Jason starts, and then swallows, fingers squeezing where they shake around Tim’s wrist. “I didn’t want to… to disappoint you, I guess. Or make you, I don't know, jealous?” 

Not for the first time, Tim imagines Jack with Tim’s skate pressed down on his throat. He bites his tongue until it stings, bending down to tip Jason’s lips back to meet his. 

It’s slow and soft, and Tim pours every ounce of adoration and love he can into the kiss. When he pulls back, Jason draws in a shaky breath, eyelids fluttering open to stare up at him, awed. 

“Princess?” he whispers, searching Tim’s gaze. Tim’s not sure what he finds. 

“I love you, Jason,” he says, murmuring the words against each of his cheekbones. “I’ll say it as many times as you need me to until you believe me. I don’t care if you thought I’d be angry or jealous or disappointed, because I’m not. I never could be, not about this. All I am is grateful to have met you, to get to know you. And I’m grateful that you trusted me with this.” 

Tim heaves a breath, steeling himself for his next words. “And while I want to make you tell me exactly why I should let you go back to the Jokers, I’m not going to.” 

“Because it’s a moot point?” Jason demands tersely, hackles rising. 

“No,” Tim answers honestly, and surprise flits across Jason’s features. “Because I’m not here to tell you what to do. It’s your choice, what you do with your career. And it’s not my place to tell you whether or not you’re allowed to play with the Jokers.” 

Jason rolls over, splaying out over the bed covers as he props himself up on his elbows. Tim can see the suspicion in the tightness of his shoulders, but it’s ebbing as he studies Tim’s expression. 

“That’s it?” he asks. 

Tim shrugs. “That’s it. It’s not my place. Whatever you decide to do, I’ll support it.” 

“Even if I decide to keep working for Jack?” Jason presses, gaze narrowing. 

Tim shoves down the spiral of loathing, because it’s purely reactionary, and sucks in a breath. He reaches out, twining his fingers with Jason’s and squeezing. “Yes, if that’s what you want. Whatever your decision is, I’ll support you. Even if what I want is to press assault charges on that bastard, it’s your life, and you get to decide what happens in it. I trust your judgement, Jay.” 

By the way Jason’s eyes blow wide and then shift down to the comforter, Tim gets the impression that not many people have said that to him. It yanks at Tim’s heartstrings something fierce, so he leans forward and threads his fingers through Jason’s fringe, stroking the hair back over his crown. 

Jason frowns at the bed sheets, grip squeezing on Tim’s fingers. “I’m staying with the Jokers. They’re… they’re more than just my team, princess. I can’t leave them high and dry when Conference is a week away. I just can’t do that to them. I owe them too much. But.” 

Tim watches his shoulders wind tight as he heaves a breath through terse lungs, and holds his gaze when it rises to meet Tim’s. 

“I’m done with Jack. I’m not gonna let him-” Jason inhales sharply, his brow knitting. “If he tries anything again, I’ll stop him. I’m done with him. He doesn’t get to- doesn’t get any say in my life from now on.” 

Jason’s brow unfurrows as the words settle, the first hallmarks of relief painting his features. He exhales slowly, looking a little dazed by the revelation, and Tim waits for him to digest it, thumb stroking over his hand. 

“Feeling better?” he entreats when Jason starts getting lost in his own head, and the man beams up at him. The sight makes Tim’s chest simultaneously tighten and shatter. 

“Yeah, princess,” Jason replies earnestly, the words lighter than anything he’s said so far, like he’s floating on the sensation. “Better than ever.” 

Then he reaches up to slide a hand over Tim’s jaw, and the smaller man lets himself be pulled into a slow, kindling kiss. Jason shifts, pushing upwards to press deeper into Tim’s mouth, tucking his knees under himself so he can wind a hand around Tim’s waist, pull him into his lap. 

He settles atop Jason's thighs with a soft sigh, melting into the searing heat of his palms on Tim’s hips and in the middle of his shoulder blades, pressing him into Jason, melding them. When he breaks to come up for air, Jason’s eyes are electric bright, his cheeks flushed, and the knot of Tim’s stomach uncoils into a pool of heat. 

“Hey there,” Tim breathes, lips brushing Jason's when he speaks. Jason’s thumb is rubbing an idle circle into his hip, and Tim shifts atop his legs, aware that he’s half-hard from that kiss alone. When he tilts his hips forwards, he realises he’s not the only one. “You sure about this?” 

Jason nods, ducking down to peck the corners of Tim’s mouth. “Yeah, princess. I’m- I feel ready. I feel… really good. Do you?” 

Tim winds a hand up into Jason’s hair to yank their lips together, crashing hard as he chases Jason’s breath. “Yes, Jason,” Tim gasps, half-lidded gaze snaring his as he grinds down into Jason’s lap. 

The man responds instantly. Jason doesn’t wait a second longer to shift, tipping Tim off his lap as he twists and pours him onto the bed. The smaller man sprawls back against the sheets with a huff of soft laughter, finding Jason’s lips again as the larger man settles over him. 

Then there’s a hand pulling at Tim’s hair, another guiding his thighs up to bracket Jason’s waist, and Tim moans into his mouth when Jason’s free hand slips between his legs to stroke his clothed cock. He arches when Jason’s lips slip down to his throat, kissing the line of his pulse as Tim pants and fists his hands in the front of Jason’s shirt. 

They jump down to join Jason’s, fumbling the buttons of his jeans as Jason kisses the bared strip of Tim’s stomach. Tim whines loudly, wrestling the material off his hips with fervour, veins thrumming with heat beneath the brush of Jason’s soft lips. 

He fumbles clumsily for Jason’s jaw when he finally kicks the jeans off, yanking him harshly up to meet his mouth so Tim can devour him. Jason bleats in surprise at his ferocity, but folds into the motion, dipping down as Tim sprawls out on the sheets beneath him. 

When the backs of Jason’s knuckles whisper up the length of Tim’s cock, he nearly cries. The feel of Jason, all around him, all against him, is all-consuming. Jason’s stroke are slow, long and purposeful as he drags Tim into a harsh arch on the bed, heels digging into the mattress as he swallows down the heat erupting from his core. It’s an ecstatic kind of maddening, and Tim can’t concentrate enough to kiss him when his brain is buzzing like static within his skull, so he slumps back to the sheets and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Opening them again is like seeing the sun. He feels flushed and overheated, his limbs both too heavy and too still as Jason continues his steady torture. But fuck, his eyes. They’re cooler than any ocean Tim’s seen, swimming above him, drinking Tim down in the silence, watching every twitch and gasp with rapture. Jason stares at him like Tim is endless, and it makes Tim feel like he’s both lighter than air and heavy enough to sink through the mattress. His heart feels leaden, too full, pounding slow and languid in his chest and high and fast in his ears. 

Tim swallows, lips parting to chase a much needed breath, and Jason mirrors the motion, still watching him, like he wants to be kissing him. Like he can’t imagine not having his lips on Tim’s skin. Tim’s pulse ricochets. 

“God, Jay,” Tim whines, shifting restlessly against the bed sheets, “can I touch you? Please?” 

Jason stills, his blue eyes flickering with surprise before they drown in longing, and Tim gets sucked down with them. He ducks to kiss a line up Tim’s throat, drawing a sharp gasp from him, and then Jason growls into the crook of Tim’s neck and shoulder, “Yes.” 

Tim’s hands are yanking Jason’s shirt up before he even gives them permission to move, insistent and impatient as Jason shifts his weight, palm parting from Tim so he can slip the material off his shoulders. Tim whines at the loss, but the heat is back in the space between one breath and the next, Jason’s lips fusing with his to chasing down his vocalisation. 

Tim shimmies down the bed, nails scraping the hard muscles of Jason’s abdomen as he strains for his waistline, fingers slipping between his pants and his heated skin. When he yanks Jason’s hips down into his, Jason moans loud and needy, and Tim responds with a growl. 

He’s never had so much trouble getting buttons undone in his fucking life, but for whatever reason, Tim’s hands are shaking minutely, trembling with desperation and eagerness. And trying to focus on Jason’s pants when the man is swallowing every gasp and breath out of Tim’s lips is making him lightheaded. 

He settled for shoving his palm straight in once he gets the fly open, and Jason skyrockets up the bed, jolting hard when Tim squeezes his cock. Tim forces his eyes open to watch the way Jason’s shoulders shudder, the movement translating down the arm that’s propped up beside Tim’s head. He turns aside to kiss Jason’s wrist, holding his gaze until the man meets it. 

The look of adoration, of sheer wonder, that Jason gives him makes Tim stall out. 

Then Jason rolls his hips down into Tim’s hand, marrying the motion with a swipe of his palm over the head of Tim’s cock, and suddenly the distance is too much for Tim. He shoves Jason’s pants down his thighs, enough to free his cock, and then he’s surging up to claim his lips again, pulling him down into the sheets with him. Jason settles against him like they were made for each other, thighs bracketing him as Tim wraps his hand around Jason’s length. 

“Fuck,” Jason curses against the corner of his mouth, nose digging into Tim’s cheekbone. Tim takes the opportunity to suck a bruise into Jason’s throat, up under his jawline, and Jason groans, hips shifting as Tim strokes him, coaxing. 

Tim’s fist brushes Jason’s, prompting him to move, and Tim groans against Jason’s windpipe when he does, stroking in tandem. 

It’s barely a minute more before Tim’s shuddering, knees jumping up to bite into Jason’s sides as he groans, “Jay, Jay. Need you to-” 

“Yeah, princess?” Jason moans against his lips, and presses his weight down into Tim, rolling his hips up flush against Tim’s ass. 

Tim sucks in a sharp breath at the combination, a long, high moan ripping up his throat. Jason kisses his neck when he does, as if he can kiss Tim’s vocal chords, eager to feel the sound of him against his lips. Tim’s hand stutters to a halt around him as he grinds down against Jason, straining to claim his lips again. 

“Wanna watch you, princess,” Jason murmurs against his jaw, pressing a kiss to the skin. “Can I?” 

Part of him melts at the earnest nature to that tone, to the sincere way Jason looks at Tim, sprawled beneath him. 

Tim lets him go, wriggling up the bed until he can snag his fingers on the bedside drawer. Jason’s brow creases into a frown that clears as soon as Tim snaps open the lid to the plastic bottle, coating his fingers in the clear liquid. 

Jason takes it from him before he can drop it to the sheets, dribbling a serve onto his own fingers as he lines their cocks up flush to one another. When he encompasses both their lengths with his slick palm, Tim keens, arching off the bed. 

He’s so hot, so full in Jason’s palm, and Jason is- Fuck, but he feel enormous against Tim, the heads of their cocks sliding together on the upstroke. It makes Tim feel giddy with the pressure, and for a moment he forgets the lube drying on his fingers. 

Then Jason laughs above him, soft and adoring and sweet, and Tim remembers where he is. 

So he adjusts his position on the bed, hooking his calf over the crook of Jason’s elbow to open himself up. His slick fingers brush past Jason’s hand where it’s wrapped around them both, the backs of Tim’s knuckles nudging against his sac as Jason sucks in a sharp breath. Then Tim circles his own entrance, sliding the first finger in and exhaling through the strain. 

It’s been a while since he’s done this to himself, and longer since he’s done it with an audience. He can feel a blush darkening his cheeks, his stomach coiling with the barest sensation of embarrassment, at the idea of Jason watching him - before Tim forces his eyes to open and look at the man above him. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to how Jason looks at him. That kind of awe is indescribable, as if every second Jason sees him is a blessing, a gift. As if looking at Tim is Jason’s very favourite thing to do, and he could do it for a millennia and never tire of looking at Tim. 

His eyes are indescribable. The yearning in them makes Tim yearn, makes the aching core of him mourn the distance, makes it yawn wide with the need to have Jason against him, within him. 

His breathing hitches when he slides a second finger into himself, perhaps more roughly, more eagerly, than he should. Jason’s lips are feathering across his jaw in the next minute, those eyes searching his expression for the barest hint of discomfort. Jason’s hand doesn’t stop sliding against their lengths, massaging beneath the head of Tim’s cock in a way that has him impatient. 

“You doing okay, princess?” Jason whispers, and that name does reckless things to Tim’s self control. Jason chuckles when the shudder ripples through him; probably feels it down to his bones, with how he’s pressed against all of Tim. 

“Fuck,” Tim pants, blinking up at the headboard as he tries to focus, shifts to find that spot inside himself. 

Jason ducks down to suck a series of kisses into Tim’s throat, and he whines, his focus shot. “Love when you look like this, princess,” Jason confesses into the skin of his neck, right against his pulse point, like he can whisper straight into Tim’s veins. “Can’t get enough of it. Nothing compares to seeing you like this.” 

The timing is heavenly, because Tim’s fingers skate over his prostate, and a yelp surges up through his throat before he can even consider clamping down on it. Tim sees sparks for a second, and when they clear, Jason has pulled back to watch him with slack awe. 

“Do that again,” he murmurs, earnest and reverent. 

Tim would do nearly anything for him in that moment. 

So he crooks his fingers again, this time with more pressure and purpose, and arches high off the bed, into Jason’s palm, with a strangled gasp. Jason’s got teeth on him in the next minute, biting at the skin that’s exposed beneath Tim’s collar, hand moving faster around them both, spurred by his need. 

Tim’s head is spinning, the heat scorching as he presses in a third, too quick and too eager. The stretch is intoxicating, and he pauses to adjust to the sensation, grateful when Jason slows to accommodate him, letting him catch his breath as he focuses on the slide. It take a minute, but then he’s moving again, fucking into himself with three fingers as Jason mouths up the side of his throat. 

It’s too much and not nearly enough. Tim digs one knee in under Jason’s ribs, urging him without words, and Jason responds instantly. His hand is around Tim’s wrist in an instant, thumb brushing his pulse point to feel the way Tim crooks his fingers inside himself, the angle he drives up against the bundle of nerves that has him gasping. Then he’s easing Tim out of himself. 

Jason doesn’t let him pull away before he presses a kiss to Tim’s palm, holding his stare intensely when he does. His other hand falls away from their lengths, his weight shifting up off Tim as he traces fingertips down his side, suring around his hip. Tim’s other leg is still hooked over his arm, the one with the hand wrapped around Tim’s wrist, stroking the skin there as Tim lists back into the sheets. 

He shifts down the bed, pushing deeper into Jason’s lap as he wraps his free leg around the larger man’s hips, heel anchoring against his back. Jason adjusts to lean over him, the hand on Tim’s hip lifting so he can line himself up, and then he pauses, the head of his cock nudging against Tim’s entrance. Like he’s waiting for Tim, like he’s checking that he’s ready. 

Tim’s never been more ready in his entire fucking life. His stomach’s knotted like it gets before a competition, standing on the ice, waiting for the music to kick in, for him to swoop into that first glide. 

When Jason slides into him, it feels like when Tim jumps; everything blurring all at once, leaving him with nothing but the sensation. That singular point of contact as the entirety of him coils and soars, and Tim’s jaw drops open on that silent note of awe. 

It’s not until Jason stills, hips flush against his ass, panting hard and strained above him, that Tim realises he’s still staring, still stunned, and Jason is waiting for him. Arms shaking and cock twitching inside him, waiting.  

Tim’s nails lacerate his cheek when he fumbles for Jason’s jaw, yanking him down to kiss him, to groan his need and his adulation into the man’s mouth. Make him understand that Tim needs this just as badly as he does. 

He must convey some of that, because suddenly Jason gasps and then he’s moving, the slide heavenly as he pulls back and presses back in. Tim can’t reach enough of him, can’t get him close enough, deep enough, and he realises he’s whining against Jason’s lips, hips rocking down to urge him on. 

Jason shifts slightly, pressing Tim’s leg back, up, until he can hook his knee over Jason’s shoulder, angle himself so that Jason can drive down into him, and then- 

Tim’s shouting, he’s sure of it. He can’t hear anything he’s saying around the force of his pulse, but it’s some garbled prayer or maybe a curse, sewn together with Jason’s name. 

Jason’s hand is hot on his skin, wrapped against his spine where his shirt rides up. His panting is loud in Tim’s ear, his breath blisteringly hot against Tim’s neck as he rolls his hips, dragging the head of his cock over Tim’s prostate with every slide. 

Tim’s trembling, shuddering with the sheer bliss of it, winding and unwinding simultaneously. He can’t keep track of anything except the certainty that he’s unravelling, coiling tighter as Jason’s pace picks up, losing its rhythm almost entirely, and Tim shatters beneath him. 

He’s vaguely aware of how Jason chokes when he clenches down on him, toppling over the crest of his orgasm as his vision whites out and his blood rushes past his ears with a ferocity that’s deafening. 

When Tim stirs, an eternity later, Jason is slumped against him, catching his breath in short, shuddering gulps. He can feel Jason’s forehead on his shoulder, his hair streaked with sweat where it presses against his own heat. Then Jason shifts slightly, drags lips over the salt of Tim’s skin, chasing an invisible trail until he reaches the end of Tim’s collarbone. 

He sucks a kiss into the bone, and Tim exhales and swims in the sensation of Jason tracking back, up the column of his throat, until he reaches Tim’s mouth. The smaller man pries his eyes open, blinking as they swim with soft tears, consumed with the whole of Jason.  

Jason’s lips twitch, curling into something soft and adoring. “Hey, princess,” he croaks, and takes Tim in the slowest and most earnest kiss he’s ever had. 

Sensation returns to Tim’s limbs gradually, and then he’s slipping fingers into Jason’s hair just to feel him with every part of him that can feel, feel the whole of Jason against him. 

Jason inhales, slow and sure and steady, and pulls away from Tim’s lips to ask, “How do you feel, princess?” 

Tim laughs softly and grins. “Feels amazing, Jay.”

Chapter Text

Waking up comes with the soft pulse of dawn sunlight and the warmth of a body curled around his. He floats on the cusp of consciousness, smile curling into the dimness. Tim doesn't think he’s slept that well in years. 

His dormant alarm clock tells him its four nineteen a.m., which means he’s already late for his training, but somehow Tim can’t summon the resolve to wriggle out of the arm Jason has draped over his waist when the man himself is pressing soft kisses to Tim’s temple. Somewhere amidst their fingers lacing and Tim sliding his ankle up the length of Jason’s calf, they find the willpower to get up. 

He watches Jason pour himself a bowl of sugary cereal that Tim keeps on hand for emergencies when Dick stops by, cradling it in the crook of his wrist as he talks. The man babbles about Conference and the Jokers’ key lines between mouthfuls of fruity pebbles while Tim smiles into his mug of coffee. And when Tim feels caffeinated enough to attempt coherent speech, he crosses the kitchen to lick the sugar off Jason’s lips. 

Their plans to head to Bruce’s rink to make up for Tim’s tardiness in his regular training slot are derailed another fifteen minutes while Jason sits him up on the counter and grinds slowly against the core of him. His huge hands pin Tim’s hips down, stalling his aborted little thrusts as Tim’s own hands roam over Jason’s back and shoulders, comb through his thick hair. 

When he breaks off Jason’s mouth for a breath, lips not the only thing swollen, Jason chuckles deep and breathy. Tim can’t help but laugh back. 

“Shower?” Jason asks, kissing the underside of his jaw. 

“Shower sounds great,” Tim gasps under the featherlight assault. He doesn’t manage to stifle the groan that tugs up his throat when Jason lifts him easily from the counter and carries him into the bathroom, one broad hand searing into his spine beneath his night shirt. 

They manage to keep the shower to a respectable length, even with Tim pinned back against the tile whining, one legged hooked over Jason’s hip. The slow heat of Jason’s blue eyes as he’d brought Tim off on just two fingers, drunk on his open expressions, hadn’t been quite enough to convince him to do away with training altogether. 

He’s feeling limber enough to challenge even Dick’s most acrobatic aerial elements by the time they park Jason’s motorcycle in the parking lot. The front doors are unlocked, but it’s still early enough that they have the entire rink to themselves, so Tim warms up while Jason hunts down some hire skates that will fit his size. 

Tim’s even confident enough to tack on his camera collar, working through some easy doubles while he preps to do Dick’s routine. Damian shoulders through the doors sometime around five thirty a.m. sharp - prudently on time, as usual - but barely looks up long enough to roll his eyes at the pair of them before ambling over to dump his skates bag loudly on the bleachers. 

“Must you?” he interjects when Jason pulls off Tim’s mouth. He tosses Damian a small grin, before propping Tim up on the barrier while he runs through some quick stretches. Tim kicks his legs idly and smirks down at the teenager’s scrunched nose. 

“You don’t have to look, brat.” 

“Pretty hard to miss it,” Damian retorts with disgust. Jason snorts, and Damian tosses him a wary glare. “What’s he even doing here, anyway? I thought you had practice.” 

“I’m helping him practice,” Jason supplies, gripping his own elbow as he arches his arm back between his shoulder blades. 

Damian frowns. “What could he possibly need your expertise for?” 

Jason shrugs easily, smiling, but it’s Tim who interjects coolly, “Couples routines usually take more than one person, Damian.” 

Damian glares hotly. “I know that Drake,” he snaps, before it clears to contemplation. “I thought you only partnered with Brown for couples?” 

“Thought I might teach Jason some lifts,” Tim muses aloud, his gaze trained on the way Jason’s shirt rides up over his ribs when he bends over, and the curve of his thighs, straining against his day-old jeans. When he straightens and fixes Tim with a smirk, he knows he’s been caught, but somehow it doesn’t matter. 

“Still hung up on those lifts, huh, princess?” the larger man says smugly. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About getting the power to pull off the rotations.” 

Jason sucks the inside of his cheek loudly, smile tugging at his lips. “And the bit about overthinking it?” 

Tim ignores that. “I was thinking we could try a throw.” 

Damian’s head jerks around, gaze sharp. “What?” 

Jason stumbles a bit, but recovers enough to glance up at him. There’s a frown creasing his brow where his pale fringe has stuck to it. “Seriously? Don’t you think that’s a bit premature?” 

“You picked up lifts quickly,” Tim points out, parroting his own words back at him. The frown deepens - as does Damian’s. “You can say no. We don’t have to.” 

“Father wouldn’t approve,” Damian cuts in, and Jason nods in agreement. 

Tim rolls his eyes, inhaling the cold, crisp air deeply. “Since when have you asked for Bruce’s approval?” Tim says, arching a brow at Jason before he swivels to look down at Damian from his perch. “I’ve done throws before.” 

“With Brown,” Damian clarifies, concerned. “A trained skater.” 

“Jason used to do figures.” 

“Todd hasn’t done figures for six years. He’s not equipped to handle throws.” 

“He did lifts,” Tim repeats firmly. 

“I don’t know, princess,” Jason says gently, brow pinched in hesitant remorse. “I wouldn’t want to unless there was no other alternative. I wouldn’t want you to-” He pauses to swallow uncomfortably, and Tim’s mind is filled with the remnants of Dick’s injury. 

“Yeah, okay,” Tim concedes, reaching out for Jason. He steps forward, between Tim’s knees, lacing their fingers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to push.” 

Jason pecks a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw, smiling crookedly. “Don’t sweat it, princess. I’m not saying no indefinitely. I just want to make sure we’ve exhausted all our options first.” 

Tim runs his free fingers through Jason’s untidy locks. “That’s fair.” 

“Gross,” Damian mutters, and Tim flips him off. He rolls his eyes, hoisting his skates bag as he retreats. 

“Behave,” Jason chastises as the teenager slips into the backrooms, the door clattering across the empty rink behind him. He nips at Tim’s jaw, before helping him off the barrier. “Let me see that quad, princess. We’re gonna nail that routine, I promise.” 

Tim draws in a deep breath, touching down onto the ice. “I hope so. I want Dick to get something positive out of this.” 

Jason follows him through the gate, paralleling him to mimic his lazy step sequences as he gains speed. “I know, I do too. Which is why we’re going to work on this routine until we get it perfect. Now,” he says, and withdraws, letting Tim pull away, “show me what you’ve got, princess.” 

The motions come easily, flowing through him as he spins across the ice, every pull of muscle second nature as moves through Dick’s routine. The hiss of freshly cut ice fills his ears, and Tim shivers with the chill that whispers over his bared skin, working up a light sweat as he pulls into the neat step sequence. Time blurs around him, lost to his impermeable focus as he swings into the jumps. 

Tim lays his triple Salchow, cutting close to the barrier as he skids to a halt. “What do you think?” he asks his lone audience, breathing through the exerted strain in his chest. 

Jason’s leaned back against the gate, appraising him with a critical eye. He combs his fingers absently through his mussed hair as he scrutinises Tim’s routine, expression not as impassive as he would probably like. “Nailed the Salchow and the quad. Your step sequence could be a bit sharper, but other than that it’s nearly flawless, princess.” 

Tim cocks a hip, chewing the inside of his lip. “And the combination jump?” 

Jason shifts his weight on his elbows, leaned up on the barrier, and winces. “It’s not enough power for a quad Lutz.” 

Tim sighs, picking at a loose thread in his shirt as Jason eases upright  and circles across the ice to him. 

“Do it for me again,” Jason implores firmly. 

“What’s the point?” Tim murmurs, meeting his gaze. “I’m not Dick Grayson. I’m never going to stick that jump.” 

“You don’t know that,” Jason says calmly. He reaches out, and Tim slides into the heat of his palms when Jason cups his jawline. “Show me again, princess.” 

Tim feels the press of his digits against the stiff collar at his throat when Jason turns the small camera on. Tim sighs, but meets his gaze. “Once more.” 

“Once more,” Jason agrees easily, gaze quietly intense, and lifts his hands so Tim can pull into a swift crossover. He crooks his head over his shoulder, picking up speed as he traces the lobe. 

Pulling into the quadruple toe loop is second nature now that Tim’s warmed up. His breathing is steady and slow as he offsets his momentum, touching down to the ice and changing into the combination spin with ease. His pulse beats a steady tempo between his ears, holding his rhythm as he executes the back-to-back spins with lithe grace. 

He jumps a little when Jason sidles up to mirror his step sequence, unaware of him cutting cross the lobe while Tim had been focusing on shifting his weight between his blades, keeping his muscles limber in preparation for the dreaded combination jump to come. Jason’s footwork is flawless, just a few steps ahead and behind Tim, where the camera’s wide lens won’t catch his effortless sweeps. They cut across the home lobe, blades hissing over the ice as they gain speed, sweeping through the diagonal as the rink begins to blur. 

When they’re going this fast, sometimes Tim can understand what Dick says about flying. The way gravity’s grip breaks on them, dancing a foot above the ice. They move like water, like air, floating as Jason’s arm winds around his waist. His other brackets Tim's hip, a question hanging between them. 

Tim remembers the clench of his thighs around Jason’s waist, the steady grip of Jason moving between them as Tim had sprawled out on the sheets, the weightless feeling that had flowed between them. 

He curls his palms over Jason’s hands, locking them together as he cuts sharply and shifts his weight, leaning into Jason’s hold. Tim focuses on keeping his head level, tracking their path as he keeps his shoulders set, and his sternum flat; he’s conscious of his weight and every nerve in his limbs, and the coaxing pull of every breath as it sears down his throat. Jason’s moving him around him, a tangible force through the blur of motion. He’s so steady beneath Tim, so effortless in his movements as he scoops Tim off the ice. The squeeze of his fingers layered over Tim’s hips is his only warning before Jason yanks, hard. It takes his stomach a second to catch up as Tim’s skates clear the ice, and then he’s airborne, tucking his limbs tight as Jason’s searing palms leave him. 

Tim doesn’t know how long he floats, suspended over the ice as he rotates through the quadruple set of turns. Nausea swells and passes just as quickly when he fixes his gaze on his descent. The blades of his skates bite easily, settling his weight for the barest half-second as Tim coils into the axel. He’s aware of the force beneath him, the strength of Jason’s throw vibrating through his legs as he twists forward, grinds, and launches upwards. 

It’s done in the blink of an eye, Tim touching down with the barest misstep - hardly a beat out of sync for someone with his technicality. It’s only once he draws in his first painful breath, ice spiraling over his tongue, that Tim remembers his Salchow. All it takes is a quick cut into the triple, and then it's done. 

He’s left panting in the aftermath, trailing across the ice as the fatigue rushes up on him like a wave. For a second, Tim imagines himself in Dick’s shoes, staring out at a faceless, silent crowd. The tension of their awe, the jubilation of a flawless routine settling hesitant - like a blanket of fresh snow - over their quiet. 

Tim lifts his gaze to meet Jason where he stands frozen, eyes wide and stomach clenching. 

“Holy shit,” Jason whispers, and it carries across the empty space to him like the man’s whispering in his ears. Then he’s pressing forward to meet him, skates cutting the ice as Jason bends to scoop him into the air. 

“Oh my God,” Tim gasps, head spinning. 

“Holy fuck,” Jason bellows, elated, and sets him back down on the ice. His hands flutter over Tim’s neck, settling on his jaw, and they’re trembling. “Princess, you did it. Oh my God, did you get that? Did it record?” 

Tim’s nearly forgotten the camera digging into his throat, and he fumbles for it. His hands aren’t much better than Jason’s, all of him shaking as his nails scrape the latch. Jason catches the device when it slips from his jittery palms, turning it over so Tim can tilt the screen and hit the playback. 

They stand there in silence, hunched over the camera as the routine plays through, every element immaculately executed. Tim glimpses Jason briefly when he cuts across to match his step sequence, in frame for all of a second before he disappears again, and then Tim’s gearing up for the quadruple Lutz combination. 

His stomach feels tight as a knot, his nerves afire as he watches through the screen as the world grinds to a halt and Jason sweeps him into the throw. The rink blurs for a moment, crystalline in its beauty, and then Tim’s touching down, cutting sharply into the triple axel. 

“Fuck,” he hears himself say aloud, his ears ringing as Jason’s steadying hands part from the camera to wrap around the back of his neck and tug him into a hard kiss. It takes a stunned moment for Tim to respond, and then he’s clinging to Jason’s shirt, pulling him closer as excitement spirals up through his chest. 

“Princess, you did it,” Jason’s babbling, his blue-green eyes dumbstruck as he cradles his face. He can’t stop grinning, and Tim’s cheeks are aching with the smile that he lifts to match it. “You nailed it, princess, a fucking natural.” 

“You did it too,” Tim laughs, some of the tension in his chest leaving with the sound. Jason’s eyes soften when he laces their fingers tight and squeezes. “We did it, Jay. We got it. Dick’s routine, we got it for him. Do you know what this means?” 

Jason’s eyes look wet, but his voice is low and steady when he embraces Tim, threading fingers into his sweat-streaked hair as he lifts him. “Yeah, princess, we did it. Dick’s gonna be so happy.” 

Tim feels like he could rattle apart with how ecstatic he is. “He’s going to love it,” Tim agrees with a broad grin, lighter than air. He hooks his legs up over Jason’s hips, knees fused to his ribs as he shakes with delight. 

The bellow that rings across the rink strips all the bubbling joy straight out of Tim. 

Chapter Text

“TIMOTHY!” 

Jason fumbles him back down to the ice, dropping him awkwardly the last inch. Tim pulls up a quick stop, steadying Jason as much as Jason’s hands steady him. When he lifts his head to locate their heckler, Jason spots Bruce framed by the gate, and ice pools in his stomach. 

“Fuck,” Jason hisses, every note laced with petrification. “Fuck.” 

“It’s fine,” Tim says firmly, his tone so much more stable than Jason feels right now, and laces their fingers together. When he glances back up at Jason he adds, “Breathe, Jay.” 

Jason shakes his head. Because Bruce looks livid, and Jason’s only seen him look like that once before. Right before he benched Jason indefinitely. He feels hollow, panic ricocheting through him in the tingling exodus of his joy. “He’s mad,” Jason says, and digs his heels into the ice when Tim starts toward the imposing figure. 

“Jay, c’mon,” he encourages, but Jason can’t make his legs move. 

Tim tugs gently on their linked hands, and it makes some of his gears grind enough that Jason can trail after him as he cuts across the ice. 

“Remember to breathe, Jay,” Tim says, and squeezes his numb fingers. “It’s gonna be okay. Just let me handle it.” 

Bruce’s gaze follows them through the whole approach, that blue ocean turbulent beneath its sheet of strained calm. Tim stalks up through the gate, and Jason hastens to follow him, hovering behind his vibrating, irate form. 

“Bruce,” he says crisply when the silence lingers. It bursts the tension like a pin to a balloon. 

“What were you thinking?”  

Bruce’s tone is low, contained, furious. Jason swallows. 

Tim squares his shoulders, chin lifting every inch that Jason feels like he’s shrinking. “We were practicing a routine. Jason was showing me-” 

Bruce’s eyes slice upwards like a razor, and the vice of Jason’s ribcage laces tight around his lungs. “You have something to say about this?” 

Jason can feel his mouth moving, can feel the words sticking in his throat beneath the weight of Bruce’s anger. He’s seen him angry like this, the rage vibrating around concern as he’d tested Jason’s ankles after a messy triple, rubbed his calf as he’d muttered about taking care of himself, about how much more important Jason was to him than some routine. About how much it hurts him to see Jason attempting jumps when he’s not equipped for them, how Bruce is here to teach him, if he’ll just listen. 

This isn’t like that anger. This is fury, compacted and ice cold to the touch. Jason can feel the chill scalding his skin when he exhales. 

“Leave him alone,” Tim interjects, tone just as low and half as violent already. “This is between you and me.” 

“He was the one lifting you. I think he owes me an explanation as to why he’s handling my star pupil when he’s not even close to qualified-” 

“This has nothing to do with him. This is about my choices, my career.” 

“A career that you’re throwing away on some reckless lifts.” Bruce’s gaze snaps up again to find Jason, jaw setting in a hard line when he says, “You’re banned from my rink.” 

Jason sucks in a sharp breath, but Tim’s bearing forward in the next minute, words spitting from his lips. “Don’t you dare try to blame him for this. It was my idea to do those lifts. I pushed him to do them.” 

“He was irresponsible enough to agree-” Bruce upstarts. 

“It’s my career,” Tim snaps, not backing down. Jason wants to comfort him, reassure him he’s supporting him, but he can barely find the concentration to stay on his feet. He feels lightheaded, pulse weak and yet fizzling like static in his skull. 

“You are a week out from Championships,” Bruce growls, and his glare could melt steel. “Tell me why you’re risking serious injury on the cusp of the most important competition of your career.” 

Tim’s gaze burns. “It’s a lift, Bruce. Same as I’ve done with Steph a million times before.” 

“Stephanie is trained,” Bruce cuts in, and when his eyes slide over Jason, he can feel the bone deep lacerations. “Jason is not.” 

“It’s a fucking lift. It’s not the end of the world!” 

“This is your transition year, Tim. This competition will decide how your professional adult career pans out. And you’re willing to throw that away playing games-” 

“We’re not playing games,” Tim spits. “We’re not fucking around. This is important, Bruce. We’re being careful.” 

“You’re attempting throws,” Bruce snarls, and Tim recoils back into Jason’s bulk. He can’t even find the sense of mind to retreat. “What the fuck is so important it requires a throw between an untrained hockey player and a national-level competing skater? ” 

Jason isn’t sure he’s ever heard Bruce swear before. Tim’s answer is almost drowned by the thrum of pulse between his ears, but as soon as he registers the words, Jason’s knees go weak. 

“It’s Dick’s routine.” 

Jason can count the heavy breaths before Bruce says, softer and quieter than ever, “What was that.” 

“It’s Dick’s World’s routine,” Tim snaps, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I’m learning Dick’s routine.” 

“Of all the irresponsible, misguided, reckless-” 

“It’s my fucking career,” Tim bellows, and Jason’s focus narrows to the pair of them as Tim starts forward and Bruce glares down the length of his nose. He fumbles for Tim’s wrist, feels it slip through his grasp as Tim yanks his hand away. “It’s my career, Bruce, and I’ll learn whatever the hell routines I want to.” 

“You’ll end your career,” Bruce retorts, “before it’s even begun. You’re one competition away from being recommended for Worlds, Tim. Don’t throw that away on some stupid act of rebellion.” 

“Rebellion?” Tim shrieks. “You think I’m doing this for you? To piss you off? You prick. This isn’t for you; this is for Dick!” 

Jason’s not aware of Damian’s presence until he’s literally standing at Bruce’s elbow. In the heat passing between the two skaters, he’d forgotten the teenager was even at the rink. Jason’s gaze flickers down, noting the concern when Damian returns his look. Neither Tim nor Bruce flinch from their stare off. 

“Father,” Damian entreats, and Bruce doesn’t even turn. 

“Not now, Damian,” he answers sharply. 

“Father,” Damian repeats with harsher emphasis, and Tim’s gaze flickers to him as Bruce turns around. If Damian flinches beneath that glare, he does a mighty fine job of masking it as he thrusts out the device in his palm. 

Bruce takes it with a frown, righting it to read the blur of text across the screen. Jason can’t make it out from here. There’s a block of text not unlike a news article, and he manages to catch a glimpse of a dimly lit video before Bruce tilts the screen out of his view and studies it intensely. 

Even Tim seems to be cooling in the sudden silence, and a quick glance at Damian’s tight jaw confirms both of their suspicions that this is nothing short of disastrous. 

“What?” Tim presses, that anger caged tightly behind his immediate concern. “What is it? Is it Dick?” 

Damian shakes his head, opening his mouth to answer, but Bruce just turns the device and thrusts it into Tim’s palms. 

It’s a news article, headline emblazoned across the top in bold serif, the words unmistakable in their intent. They stick like taffy in the top of Jason’s throat when he tries to repeat them aloud, as if saying them incredulously will give them the weight of incredulity they deserve. 

“Frisky on Ice,” Tim reads with numb horror, and then scrolls to the byline. “NHL Gotham City Jokers forward Jason Todd facing allegations of sexual misconduct after cornering Timothy Drake, upcoming national figure skating medallist, on rink.” 

Something that feels suspiciously like Jason’s heart sinks like a stone to rest in the pit of his stomach. “What,” he rasps. 

“What the fuck,” Tim bleats, but it sounds raw and undirected. He thumbs up the screen to locate the author. “Vicky Vale? Where the fuck did she get this sick idea?” 

Jason doesn’t even hear him. His eyes are glued to the low resolution video immediately beneath the byline, in all of its small-screen glory. Footage of him and Tim, wound over again and again in an endless, cherry-picked loop. Jason smothering Tim up against the barrier with a ferocity that looks violent, Tim’s face and hands obscured by Jason’s hovering bulk as he fumbles for Tim’s pants, pushing the smaller man back further onto the barrier, unrelenting. 

He feels sick. Reality bleeds away from where his eyes are fixed on that screen, on the surveillance footage, on that headline and those fucking words. Jason forgets to breathe. 

Chapter Text

To say Jason’s life went to shit overnight would be an overstatement, but it doesn’t ease the sting any less. 

By the time Tim’s managed to talk him down from his brewing panic attack - and God, that’s an embarrassing experience to have in front of his former mentor - Jason has all but prepared himself to kiss his career goodbye. Sexual misconduct charges don’t just disappear, not when his face is plastered on every other billboard in Gotham. All his sponsorship deals, his contract, his entire professional lifestyle up in smoke. A black mark on his name, forever. 

He’s innocent. He knows he’s fucking innocent. It doesn’t stop the black pit in his chest yawning wide to swallow him whole. 

It hurts to fucking breathe. He doesn’t want to think about what it’s going to feel like when he has to carry this around for another twenty years. If his career - by some miracle - survives that long. 

And Tim.  

Tim hasn’t even started his adult career, and this is going to be the hallmark of his debut. Either he enters the figure skating world as the guy who was assaulted by Gotham’s star forward, or he’s the slut who got down and dirty on the ice. This doesn’t end well for either of them, and Jason can’t bear to think that he’s the cause of it. That he could have instigated the death of Tim’s career. 

Over what? Over a stupid jealousy. Over some prick owning Jason’s ass. 

And Jack does own him, Jason knows it. Owns him from the tips of his hair down to the signature he’d scrawled on that fucking contract, when he was twenty and desperate for a second chance. 

Now that motherfucker is threatening Tim and- 

Jason can’t take it. Not like this, not when it’s Tim on the line. 

His career, he could forget. He’d regret it til the day he died; there’s nothing that compares to hockey, nothing like being on a team, being a unit as they carve across the ice. Figure skating is just so isolating compared to that feeling of team. Jason would never forgive it, but he could sacrifice it for the sake of giving that slimy prick the middle finger one last time. 

Not when it’s Tim. Jason won’t be responsible for another figure skating career killed in its prime. Tim’s too fucking good, has too much potential, for Jason to let that happen. 

When Tim finds out, he loses his shit at Jason. 

It’s their first fight and, Jason sincerely hopes, their last. It’s not even a proper fight. They’re on the same side here; they know their enemy. They just have different approaches on how to handle the situation. 

When Tim finds out Jason intends to apologise to Jack, he goes absolutely spare. Jason’s never seen such pure, undirected, helpless rage emanating from such a small person. He’s vibrating with his grief, fury and sick guilt drowning his tear-streaked cheeks. It’s only a small consolation to know it’s not directed at him. 

Dick interjects himself into their lives, because he’s always played the diplomat, even between Jason and Bruce, but even he seems to be grasping at straws. The empathy is what gets to Jason, that appalling heartache written all over his face. He can only stand it for as long as it takes to calm Tim down, and then he promptly leaves Tim’s apartment. Gives them a half-hearted assurance that he’ll call Tim soon, that they probably shouldn’t be seen together until this whole storm blows over. Less fuel for the paparazzi’s fire. 

It doesn’t stop the mongrels from haunting Jason’s every step. Every inch from his bike to the rink doors is filled with shoving, braying press, cramming microphones in his face, demanding answers he doesn’t fucking have. The agent the League has assigned to him pending his Board hearing does her absolute best to shield him from the worst of it, but it’s not him Jason’s worried about. 

Tim’s bruises show up two days later. Bright purple, lurid stains around his windpipe that make Jason ache just at the sight. And no manner of scarves and high-collared shirts in sweltering May is going to dissuade anyone. 

Tim weathers the buzz of overexcited press with a grimace and the best security team Bruce’s money can buy. Jason watches him through a television screen and grieves. 

His days are beginning to blur, his head filled to bursting with the rigmarole of preparing for Conference and for his upcoming hearing. It’s not as rigorous as criminal proceedings, but the League has firmed their stance on misconduct recently, so Jason doesn’t expect to get through it without a thorough interrogation. The thought of staring down the Board has him nauseous most days. 

If he could do away with the press plaguing every public second of his life, maybe he could forget everything for just a minute. 

“Don’t listen to ‘em, Todd,” Harvey advises when they’re warming down from their last pre-Conference training session. Jason’s not sure he’s up to full speed ahead of the game tomorrow, but he’s been clinging to the promise of a reprieve, to the chance to clear his head with the fast-paced stress of a game, to get him through the week. 

“Yeah, a scandal’s not the death of your career,” Roman joins with a grimace. “I must’ve had fifty of the fuckers since I started out. You get used to them.” 

Jason doesn’t point out that his scandal is completely fabricated by his manager, who’s been strongarming him for the past two years. “Sure,” he replies sullenly. 

“It’ll blow over,” Roman continues in a drawl. “Always does.” 

“It’s a good thing,” Harvey muses, offering a bright, sympathetic smile, “that the Board is being so responsive these days. No more thorough way to prove your innocence.” 

“Could do without the reporters clogging up the entrance though,” Waylon interjects. 

“Ah, they’ll get tired eventually,” Roman sneers. “Bunch of fuckin’ bloodsuckers. As soon as they realise it’s all some big media blow up and Hood’s clean, they’ll move right along to the next scandal. It’s how it always goes.” 

Jason doesn’t mention that they’ve got fucking surveillance footage of him shoving Tim back against the boards. That they’ve got video evidence that’s never coming off the internet for as long as he lives. That as far as the public forum is concerned, his reputation is tarnished permanently. He just scrubs his hands down his face and drops onto his bench to start wrapping his wrists up. 

He hasn’t seen Jack since the night at the restaurant. At least the prick has had the decency to stay the fuck out of Jason’s space. He’s not even sure how he’d react if he saw him this week. Whether he’d be angry. Whether he’d apologise. Whether he’d beg Jack to make the whole fucking thing go away, that he’s sorry, that he won’t ever try to fuck him over again. 

A very raw part of Jason thinks he might kill the man if he sees him so soon. Wrap his hands around the monster’s throat, give him some bruises to match the ones he left on Tim. 

A part of Jason is horrified that he could do something like that. A part of him craves it. 

“What is that?” 

Jason jolts out of his own head, pausing in wrapping his wrists to look up at Slade where he towers over him. The man’s halfway to dressed, staring down the length of his nose at the cigarette burn on the back of Jason’s uncovered wrist. The one Jack had left on him an eon ago. Jason thinks maybe he should have taken better notice of the warning. 

He turns his arms down and says evenly, “I keep dropping my cigarettes.” 

Slade doesn’t look like he believes a single note of that perfectly level delivery, and Jason holds his gaze, not backing down. He can feel the air crackling silently between them, dry and staticky, like its pre-empting a lightning strike. Jason doesn’t blink, silently daring Slade to push this farther. 

Roman slams his locker door closed, drawling, “Hope you’re better with a puck then, butterfingers.” Slade breaks away from their terse stare-off, turning back into his locker, and Jason shifts until the burn is swamped by his thighs, setting back to his wraps. 

He doesn’t know how much the man knows, but he can tell Slade suspects something. Jason’s reminded of the man’s gaze on him, back in the locker room that time, the speculation inking into a more solid suspicion. It makes his skin crawl, to have Slade’s eyes on him, to have yet another person dissecting his personal life. Even if his intentions are probably good. 

It’s not like Slade can help Jason anyway. This is between him and Jack. Slade’s probably the oldest player Jason knows still in the game, but all the leniency he’s granted doesn’t amount to shit when it comes to a general manager. And if Jason knows one thing about Slade, it’s that he’s self-preserving above all else. 

No one wants to risk their neck on a kid who was stupid enough to get handsy with some ice princess, let alone on a rink with video surveillance. 

Besides, Jason doesn’t want to drag someone else down with him. He’ll be relieved if Tim can get out of this relatively unscathed. He’s not going to tarnish someone with a career as illustrious as Slade ‘Deathstroke’ Wilson’s. Jason’s done enough damage already. 

Isn’t that the fucking motto of the hour. 

Jason shoves to his feet, veins buzzing with the need to move, to vent. He feels like he’s about to erupt, all of his energy pushing him to bursting point. He needs fresh air and a fucking cigarette, in whatever order he can get them in. Preferably with a chance to sink his fists into something solid enough that he can feel it. 

He tugs on his jeans and a t-shirt with robotic motions, rushing through the movements as he kicks his locker closed. Slade glances up from where he’s wrapping up an old ACL injury, pale eye sharp. 

“Where are you going, kid?” 

“What are you, my fucking babysitter?” Jason sneers, shouldering open the door. “I’m going for a smoke.” 

He catches a glimpse of Slade’s downturned mouth before he manages to escape, but Jason shoves it deep down with everything else he’s been burying lately and focuses on getting free. 

The crisp night air is a small blessing on his agitated skin, and Jason exhales deeply once the fire door swings shut behind him. He lets his shoulders slump, lets himself unwind in the peace and solitude of the back alley. Appreciates the respite the evening has to offer him, however brief if may be. Wishes that he could just sit out here forever in the chill and be alone. 

Then there’s a crash and a grunt to his left that for a dreadful moment Jason thinks is a paparazzi. But the form sprawled beneath the half-ajar window rearranges itself into a more familiar shape, and Jason crooks a brow as he watches the teenager pick himself up begrudgingly. 

“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” he demands, and the shape flinches, spinning to face him. He’s hard to make out in the shadows, all inky hair and lithe stature, but Jason can see there’s guilt written all over his familiar features. Jason just holds the teen’s defensive glare as he lifts the cigarette to his lips and fumbles for his lighter. 

“None of your business,” comes the expected reply. 

Jason lifts his gaze to the open window. It’s one that looks into the supply closets off the where they keep their gear, one with viewing access to the locker rooms if you know how to hold a door ajar at just the right angle. He crooks a brow and surveys the kid as he simultaneously seems to sink and swell in the gloom. 

“Didn’t place you for a peeping tom, kiddo,” Jason mumbles around the cigarette, and pauses to light it. He sucks down a slow deep breath while Damian pries himself from the darkness, and sweeps him with a cursory glance. “Your dad know you’re here?” 

Damian’s nose doesn’t scrunch, but his features do pinch into something equally disparaging and guilty. “Father doesn’t monitor my every movement. And I wasn’t peeping.” 

Jason snorts softly. “Spoken like a true teenager. If you weren’t peeping, why are you climbing in the window? Come to spy on me?” 

“No,” Damian says quickly, too quickly. Jason narrows his gaze, and Damian frets in the most minimalist way Jason’s ever seen a person fuss. No doubt one of Talia’s lessons coming to roost. He can picture her now, hear the sharp command to cease your fidgeting in his ears. 

Jason takes another drag and passes a more critical eye over the teen. He’s dressed down to more casual clothing - or as casual as Jason’s seen him in anyway - and he looks empty-handed, no backpack or duffel in sight. “Sure looks like it. If you’re here on Bruce’s behalf, you can tell him-” 

“I’m not,” he cuts in guiltily, and drags the toe of his shoe across the pavement. “I was here for… someone else.” 

Jason arches a brow. “Who?” 

Damian’s cheeks are definitely rosy. He’s not shy, Jason suspects, so much as embarrassed. Jason hasn’t spent that much time around the kid - the longest interaction they’ve had involved him being one-upped by Killer Croc - but he gets the impression that it’s not in Damian’s nature to be embarrassed. 

Jason’s other brow lifts. “Are you spying on Waylon?” 

By the way Damian’s face flushes a full and hilarious shade of red, Jason’s right on the money. He can’t help the grin spreading over his features, the thrum in his chest beginning to settle as Damian fumbles for words. It’s not the reprieve he was looking for, but he’ll take it. 

“Holy shit, you’re a full fledged stalker, kid,” Jason chortles, and Damian’s hands ball into fists. It’s adorable on the fourteen-year-old. 

“It’s not- I’m not stalking,” he splutters, the tips of his ears turning a rosy pink. “I just wanted to- to see if he was here.” 

“Why?” Jason cuts in, and Damian fumbles for an answer. He lets the kid stew in the panic a little. 

“He- I thought- You said he had a stick for me,” Damian says triumphantly, latching onto the lie with both hands and a gleam in his eye. The words fling from him like knives, defensive and desperate. Jason really took Talia’s kid for a better liar, and maybe he is under better circumstances, but he’s clearly got his father’s knack for improvisation. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before he exhales. 

“I did. Why are you here for it?” 

Damian shifts, looking guilty. “I thought maybe he could sign it.” 

“I told you he would.” 

“I wanted to make sure.” 

The teen’s not going to let it go, and Jason doesn’t need to drag him over the coals all night. He shifts, folding down to sit on the curb and stretch out his legs. Some of the tension washes hesitantly out of Damian. 

“Whatever you say. I’ll make sure he signs it for you.” Jason casts a quick glance up at the soft light spilling from the window. “Don’t know why you didn’t just use the front door, kid. I thought your grandfather owned this place?” 

Damian makes a complicated series of expressions, and Jason hums in sympathy. He gets complicated. 

“Sit down,” he offers, waving to the clear patch of pavement beside him. When Damian hesitates, Jason rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to bite. I’m not Waylon.” 

The teen tucks himself down beside Jason, crossing his arms over his knees. It looks uncomfortable compared to Jason’s sprawl, but he can’t recall a time he didn’t see the kid walking like he had a stick up his ass, so maybe this is casual for him. 

He focuses on his cigarette and basks in the night air. Lets the gleam of the moon and the quiet lull him. 

Damian’s the first to break their amicable silence with a soft murmur. “I heard about the allegations.” 

Jason sighs, and twists the butt in his fingers, gauging just how much more he can get from the burnt-down filter. “Everyone has.” 

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” Damian says gently, and it’s the most genuine thing Jason’s heard all day. He glances down at the teen, notes his tense posture, the hunch of his shoulders. He doesn’t sound pitying, and that goes a whole long way in Jason’s book. 

He leans forward to stub the cigarette out on the bitumen, and says, “You don’t have anything to apologise for.” 

“Still,” Damian says, sparing him a sideways glance. “I understand that it must be isolating. That can be hard.” 

Oh. Jason can sort of see how Damian might have experience with being alienated. One parent on either side of the country, split between schools and growing up in the spotlights of two major leagues. Worse, growing up in the shadows of two of the professional ice sport greats. Has to have been hard on a kid of his age, being compared to his parents like that. No wonder he was so touchy when Jason asked about his hockey tryouts. 

It strikes Jason for the first time that he and Damian might have more in common than he realised. More in common than either of them do with Dick and Tim, even. Strung between Bruce and Talia, pressured to perform in a public arena from a young age, with everyone demanding perfection from them. No one to give him the time of day for any of his own interests and passions. 

Yeah, so Jason might have been more than projecting onto the kid when he’d gone off at Bruce for not taking an interest in his hockey. 

“Sorry for trying to use you as a scapegoat,” Jason mumbles, and Damian glances at him before shuffling his hands in his lap. 

“It’s okay. Thank you for bringing it up to Father.” 

Jason glances aside at Damian, at his tight sorrowful expression. “He doesn’t take much interest in your hockey, does he?” 

Damian doesn’t look up. “Mother doesn’t take much interest in my skating either.” 

Jason doesn’t doubt that for a second. Talia is a woman of many talents, but cultivating her son’s interest in her ex-husband’s sport is not one of them. Jason’s not too proud to admit he doesn’t have the balls to call her out directly on it. Bruce, on the other hand. “That’s not an excuse,” he says regardless. “Bruce is your dad, he should be supporting your interests.” 

Damian shrugs. “He’s busy. I understand.” 

“Understanding doesn’t mean you have to agree with it,” Jason points out, studying the way Damian’s brows pinch. “He should find the time for you.” 

“We’re going to your game. That’s a start,” Damian returns, tone quieting as he glances down. “If you’re still in the League by Stanley Cup, that is.” 

Jason winces. “Ouch.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Taking an interest in my games isn’t the same as supporting yours. He should be attending your games, at the very least.” 

Damian’s eye follows him as Jason shifts and stretches, wrapping a hand over his wrist to dangle it between his knees. “You’re deflecting.” 

“I’m allowed to deflect,” Jason counters. 

“You do that a lot.” 

Jason grunts noncommittally. 

Damian’s gaze lowers back to his crossed arms. “You’re right,” he says after a moment. When Jason just stares at him, he elaborates, “it’s not the same as him being there.” 

Jason mulls that over. “Does your mom watch your skating?” 

Damian shakes his head. “Not really. I know she’s proud of me, but she’s just not interested like she is in hockey. And with her managing the Assassins…” 

“Not a lot of time left for you,” Jason finishes, and Damian shrugs. “Sorry about that, kid.” 

Damian’s lips twist a little. “Now we’ve both apologised.” 

“You should talk to your dad,” Jason says quietly, unsure what compels him to say it. Damian rests his temple against his wrist and surveys Jason. 

“Why?” he asks after a long moment, but it doesn’t sound contradictory. Just curious, like he wants to hear Jason’s reasoning. 

Jason shrugs uncomfortably. “Can’t get better until you talk to him, right? He’s just going to keep hurting you unless he knows how much it affects you.” 

Damian watches him for a long, long minute, his long lashes sloping over those dark eyes. When he’s got that sharp, focused look about him, he looks more like his mother than he has any business doing. Jason can feel his posture straightening reflexively under the weight of it. 

“Are you going to talk to Father about the allegations?” 

Jason can’t think of a single thing he’d like to do less right now, other than maybe confront Jack. “Not on the cards, kiddo.” 

“But you know who released that video.” 

It’s a statement, not a question, so Jason clenches his jaw and nods. 

Damian makes a noise in his throat. “Father could probably help you, if you asked.” 

Jason sighs, that weight settling back on his shoulders like a yoke. “He’s got enough on his plate managing Tim’s career. It’s going to take some serious press to get everyone to look the other way on this.” 

“You know you deserve his help too,” Damian says softly, and Jason blinks at him. 

“It’s not about deserve,” he tries, and frowns when he can’t summon the words to explain himself. They sound wrong on his tongue, cumbersome. 

“You think it is,” Damian hums, and lifts his head to meet Jason’s stare. 

He grunts and looks away, across the alley. “I’ll tell you what, Damian. When you tell your old man how much hockey means to you, I’ll ask him for help.” 

Jason doesn’t want to turn to see what Damian’s expression looks like, but he still hears when the teen shifts up to his feet. When he does glance up at his young features, they’re wreathed in lethargy. 

Ditto, Jason thinks. 

“Conference tomorrow,” Damian says. He recognises an out when he sees one, and for once, he’s happy to take the redirection for what it is. 

Jason nods, and inhales. “Yeah.” 

Damian cracks as close to an encouraging smile as Jason’s ever seen him muster. It still manages to look a bit vicious, his teeth gleaming in the low light. “It’s just the Tridents, right? How hard can those pigeons be to beat?” 

There’s something so freeing, so normal about hockey shit-talk, that Jason is floored for a moment. It feels so unfettered, after all the shit he’s been shouldering, to think that his biggest concern could be whether or not he’s going to roll some hosers tomorrow. For the space of a blink, Jason feels lighter than he’s felt all night. 

Jason scoffs, and grins despite himself. “Damn straight.” 

Chapter Text

Conference is a bloodbath, and Jason’s trained under Talia, so that’s saying something. He’s swamped with the incessant, hundred-mile-an-hour pace of the game, and it’s exactly what he needs right now. 

Jason couldn’t have asked for a better distraction if he tried. 

The Amnesty Bay Tridents aren’t a powerhouse like the Jets, but they’ve shouldered out everyone else in their division for four years running now to make it to Conference, so they’re a force to be reckoned with. Definitely a challenge that consumes all of Jason’s focus, and with the Stanley Cup looming only a few games away for a dedicated team, the tension on the ice is practically palatable. 

It makes Jason’s veins sing with anticipation, makes every other concern that’s plagued him for the past few weeks slide off his shoulders as he works up a sweat dashing down the outside of the rink. Nothing permeates the thrum of excitement passed between the Jokers as they face off against their orange-and-green counterparts. 

Roman is giving chirps as good as he’s getting, and Slade’s more focused than Jason’s seen him in any game so far. The hockey giant rarely looks anything other than borderline unimpressed, defending the Jokers’ endzone with practiced ease. Tonight his ice blue gaze is sharp and perceptive, his capabilities tested by the Tridents’ newest forward, David Manta. The guy is a trade-in from one of the Central divisional teams, and he boasts an impressive fluency on the ice. The forward’s faster than Jason almost, with a vicious streak to push him through the last of the Jokers’ defenses. 

It was almost worth a minor to see Slade put through his paces. Despite being more than familiar with Slade’s impressive blocks, it’s something else to see them in action. The hockey vet rarely holds back in arenas like this, and every crack of nitrile on the ice has Jason’s pulse soaring. 

The Tridents are gunning for an early lead in Conference it seems, just as much as the Jokers, and they’re almost bloodthirsty enough to see it through. Jason doesn’t even make it through the first period before he draws blood. 

He’s hovering on Harvey’s peripheral, pulling support as the forward aggressively negotiates a pass with Waylon, when a smear of orange sweeps up on his ten o’clock and Jason has just enough time to centre his weight to absorb the hit before the Tridents’ player makes contact. 

Their right defenseman crowds him against the boards with just enough force to slam them to an abrupt stop, and not enough to draw the full attention of the ref, whose focus is on Waylon’s play. Jason’s exactly two inches from the guy’s face as he leers over him when he recognises who he is. 

He’s played the Tridents before, back when he was with the Assassins and they’d made it to the Stanley Cup. Jason had pulled an odd man rush on this guy to pull out a 3-3 tie and push them into overtime, and he hadn’t taken kindly to it. 

Jason doesn’t usually carry beef beyond a single game. Talia had had a pretty definitive stance on game fights, which culminated in most of the Assassins defusing fights before they escalated to dropping gloves, purely on the understanding that Talia would kick their asses worse than their opponent ever could. 

So Jason had swept clear of him the whole rest of the game, and hadn’t really given the Tridents’ defenseman the opportunity to rough him up back then for the slight. And well, old grudges die hard. 

In all honesty, Jason needs a fight. Needs the opportunity to unleash some of the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for weeks. If some stupid pest wants to put his hand up to volunteer, Jason’s not going to argue. 

“You’re the Assassins’ pretty boy,” the pest sneers, pressing him into the plastic barrier, and Jason offers him a grin that’s all pointed teeth. “Haven’t seen you at the playoffs in two years.” 

“That’s because you can’t make Conference,” Jason grunts back, and the guy’s gaze lights up at the realisation that Jason’s absolutely fair game now that he’s signed to the Jokers. Jason jerks his head in the direction of their goalie. “You get rid of that fucking sieve yet?” 

He’s expecting the right hook, so he ducks it, barely. It gives him the opportunity to shove away from the guy, to give him enough room to drag in a breath, and then Jason’s yanking his gloves off. 

His stick goes skidding across the ice with his equipment, coming to a rest near Wilson’s boot, and Jason has the vague realisation that he’s not stepping in to stop this fight, before the Tridents’ defenseman launches at him in a blur of orange. 

Jason catches his weight, wrapping a hand in the front of his jersey as he gears up and slugs the fucker. The guy’s hands scramble over his shoulder, then his neck, bruising, as Jason rotates them around the ice and tries to pull him off balance. 

The rink is a cacophonous den of noise, the sharp staccato slam of consolidatory sticks ringing out as the guy sweeps Jason with another fist across the jaw and reaches up to yank his jersey over his head. Jason feels the material ride up over his back and catch on his fight strap, straining. Then he hooks a skate around the defenseman’s ankle and takes them both down to the ice. 

It’s a mess of fists and snarling, and Jason gets a hook and an uppercut in before the ref smothers him. A linesman ducks in to shield the Trident, who’s still trying to swing at him. Jason’s leveraged up and off him with the assistance of another linesman, and he retreats reluctantly across the ice with adrenaline searing hot in his veins. 

Roman looks fucking mad with glee, and Jason realises with a small grin that the entire team is braying in support as he’s led over to the benches. 

Slade falls into step beside him as he’s bustled through the gate. “Lip’s bleeding, kid,” he says, and Jason gets the distinct impression that he’s proud, in his disapproving Slade way. 

Jason smirks and presses his thumb into his fat lip, slumping onto the bench to watch the refs corral the Tridents’ man through his own gate. 

It takes Jason off the Jokers’ offense play, but it takes the Tridents’ defense down a peg, and between Harvey and Waylon, that’s all the leeway they need. Jason watches them drill two shots down the centerline through a slack-jawed defenseman, braying through the plastic barrier as they score. When he next meets his sparring partner’s gaze across the barrier, he knows he’s in for another fight. 

That’s perfectly fine by Jason. A little retribution never dulled his gameplay. 

They hit the ice shortly afterwards, falling into their positions with ease, and Jason can already feel the atmosphere shifting as the Jokers prep for their offensive streak. He, Harvey and Waylon move like a single unit when it feels like this, and Jason’s missed high stakes games. Hasn’t had the chance to stretch his muscles properly since the last time he played on the Assassins. 

It takes a while for the pest to make good on his bolstering, but Jason’s not surprised when it comes in the middle of Harvey striking for their goal. 

Their defenseman rolls up behind Jason and leg sweeps him at full speed. 

Jason sees the toes of his boots before his back hits the ice. His stomach forgets which way’s up, swooping and twisting to counteract the sudden shift. So Jason tucks his knees and his chin and grinds back across the ice on his shoulder, letting the momentum roll him over onto his feet. 

He lifts his gaze enough to pinpoint that Harvey’s down near their right wing, and then Jason plants the palms of his gloves into the ice and shoves upright. 

The goon who had tripped him up is idling near the centerline, oblivious to Jason’s fluked recovery, stick held lazily in his grip while he waits for his teammates to clean Harvey up. So he’s not prepared when Harvey glances up, locks eyes with Jason, and flings the puck around their center forward’s wheels and across the gap to him. 

Jason sweeps it up, crossing over as he realigns down the center and powers for the goalie, chasing the puck with the flat of his stick. Their left wing is paying more attention, and he charges to intercept, but Jason just grins because there’s not a chance in hell that he’ll catch him at that speed. Then he skirts the left end zone faceoff circle, cranks back for a slapshot and drills the biscuit past their goalie. 

The roar from the crowd is deafening, but it’s not nearly as loud as Waylon braying directly into his ear when he hooks an arm over Jason’s shoulder on his skate back around the end zone. The cheer is palpable, sinking into Jason’s veins and plastering a grin on his lips that he can’t seem to shake. It certainly only seems to cement when he turns it on the dumbfounded defenseman. 

They pull away with a two-point lead, and manage to hold onto it through gritted teeth through the third period, right up until the vibrating last seconds of the horn. Jason slows to a languid glide, blinking perspiration out of his eyes and feeling drained of absolutely everything. 

A few of the Jokers give him congratulatory slaps on the back of his helmet as he shoulders into the locker room and strips down, commending him on his flawless slapshot. Jason takes them all with a tired smile and bashful gratitude. 

He’s only just managed to kick his shin pads off and slump back against the blessedly cool metal of the lockers when reality - and all his responsibilities that come with it - reasserts itself. 

“Todd,” Harvey calls over the slam of lockers. “Time to face the wolves.” 

Jason runs his fingers through his fringe and shoves to his feet. He’s been scheduled for a post-game panel interview, to clear the air around all this misconduct business ahead of his hearing before the Board, he assumes. Nothing to it but to look pretty, smile genuinely, and keep all his answers monosyllabic. 

Yeah, Jason can manage that. It’s not his first post-game interview, and the post-Cup loss interview he’d had under Talia’s discerning eye had been incomparably more unnerving than this. He can handle a few pushy paparazzi. 

He shrugs on a Jokers’ emblem t-shirt that’s not totally soaked through with sweat and stumbles over the debris of padding and skates that litters the floor on his way to the door, throwing his opinion of Roman’s choice of music over his shoulder with a middle fingered salute. 

The door closing behind him - sealing him in the abysmally empty and quiet hallway - leeches the warmth from his grin. His nerves, dampened by the adrenaline of the match, come back full force, lodging themselves up in his throat as he turns in the direction of the press room. Jason presses his nails into his palms and tries to shove down the anxiety bubbling in his gut. 

A short, older gentleman disengages himself from the shadows of an alcove and plasters himself alongside Jason as he heads down the corridor. The hockey player spares him the briefest glance to note the flash of a purple Jokers passcard looped on a lanyard around his neck beneath that meticulously groomed moustache. He’s wearing a nondescript black turtleneck to fend off the chill spilling in from the rink, and his white-grey hair is slicked back along his scalp. He’s got the calm demeanour of someone who’s done time in the League, so he keeps his gaze fixed ahead and waits for the pep talk. 

“You got a name?” he prompts when the silence lingers. 

“William,” the man answers with a twitch of a smile. “I’m here to oversee your press.” 

“Haven’t seen you before.” 

William doesn’t look fazed. “I was called in by an old friend to fill a favour. I’ve been managing the public images of hockey grunts for over thirty years.” 

Jason smiles despite himself. “You must be decent to still be in the game after that long. Who’s your ‘old friend’?” 

“Slade Wilson.” 

Jason’s brows lift. “What did Slade need a PR agent for?” 

The man hums an amused note, folding his hands into the small of his back. “Slade has had a long and illustrious career of public relations mishaps.” 

“What, was he a regular troublemaker in his youth?” Jason teases around a snort. He tries and fails to imagine Slade’s perpetually rigid expression marred by any sort of joviality. 

William returns his grin with a thin smirk. “Perhaps. But I was specifically called in to deal with his more personal press. Namely the issue with the mistress.” 

Jason blinks. “Slade cheated on his wife?” 

He doesn’t know much about the man, but he’s seen Adeline Wilson at a few fundraising galas. She’s top of the women’s league, a hockey vet nearly as old as Slade himself. The few accumulative minutes Jason has spent in her presence give him the firm impression that she is a force to be reckoned with. He knows vaguely that Adeline and Slade were a powerhouse couple of the NHL world when their relationship first hit the press, but that was well before Jason’s time, and long before their very public divorce. 

“A decade ago, there was more stigma around affair pregnancies. Without my help, it’s likely Slade would have lost his contract.” 

Jason frowns. “Wait, so Rose has siblings?” 

William chuckles. “I assume then that you two have met? A lovely girl. Takes after her father more than either of them realise, I think. And yes, she has two older half-brothers.” 

It takes a second for it to click, and then Jason’s brows ascend swiftly into his hairline. “Slade cheated on Adeline Wilson to have Rose?” 

“I’m surprised that this is the first you’re hearing of it. Though I suppose that means I performed my role aptly,” William hums thoughtfully, glancing up at Jason from the corner of his eye. “I realise this is a difficult time for you, but I do hope my reassurances can offer some consolation that this hullabaloo is not nearly as dire as the press may make it seem.” 

Jason shrugs, his chest suddenly tight. “If Slade says you’re the best, you must be, right?” 

William smiles, his moustache twitching in his amusement. “That would be correct, Mister Todd.” 

“Got any pointers for me?” 

William considers for a moment as they near the end of the corridor, hesitating in the quiet of the empty hallway. Jason can’t help but feel like it’s the calm before the inevitable press storm. “Be genuine,” he offers solemnly, meeting Jason’s gaze and holding it firmly. “Be truthful. Only say what you must to satisfy the question, nothing more.” 

“Less is more,” Jason mutters, shifting his weight nervously. “Got it.” 

William gives him another of those understanding smiles, and rests a palm over his forearm. “You strike me as a smart young lad, Mister Todd. I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.” 

“If I do better than Slade, do I get bragging rights?” 

That earns him a surprised bark of laughter, and then William is ushering him into the wolves’ den. “We shall have to see.” 

It’s organised chaos. There’s a panel table at the front of the room, tastefully decked out in Jokers’ purple, black and white. A single, lone chair is waiting for Jason behind it, and he gulps at the idea of being stranded with these mongrels. 

The room is heaving with press, bodies squeezed into every chair and then some, plastered along the walls like they’re paintings. If only paintings had such bright-eyed, vicious hunger. 

Jason makes the trek to his seat amidst a cursory flash of cameras, and scoots it up to the table. He’s silently glad when William hovers in his peripheral, giving him a reassuring shuffle of his moustache that Jason supposes is meant to be a smile. Jason clears his throat softly and leans into the cornucopia of branded microphones and recorders littering the table in front of him. 

Their resident press agent beckons to someone in the front row, and a man hurries to his feet to say, “Evening Jason,” like they’re friends. Like he isn’t culpable for the last week of sleepless nights Jason has weathered. “Great game tonight. What are your thoughts on that slapshot in the first period?” 

They’ve evidently been given strict instructions to steer clear of the ticking landmine of Jason’s upcoming sexual misconduct hearing, at least until he’s loosened up enough with some meniality. He’s almost grateful for the reprieve as he picks a middle distance between the microphones and answers, “Felt great. Put us in good stead for the rest of gameplay. And the best start we could hope for, for Conference. Looking forward to a good season.” 

The reporter seems satisfied, because he regains his seat as a woman in the third row perks up. “You must be pretty proud of your goal tonight, Jason. Any plans to celebrate this first game win?” 

Jason’s gaze flickers down to the table and back up. “Probably won’t do anything fancy. Get some grub with the boys. Nothing too extravagant. Trying to keep a low profile these days,” he adds with a nervous titter of laughter that does nothing to alleviate the flutter in his stomach. 

The sparse laughter that echoes back at him from the room is nauseating in its disingenuity. Jason swallows and shifts in his seat as a redheaded woman in front and centre climbs to her feet. She cocks a hip and fixes him with a lulling, sharp smile. 

“Jason, hi,” she drawls, and Jason immediately hates her. “Vicky Vale, journalist for the Gotham Gazette.” 

Jason’s throat laces tight, and he rolls his jaw to shift the feeling. Forces himself to sit still and wait for her question. 

“Are you planning on celebrating your win with any friends, Jason?” 

He has to bite the inside of his cheek as he thinks over his answer. The way the word ‘friends’ drips from her lips like honey leaves him no doubt that she’s talking about Tim. Just the thought of Tim - of how Jason hasn’t seen him, hasn’t touched him in days - strikes a small flame of hatred in his chest. 

Jason does his best to smother the feeling and gives the cameras a dead-eyed smile. “Wasn’t planning on it, no. Sort of have other things on my plate at the moment.” 

“Other things, right,” she latches on with eagle-eyed precision, “like your upcoming hearing?” 

It takes a monumental effort not to turn and look to William for help. Jason’s sure it wouldn’t come across especially well anyway; this press conference is supposed to be his chance to smooth down public perception, assure everyone that he’s not the sex-craved criminal they’re making him out to be. The last thing he wants is to make it look like his answers are scripted. 

“I’m looking forward to my hearing,” Jason lies, making sure his tone is clear and confident. Cements his innocence with a little contemplative nod. “It’s a chance to clear my name.” 

Vicky’s smile is simpering. “We’ve all heard that before, Jason. The NHL doesn’t have the best record of seeing out justice for victims of player misconduct.” 

Jason forces his jaw to unwind and takes a measured pause before he replies, “The League hasn’t in the past, no. But times are different now. We’re striving to be better. The League has brought in new policies for handling player misconduct. This hearing is proof of that. It’s an opportunity to demonstrate the shift in perspective. As well as a chance to hear my side of the story,” he adds pointedly, his tone dipping into bitterness as he stares her down. 

“Your side of the story?” Vicky repeats, deceptively bright. “Are you suggesting Timothy Drake is a liar, Jason?” 

It comes so out of left field that Jason jolts, swamped by shock for a moment as he scrambles to piece together an answer to that. 

“He’s certainly been a champion of your innocence, from his earlier statements,” she continues, passing a cursory glance over her notes. “‘Jason didn’t do anything wrong’, ‘He doesn’t deserve this’, ‘Why won’t you leave us alone’. Would we expect his side of the story to be different than yours? Is he lying about your relationship?” 

“No,” Jason bleats, fumbling for his brain to catch up with his dumbstruck mouth. “Of course he’s not a liar, I wouldn’t-” 

“He seems very eager to defend you,” she extrapolates, cocking her head in a way that cranks up the volume on Jason’s irritability. 

“That’s because I haven’t done anything wrong,” Jason snaps, and forces himself to rein his temper back in. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Tim’s not a liar. I’m not a liar.” 

“I don’t think it’s beyond anyone’s notice that these are classic words of reassurance from victims of abuse, Jason,” Vicky drawls, the pinch of her brow falsely sympathetic as Jason reels from the implications of that. 

“Tim’s not-” he tries. 

“Did you cause those bruises on Tim’s neck?” she asks. 

Jason recoils violently. “No. I would never touch-” 

“I think you’ve done more than touch, Jason,” Vicky says with cloying levity, and Jason realises why he hates his name on her lips so much. She says it the same way Jack says it, all wrapped in false warmth, in fake intimacy; like they’re sharing some inside joke between them. Like they’re sharing a laugh, and the joke is Jason’s entire fucking life. 

“You want to talk about abusers?” Jason demands coldly. A distant part of him reminds him of William’s words, timidly suggests that this isn’t perhaps the best course to be taking. It’s smothered by the swell of rage, of grief and loathing that Jason thought he was done with now, but apparently he’s not. 

He leans deeper into the pool of microphones, holds her gaze and spits every word out like he can imagine they’re daggers burying into Vicky Vale, journalist for the oh-so-reputable Gotham Gazette’s stupid, innocent smile. 

“Abusers aren’t that obvious, Vicky,” Jason snaps, the flutter swelling to a roar of butterfly wings as he clenches his hands on the edge of the table. “They’re a lot more opportunistic, a lot more cunning. They fly under the radar, for years, because people like you are vapid enough to disregard what’s right in front of you to chase after some make-believe fantasy that I’m somehow abusing Tim.” 

There’s a startling silence that follows his rant, wherein the bubbling rage dissipates, and Jason’s left with a cold streak of sweat down his stiff spine. There’s no click of camera flashes, no pestering questions. Just the bruising force of Vicky’s curiosity, closing around Jason’s throat like a jawful of teeth. 

“Were you abused, Jason?” Vicky asks, and the table nearly splinters beneath Jason’s shaking hands. 

But Jason’s been lying to people for nearly two years now, and Cup be fucking damned if he’s going to bare his soul to a room full of bloodsucking parasites with Vicky Vale signature smiles. 

“No,” he says coldly, and sits back in his chair with a glower that feels like it could scorch a rink down to concrete. 

Vicky pauses for a moment more before regaining her seat, looking smugly satisfied, but Jason doesn’t unwind for the rest of the evening. The press conference grinds back in stilted motion, and Jason stiffly answers a flurry of inane hockey questions before their press agent calls an end to the drought of meaningful insights and ushers him out of the room. 

Jason doesn’t glance down at William as he shrugs back through the door into the corridor, every muscle in his body wound tight enough to snap bone as he forces himself to maintain a brisk walk. Shoves down the unbearably poignant desire to run until his legs collapse, until they can take him away from this shitshow he calls his life. 

He spends just enough time in the locker room to stuff a change of fresh clothes into a duffel, slot a cigarette between his lips, and then lights it under the concerned glances of his teammates as he ducks for the parking lot. 

Jason wants silence, and quiet, and solitude. 

Most of all, Jason wants Tim.

Chapter Text

Tim has watched the interview. Tim doesn't like watching the interview. 

In all honesty, Tim's doing his utmost best not to think about Jason. Forcing himself to focus on his competition and not dwell on Jason, or his interviews, or the migraine that's become as much a permanent fixture in his life as the press have. More than anything else, Tim just wants to not think. 

It’s days like these he envies Dick’s natural emotiveness, and Steph’s split-second decision-making. Envies their intuition, their ability to just do and commit to it without dragging themselves through the quagmire of their thoughts. 

Tim’s skated with them both. Tim knows how that can feel, when he gives himself into their trust. When he lets them lead, lets go, and leans into the natural flow of their movements. It’s a nice reprieve; not enough to feel free, but close enough not to notice the constraints. 

Tim only feels that wholly unfettered when he’s skating with Jason. 

The reminder comes with a pang that splinters through Tim’s chest, so he digs his nails into his palms where they’re wrapped around the bench, and inhales a deep lungful of numbingly cold air. The chill of the rink helps to centre him, helps to push the nagging worry to the far corners of his mind. Tim just hopes it’ll last long enough to let him focus on his routine. 

He flexes his toes in the boots of his skates, bouncing his knees idly to keep them warm in the chilled arena. There’s a competitor on the ice, though Tim’s barely paid enough attention to memorise their names. Has only devoted slightly more focus to watching their scores flashing on the board above his head when they take their bows. 

It’s shaping up to be a close race; a few of them have pulled out high difficulty elements in the hopes of impressing the Worlds delegate overseeing the championship event. It’s the last national event of the season, the last chance to make that all-important leap to the next competitive level. A lot of his fellow competitors are eighteen like Tim, and desperate to get an invitation to boost their career with the chance to compete internationally. It’s what he, Bruce and Dick have been training him towards for the last two years. It’s all he’s been focused on. 

He’s mostly confident he’ll place. Tim’s objective enough to know that his technical scores will be his greatest asset against his competitors. And honestly, since Bruce approved his triple axel combination, his difficulty scores are almost enough to rival the leading skater on the board. 

If he could have just convinced his stoic coach to let him upgrade his triple Salchow - his signature jump - to a quad, he’d be a shoe-in for the Worlds selection. Tim’s not as competitive as some of the career skaters he’s seen; having Dick as a mentor has gone a long way towards humbling him to prioritising technical execution over ostentatious elements. But he would like to get to podium, if only so he has something new to get the press off his scent. 

And some good news to bring back to Jason when he gets home. 

Tim sighs and rolls his shoulders back, stretches his arms behind his head as he watches the skater before him circle the rink, waving at the ecstatic crowd. Swallows down the faint buzz of nerves in his stomach that isn’t nearly prevalent enough to drown out the roar in his skull. 

Bruce is at his side before the other skater even steps off the ice, shadowing Tim to the gate to await his signal. He's not sure where Dick or Damian have gone, but he's quietly glad that he doesn't have to perform for more people; trying to ensure he can prove himself to Bruce is tiring enough. 

“How are you feeling?” his coach asks him, low and tight with stress even though Tim can tell he's trying to be comforting. Bruce has gone to so many lengths to shelter him from the press these last few weeks, to keep his career afloat when all Tim wants to do is scream down a microphone. He's done more for Tim than any coach should ever have to, protecting him like that, and Tim knows he owes Bruce all of that and more. 

Tim heaves a sigh, and forces his best performance smile on his face. Tries to emulate Dick’s natural showmanship, and from the way Bruce gives him a tight smile for his efforts, he doesn’t quite manage it. It’ll have to do; Tim’s not sure he can hold a blistering grin on his features for an audience for much longer. At least he’s chosen a less peppy song for his routine. 

He’d spent hours curled up beneath the covers for the whole week he and Jason had been distancing themselves, purposely avoiding turning on the television or flicking to his news app for fear of seeing whatever new twist the press had put on their words. Drowned out any hint of the outside world with melody after melody until he’d stumbled across this one. Until it had thrummed across his aching heartstrings with how perfect it was. 

And now Tim’s here, on the cusp of greatness, praying that Jason sees him all those miles away, and knows that he’s skating for him. For them both. 

Bruce squeezes down on his shoulder, and Tim gives him a quick, reassuring nod, smothering a laugh at the role reversal for a moment. How he’s the one reassuring his coach, when Tim feels like he’s a split-second away from everything overwhelming him. Like he could rattle open and spill what’s left of his secrets to the world. 

The siren calls to beckon Tim onto the ice, and he touches down with a firm, steading exhale, letting the wash of cold air prickling over his skin centre him. 

He skirts the edges once, just to warm his waking muscles. Waves to the crowd as he shows off his sleek bodysuit, lets them enjoy the glimmer of sequins and glitter as he skates up to his starting mark. Taps his toe pick into the ice and bows his head as the lights dim. 

Tim forces himself to shove back the cresting tide of his thoughts and sink into the sensation. Makes himself feel and not think.  

The high-pitched flood of a synth fills the rink with vibrating noise, thrumming in Tim’s chest until he can’t feel his own heartbeat. He leans into the sensation, lets himself float, lets go, and sinks into that focused headspace where he just moves. Where all his planning and training fall away and the moment rushes up on him like a tingling breath of air in his lungs. 

“Open up your mind and let me step inside.” 

The lights lift, dousing everything in bright white glow as Tim pushes off, crossing over to the warbling piano harmony. 

“Rest your weary head and let your heart decide.” 

The first spin comes easy, comes with a rush of blood and a bolt of adrenaline that lights Tim’s fluttering chest up like a beacon. It feels like he’s floating, barely touching the ice as the notes of the song wrap around his bones. He eases into the feeling, the atmosphere of the routine as he carves across the ice, gaining speed as he heads into his first complex element. 

“When you’re feeling down and your resistance is low,” Mercury croons over the loudspeakers as Tim cuts a combination of triple axels with perfect technical accuracy and floats into a few illusions. “Light another cigarette and let yourself go.” 

The crowd gives him a surge of applause for the element, but Tim barely hears them over the guitar that plucks at his ribs like strings, throat closing around the memory of Jason’s smoke in his lungs. He clamps down as the music swells, melting into the familiar lyrics as he cuts across the diagonal with a flourish. 

He picks up speed as they sweep into the chorus, cutting a complicated step sequence as Mercury trills into the descending melody. 

“All you have to do is fall in love - play the game.” 

The song devolves into a ricocheting breakdown, and Tim pulls into his two back-to-back spin elements, holding his breath through the nausea as he lifts his leg and executes the quadruple combos. 

There’s the heavy beat of drums that punches against the back of his sternum, before the screech of a guitar cuts through the din, sweeping Tim across the ice as he crooks his head over his shoulder to find his mark. Everything slows to the point of razor focus, the force of the crowd’s collective breath expanding to fill Tim’s lungs to bursting point. 

He’s not sure what compels him to do it. If he thinks about it, Tim can name a handful of reasons why he does. He can name more for why he shouldn’t. 

Tim doesn’t want to think. He just wants to feel, wants to do what feels natural, what feels right. Wants to surrender to the memory of Jason’s warmth around him, the awestruck way he looks at Tim like there’s nothing else in the world but him. 

So he leans deeper into his sweep around the lobe, holds his gaze on his mark until he gets close enough to line up for the jump. Then Tim throws his head forward, sees nothing but blinding white, and twists into the crescendo. 

Turns into the natural flow of movement, the current of the rink. 

Tucks tight as he soars, fists pressed against his bruised chest, his heart beating back against them. Prays that it will be enough to carry him through the extra, unplanned rotation. 

It feels like flying. 

It feels like how Jason feels: immaculate, consuming. 

It feels like how Jason makes him feel: free, commanding the universe as he floats above the ice, untouchable but the feel of Jason’s hands around his hips. The sound of Jason's joy, raw and awestruck, ringing in his ears when he’d landed that quad for him. The same awe Tim imagines Jason would have if he were here, now, in this moment with him, as he turns through the fourth rotation and soars. 

It feels like Tim’s chest could burst with the force of it, the press of tears behind his lashes as he exhales. 

Tim touches down with the barest wobble, snaps his other leg around to offset his momentum as the silence of the rink breaks and the scream of the crowd is swept up by Mercury’s soaring vocals again. 

He doesn’t have time to question, to digest, to analyze whether his technicality score will be high enough to offset the improvisation. Doesn’t care enough to think, and the relief swells up into his lungs to choke him when Tim focuses on his final element. 

He drags himself across the rink, legs burning with abrupt fatigue. He can feel sharp shards of electricity spiraling up his calf muscles, digging into his thighs with vicious exertion, and knows he won’t last much longer. 

Wills himself to last just long enough. 

Tim tucks into a sharp spin to the vocal crescendo, clinging to his shin as his balance threatens to abandon him. Carves his nails in until he can pull out of it and slide across the ice without collapsing to his knees. 

Tim presents, holding the pose for a spare few seconds as the music fades and the adrenaline begins to wear. The fatigue hits him all at once, ratcheting his lungs up until they’re burning with every heaved breath. He lets his arms drop, flashing a smile as he does one last sweep over the ice and heads for the gate. 

He can feel the applause like bruises on his skin, his skull throbbing with the sheer swell of sound as he pants and makes his way to the barrier, legs trembling like they could collapse beneath him any second. 

It’s not until Tim steps up through the gate and looks up that he feels the slide of ice down his spine. Freezes beneath the numb sensation of pure fury that’s written over Bruce’s face. 

All the buzz of his thoughts slams back into his skull with dizzying intensity as Tim remembers. 

Remembers the quad, remembers their talk, remembers what that must have looked like for Bruce, to see Tim pulling the same move as Jason had, back at his last Worlds. Wonders, for a blinding second, if this is the end of his career, if Bruce will bench him for his show of disobedience, his display of recklessness. 

Tim sets his shoulders and grips the barrier with white-knuckled fortitude as his coach approaches, sweeping like a storm towards him. He braces himself for the first sharp word, the vocalisation of the disappointment in Bruce’s roiling blue gaze. Steels himself for the reprimand and the wash of guilt he’s determined to smother deep down. 

He doesn’t make it to Tim before there’s a body between them, a flash of blue that gleams like electricity, and the air shoots from Tim’s lungs in the aftermath. 

“Don’t you dare,” Dick hisses as Bruce grinds to a startled halt. He looks energised, looks angrier than Bruce ever could, and Tim can only watch in stunned amazement as Bruce’s ire saps in the face of it. 

“Dick,” Bruce says in that gravelly tone. 

“No,” Dick snaps, and Tim’s never seen Bruce recoil before. The former skater presses forward, bails Bruce backwards, away from where Tim stands rooted to the floor with trembling legs. “Don’t you dare berate him for that.” 

“He-” Bruce starts, working up a head of steam. It dissipates when Dick snarls. 

“I don’t care what you think. He deserved to do that quad, Bruce.” 

“It wasn’t in his routine.” 

“It should have been!” Dick bellows, drawing the attention of several distracted spectators. Behind him, Tim can hear the pulse of the interim music filling the rink, knows he’ll have to turn soon and see his score. But his eyes are glued on his two mentors locked in an argument in front of him. 

“He put himself at risk-” 

“He wouldn’t have had to,” Dick snaps, electricity and ice all rolled into one, and it snatches what remains of Tim’s breath at the sheer sight of him, “if you’d just let him train, Bruce.” 

Bruce blinks, surges into his rage. “If I’d-” 

“I’ve been telling you for months that he was ready. Literal months, and you said no. You knew Tim was ready, knew Tim was capable, and you shut him down. And we both know why.” 

“Dick,” Bruce says, the warning evident in his tone. The man’s first prodigy doesn’t waver. He looks like a storm, thrumming in the space between Bruce and Tim, filling it with his temper. 

“No! It’s time for you to move past this, Bruce. Because it’s hung over us for far, far too long. Tim’s not Jason,” he spits, and Tim’s certain he’s going to collapse any minute now, everything numb from the knees downward. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing, can’t even spare a thought for the scores the judges must be awarding now. Doesn’t care when his heart is trapped up in his lungs and Dick is vibrating like he’s going to reach across the distance and hit Bruce. 

He’s never seen his mentor so angry, never known Dick to be so absolutely vindicated. It’s a sight to behold. 

“Tim’s not Jason,” Dick repeats, each word spat between flashing teeth. “And even if he was, they’re fantastic skaters, Bruce. They’re both more than capable of executing quads at a competitive level like this. Tim’s been ready for this for months, and you haven’t let me train him because why?” 

“You know why,” Bruce says, low and violent. 

“Tell me then,” Dick presses, hands chopping through the air between them. Dick talks with his body, and every word is punctuated with a flutter of his palms, carving through the remaining calm. It takes Tim longer than it should to notice they’re shaking. “Tell me why, Bruce.” 

“Because you got hurt!” Bruce bellows, the sound strangling Tim’s senses. 

“Exactly!” Dick returns, matching him for volume. “I got hurt. And you took it out on Jay, and now you’re taking it out on Tim. You’ve been punishing them for years, when it should have been me. I fucked up that combination, Bruce. I fucked up my leg, and my arm, and my career, and everything else. That was me, not them. I’m sorry for that, but that was all me. It was my burden to bear, my consequences to face. It wasn’t Jason or Tim or even Steph or Damian you were supposed to punish. It was me, and I deserve it.” 

“Dick,” Tim chokes out, barely above a whisper, but the man doesn’t acknowledge him. 

“I deserve it,” he repeats with conviction. “I was reckless, and overconfident, and I made a mistake. I made the choice to take those risks, and they didn’t pay off. That’s no one’s fault but mine. No one should be punished for that but me. Those boys were kids and you punished them for my screw up. And Tim’s too fucking good for you to hold him back over my mistakes.” 

Tim feels like his heart is trapped up in his neck, blocking the words that want to rip from his throat when Bruce’s gaze flashes to him. And it’s- 

He looks sorry. Looks repentant, in a way that Tim has never seen on the man. 

Looks angry, still, but Tim supposes he’s earnt that. He pulled a rogue manoeuvre in a national level competition. If their positions were reversed, he’d be angry too. He’d probably be as scared as Bruce looks now. 

Tim swallows hard and glances at Dick, at the way that weight slides off his shoulders, that temper smoothing to something more approachable. Still Dick, when he reaches out to place a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. 

“You’re a great coach,” Dick says, soft enough that Tim can barely hear it. “Always have been. And you’ll always be my coach. I know we don’t talk about it, but I’m so glad-” 

“Dick,” Bruce says, brow pinched. 

“No, I am. I’m so glad I got to do that jump, Bruce. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. It wasn’t your fault that it didn’t work out; there was nothing you could have done differently, and I wouldn’t have forgiven you if you had. Which is why,” Dick continues with a heavy inhale, “I’m telling you this now: I won’t forgive you if you hold Tim back like that again. You saw him, Bruce, you saw what he can do.” 

Bruce swallows, and Tim tries not to stare at the hint of fondness on his lips. “He looked like you.” 

“He looked amazing,” Dick agrees with a wild, exhilarated grin, and Tim feels like he can breathe again. Feels like the vice around his chest has fallen away for the first time in weeks. 

Feels like his knees might collapse out from under him, but Dick’s paying enough attention to wrap an arm over Tim’s shoulders and pull his weight against his hip when Tim wobbles. 

His expression lights immediately as he slots himself against Tim, that grin contagious. “You’re showing me up, grackle.” 

Tim exhales shakily, and the relief is blinding. “Thanks,” he murmurs into Dick’s side as he hauls them both over to the bench behind Bruce. 

“Don’t mention it, grackle,” Dick replies with an earnest smile, chuckling when Tim all but collapses onto the seat. He drops to his heels, that blinding grin still on his lips, and starts picking at Tim’s laces. “But talk to me before you pull something like that again, yeah? We gotta get your stamina up if you’re going to be pulling multiple quad elements like that.” 

Tim ducks sheepishly, and sighs in bliss when Dick’s cool palms wrap over his ankle, massaging deep into the recovering muscle. 

“You need to warm down,” he chastises, and tosses a glance over his shoulder at Bruce. “And talk, once both of you cool off.” 

Tim winces, shoulders hunching. They slide back open almost immediately when Dick circles his thumb into Tim’s soleus. “After scores?” he begs, and Dick laughs. 

“After scores,” Dick agrees, and squeezes his calf in reassurance. 

It feels good.

Chapter Text

“I think,” Bruce entreats, and eyes the empty bench beside Tim, “we need to talk.” 

Tim drums his fingers against the medal’s silver pendant, comforted by the weight of it around his neck. The rink is in varying stages of packdown, the stands vacated hours ago with the rush of exiting crowds. The podium has been removed, and a zamboni is making its way lazily around the rink, leaving freshly buffed ice in its wake. 

His legs are still tingling, even after Dick’s thorough warm down. He’s had a few hours for the lethargy to set in though, and even with the caffeine top up, Tim’s feeling the drain. It’s a good sort of fatigue though, the burn of his muscles familiar. He feels like he’s made progress, like he’s achieved something, moved forward when every other part of his life feels like it’s floundering. 

It’s almost… peaceful, now, for a still moment with Bruce. Just the two of them, looking out over the ice. 

Tim shifts aside, drawing in a slow, steadying breath when his coach lowers himself onto the bench seat. He shifts his bulk uneasily, lacing his fingers in his lap as he leans his forearms down onto his thighs. 

He’s seen Bruce like this before, brow pinched with faint concentration as he watches Tim move through a routine, analysing every jump and spin to offer his best insight. Now it feels a little like condemnation, and Tim tries not to wither in the silence. 

“How,” Bruce starts, and pauses to clear his throat, blue eyes flicking up to meet Tim’s, “are you feeling?” 

The question catches him off-guard for a moment, and Tim’s shoulders slump from their terse arch at the imploring concern on Bruce’s features. The reality of his situation rushes back in, sinking like lead anvils on his limbs as he exhales and slumps. 

“I don’t know,” Tim answers quietly, and Bruce nods contemplatively. “Tired, I guess.” 

Bruce nods, and offers him a small smile. “That’s understandable. You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.” 

Tim gives him a noncommittal note, picking at the threads of his sweats as he waits for Bruce to speak. Neither of them are especially good at dancing around the point; they’re both too direct and over-rationalising to drag this out much longer. 

He feels only relief when Bruce says, “We need to talk about what happened today.” 

“I know.” 

“It was reckless.” 

“I know.” 

“You could have hurt yourself. And I know,” Bruce says with an over-heavy sigh, “that you’re a capable skater. I trust you to be a conscientious skater because I know that you can be, and that you have been. But I’m your coach.” 

Tim nods, his throat filling with the climbing beat of his heart. 

“It’s my job, it’s my responsibility, to make sure you’re equipped to handle the routines.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tim croaks, keeping his gaze safely on his toes so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment, the reproach, in Bruce’s gaze. 

“If you want to be doing quads at a competitive level, then we need months to train you into it. I need to be confident that you can successfully attempt the jumps in competition. I need to know that you’re confident.” 

“I know, I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too,” Bruce says gently, the thick concern in his tone giving way to something warmer, something tentative that Tim doesn’t recall hearing before. He chances a look up at Bruce through his fringe, and is surprised to see that reproach turned inwards. 

He sits up straighter, frowning. “Bruce, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have-” 

“I shouldn’t have driven you to it,” Bruce counters sternly. “There may be fault on both sides here, I'll acknowledge that, but the responsibility is mine. I should have done better. I want you to know that I have and will always be dedicated to you and your career, Tim.” 

Tim’s heart is pressing a bruise against his pulse now, pulling his throat shut around the emotion. “Thank you.” 

“I’m proud of you, Tim,” Bruce murmurs, and Tim’s chest swells around the words, leaving him lightheaded. “ So proud of you, of everything you’ve achieved. I couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated student.” 

“Bruce,” Tim says, his throat unexpectedly tight. 

Bruce shakes his head, lacing his fingers together and squeezing where they hang in his lap. “And not just proud of what you’ve done, but who you’ve become. The man you’re growing into. The way you’ve handled everything of late.” 

Tim lets out a shuddering exhale, gaze flickering down to his cold-numbed hands. 

“I’m impressed by how resilient you are,” he continues in a low, steady murmur. It beats a rhythm with Tim’s heart, soothing and slow. “You’ve kept your head even with all the accusations and emotions flying. You know where you stand on the issue, and you’ve held your ground admirably.” 

“Easy to do when you know the truth,” Tim says, the bitterness leaching into his tone. 

Bruce nods and glances aside at him. “Harder to do when you know the truth.” 

Tim swallows, his throat feeling like it’s full of glass at the thought of Jason, of how he should have been here to see it all. “You know it’s not true, right?” he presses, needing Bruce to know. “Jason would never-” 

“Jason’s wouldn’t,” Bruce agrees, with such resounding certainty that it sucks the air out of Tim’s lungs. 

“He’s a good person,” Tim implores, feeling heat prickle at his eyes. He wills the tears back and continues, “He really is. He would never do anything to hurt me.” 

Bruce’s brows look heavy where they meet over his tumultuous eyes. “I know.” And then, a peak of teeth as Bruce bites back a huff of soft, reminiscent laughter. “Or at least, I used to know him. I’m not sure I deserve to claim that anymore.” 

“I wish he could have seen me compete,” Tim says after a silence, the longing in his tone more intense than he intends. “He would have loved to be back here, see everything.” 

Bruce hums his agreement, gaze lifting to skim over the lights overhead, still gleaming bright and alluring onto the ice. It makes the fog danced beneath their illumination, makes the ice sparkle like a dream. 

“He loved being here.” 

“What was he like?” Tim asks, curling his hands under his thighs to keep them warm. “When he was still skating?” 

“Jason was antagonistic,” Bruce says tightly, but when Tim’s gaze jerks up, his expression is fond. “He pushed not only his boundaries, but the boundaries of everyone else around him. He was a leader among his peers.” 

Tim studies his expression, nails biting into the timber bench. “But.” 

Bruce sighs. “But he wasn’t in the ‘in crowd’. He wasn’t prepared for the elitism of the skating world. With his background, where he came from... Perhaps I should have prepared him better. I don’t know how I could have, but I do know their criticisms weighed on him, especially at that age.” 

His eyes slip closed, the regret in his expression plainly visible even in the shadows of the bleachers. Tim has to look away from that raw swell of emotion after a moment, lowering it back to his knees. 

“He was never going to be perfect. They were never going to give him the chance to be.” Bruce’s tone takes on a warmer edge, something close to the pride he’d spoken with earlier. “But he would have gone so, so far. He had so much to give the world, and the determination to see it through. He reminded me-” 

Tim glances up, chest splintering at the remorse on Bruce’s features, his gaze lost to a memory. Then Bruce blinks, and gives Tim a tight-lipped smile. 

“He reminds me of Dick, obviously. It’s hard not to- To compare my students to him, even now, with you. Dick was my first student, and always will be. It's hard not to use him as a measuring stick. But Jason; he reminds me of myself. Back when I was competing, when I thought the world was some great malleable beast and only I held its bridle. When I was as young as he was, I was just as stubborn. Still am,” he adds with a soft humour. 

The silence hangs around them, settling alongside the cold to raise a shiver in Tim’s spine. But he can’t bring himself to leave yet, to disturb whatever it is they have here. 

“Jason was something else entirely,” Bruce murmurs finally. “No matter what he puts his mind to - his skating, his hockey, his relationship - he’ll get to whatever goal he sets. He’s got so much to give, I’ve seen it. I know he’s going to go far.” 

Tim chews through that, nodding slowly, before he lifts his gaze to ask, “Have you told Jason that?” 

Bruce starts, those blue eyes snapping down to hold Tim’s. He doesn’t flinch, even as Bruce rubs his thumb over the knuckles of its opposing hand and his lips twist. “Jason… Jason knows that.” 

“He probably does,” Tim agrees gently, staying the course. “But have you told him that?” 

Bruce blinks, his jaw squaring for a moment as he swallows. Then he sighs and looks down between his shoes. He looks tired, and Tim can empathise. “I could probably stand to have a word with him,” Bruce mumbles, and scrubs a hand down his face. “I should probably have said a lot of things to Jason.” 

Tim nods, and looks down at his own lap. “He could probably stand to hear them from you, even now.” 

“Is he,” Bruce begins, and seems to catch himself. Tim watches his wrists roll as he wrings his hands, keeping his gaze low until Bruce is ready to speak. “Is he happy?” 

Tim’s gaze slices up, but Bruce is looking out over the ice. Tim wonders if he’s seeing another young prodigy out there, another boy with the world at his feet and the drive to claim it. 

He thinks about Jason, about Jack, about how Jason’s hands had felt trembling in Tim’s outside that bathroom. Thinks about the fear and the tears, and the sick nausea that had rolled over his features when he’d left Tim’s apartment after that news broadcast. 

He thinks about Jason’s team, about hockey, about how he’d looked in that rink, decked out in Jokers’ purple and green. Teeth gleaming viciously and gaze alive like Tim’s never seen before. Dancing over the ice like none of them could lay a finger on him. 

He thinks of how Jason looks at Dick, looks at the ice, looks at Tim. Like there’s nothing else in the world that could compare. Like he is Jason’s whole world. 

“Yes,” Tim answers, and realises he means it. “He loves the Jokers, loves hockey. He’s- he’s really happy.” 

Bruce sighs. “I know we haven’t spoken much since the media storm. I wanted to give you space. I wanted you to focus on Championships. But I need to talk to you now; I need you to tell me what’s going on, Tim.” 

Tim swallows, feels the press of long, phantom fingers back against the bruises on his windpipe. His gaze falls to his lap. 

Bruce shifts to face him, his gaze warm and cloying where it rests on Tim like a physical weight. “I need you to tell me what’s going on with you, and with Jason. I need to know, Tim, so I can help you. Help you both, if you want that.” 

“It’s complicated,” Tim says, and continues when Bruce’s mouth opens, brow pinching, to contradict him. “And it’s not all mine to tell.” 

Bruce’s jaw snaps shut, and Tim looks up, trying to convey… whatever it is that feels like a lead weight in Tim’s chest, as his coach’s gaze settles into something a little more understanding. Not knowing, perhaps, but understanding. 

“All you need to know from me,” Tim says with finality, “is that I’m okay. That we’re telling the truth, both of us. And that Jason has done everything in his power to treat me well and keep me safe.” 

“But Jason?” Bruce prompts, tone masked and tight. His gaze is imploring, even if it’s hesitant. Like Bruce isn’t sure if he deserves to ask. 

It makes Tim’s chest ache. “Jason… needs to tell you himself. If he wants to tell you at all. He may not, and that’s absolutely up to him. And if he doesn’t, then you have to leave him to handle himself, Bruce,” Tim insists firmly. “It’s his life. He’ll invite you in when he’s ready.” 

Bruce watches him a long moment, and Tim braces himself for an argument, for the ten-point dissertation on why Bruce knows best. He’s not sure he has the mental energy to rebut all of Bruce’s arguments. Not sure he wants to. Not sure he doesn’t agree that Jason deserves someone who’ll be on his side, whether he wants them there or not. 

Then Bruce nods solemnly and reaches out an arm to hook over Tim’s shoulder, pulling him into his side. The breath sweeps out the bottom of Tim’s lungs, but after a moment he turns and loops an arm around Bruce’s middle, the crushing force of the hug doing more to hold him together than the last few weeks of mantras have by miles. 

“I know. And I’ll wait until he does. And I’ll be here for you, anytime you want to talk to me.” 

Tim nods, pressing his eyes shut as he leans into Bruce’s chest. 

Chapter Text

Jason wakes to Tim’s warm fingers carding through his hair, and soft, sunlit lips smiling down at him. Consciousness comes back to him slowly, as if every fibre of his being is trying to savour the moment, savour the sight of Tim above him, blue eyes flickering over the features of his face like he can’t believe he’s seeing Jason either. 

After Tim had landed last night, he'd made a beeline to Jason's apartment. He can still remember opening the door and scooping Tim up into his arms, kissing back his tear-studded laughter in Jason's narrow hallway. In full view of any peeping neighbours, oblivious to anyone who wasn't them.

It still feels surreal, having Tim in his arms, being this close to his warmth, basking in his glow. Jason feels like he's glowing himself, the joy radiating out of his chest for everyone to see. Burning bright enough to blind everyone in the vicinity as he stares down at the man in his arms. 

He slides his hand over the bedsheets, fingertips bumping Tim’s knee, and Jason shifts to trail them up the inside of his thigh with slow, languid pleasure. “Hey, princess.” 

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” Tim answers with a flash of teeth, and Jason reaches up to pull him down over his chest. Rearranges the smaller man until he’s lying atop Jason, ankles tangled with his. 

Jason kisses him like they have an eternity together, like time wouldn’t ever dare to touch them, movements gentle and exploratory as Tim meets him. 

Before too long though, Tim’s pressing a reluctant palm to his collarbones, grinning as he says, “Your alarm is going off. You have to get up.” 

“Or,” Jason stalls, eyebrows lifting as he pecks a quick kiss to the underside of Tim’s jaw. The smaller man smiles and tries to squirm out of his grip, so Jason shifts them until he can roll on top of him, pin Tim down with his hips. The skater huffs and smiles chastisingly up at him. “Or, we could stay here a few more minutes and I could make us dinner.” 

“It’s three p.m.,” Tim contradicts with an arched brow, and Jason shrugs as best he can without smothering the man beneath him. Fingers trace Jason’s forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “And you have a match to prepare for.” 

The relief still brings a smile to Jason’s lips. He’d been cleared to play by the Board two days before the Stanley Cup playoffs, a Hail Mary in its own right. Jason had given them as little information in the hearing as possible while still being cooperative, and they’d cleared the misconduct charges in exchange for a community service deal. No black mark to his name. And more importantly, no repercussions for Tim, whose recent championship silver had overshadowed his scandalous fame. 

Everything feels, tentatively, okay. 

Here, on the cusp of playoffs, with Tim’s heat anchoring him, Jason feels more steady than he has in weeks. He can’t help but think of the last time he’d been here - barely eighteen and nervous as a jack-in-the-box, staring down a Cup loss and a team trade out. This time feels different, in so many ways. 

He’s drawn out of his head by Tim’s nails brushing over his brow, combing back the white streak of his fringe with a soft look. “Naptime’s over, Jay. You’ve got a game to win.” 

Jason grins, lets his hands fall to the curve of Tim’s hips and then lower, holds the skater against him. “You betcha, princess.” 

Tim’s features light with contagious enthusiasm, a laugh bubbling on his lips that Jason smothers with his own. Tim struggles up to his elbows to kiss Jason, properly and fully, now that he’s completely awake, and it stalls them for another few minutes while they drink down each other’s breaths, bathe in the warmth of each other’s company. 

When Jason breaks off, he adds, “I wasn’t kidding about that dinner though; I need to eat before I head in for warm ups. Spaghetti is traditional.” 

“Hockey players have a lot of odd traditions around playoffs,” Tim comments, but lets Jason slip to the side of the bed, finding his feet and offering a hand to tug Tim to his. “Afternoon nap, early dinner. And that thing about not meeting any players on the other team.” 

“It’s bad luck,” Jason informs him, and leads Tim out to the kitchen with the hand he’s still holding. Jason wishes he could keep a hold of Tim’s hand throughout the whole match, keep Tim by his side for the whole of playoffs. 

The last few weeks had been torture, sequestering himself away from Tim. Not being there to see him compete had nearly broken Jason, but watching Tim’s flushed face light when they’d put that medal around his neck had Jason hollering in his lounge room, bellowing his excitement. 

He’d forgotten how much he loved just having Tim around. Feeling the brush of his fingertips over the small of Jason’s spine while he’s boiling the pasta. The awareness of his presence as Jason bustles about the small kitchen preparing dinner. The weight of that steady, fond gaze on him as Tim leans back against the counter and sips at his coffee. 

It settles the very marrow in Jason’s bones, just knowing Tim is here. To stay. 

The nerves don’t set in until they’re at the rink, the gentle chill caressing Jason’s bare skin as they make their way through the slowly filling stands to the front row. The gates haven’t opened yet, but family and friends of the players have already started filtering in, claiming their seats as the last of the linemarkers check over the consistency of the ice. 

Jason holds tight to Tim’s palm, calms himself with the reminder that he’ll be here, watching the game, watching Jason. There’s not much Jason feels he can’t do when Tim’s eyes are on him. 

The reminder that Tim won’t be the only one watching his performance stirs his nerves, though Jason tampers down on it as best he can.  He didn't think having his family in the stands could be so nerve-wracking, but then again, Jason's never had something like that to look forward to. 

He hopes they like it. He hopes he can impress them. More than that, he hopes he can show them exactly how much hockey means to him, this whole other world between them. It's a nice thought, to have them here with him. 

As they weave closer, stepping around the seats to reach the foremost row, Jason lets out a bark of laughter. 

Damian has somehow managed to convince Bruce to sport a Jokers’ jersey, and the man’s normally enormous frame is downright swamped by the purple-and-black material. He still manages to look imposing, offering Jason a wry smile as they draw near. 

“Not long to go,” he says, and Jason swallows down excitement, nodding. 

“I’ve got a few minutes before warm ups start,” he agrees, and pulls Tim into his side. “Then you won’t see me til I’m on the ice.” 

“Can’t wait,” Tim murmurs, and it draws a smile to Jason’s lips. He catches Bruce watching them when he glances back up, and clears his throat, casting around the empty seats. 

“Where’s everyone else?” 

“Stephanie and Cassandra are supposedly visiting the snack bar,” Bruce supplies. “But I strongly suspect you’ll run into them on your way back to the locker room. Stephanie was armed with a marker.” 

“Ah,” Jason says, and ignores Tim rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. “I’ll send them back your way when I see them then.” 

Tim casts his gaze around at their sparse crowd and asks, “Where’s Dick?” 

Bruce provides, with the levity of a man conceding the battle and perhaps the war, “At the snack bar.” 

Jason snorts. Dick has a legendary sweet tooth; he remembers from his figures days. Dick had never passed up an opportunity to grab snacks on the way to a competition, or as fuel before a competition, or to celebrate a competition win. Jason had enjoyed his mentor’s ravenous delight far too much to be the voice of reason, even when Alfred chastised them about their spoiled diets upon their return. 

He supposes Tim and Damian must be more than familiar with Dick’s penchant for confectionary nowadays. The thought is an oddly bittersweet one. 

Jason glances behind Bruce, skimming the empty seats. “What about the pipsqueak? I would have thought he’d be front and centre for the big show.” 

Something about the familiar twist of Bruce’s lips speaks disapproval to Jason, and it surprises him a little to realise that he can still read Bruce so easily after all these years. “Damian will be arriving with his mother,” Bruce states crisply. 

Tim brows chase his hairline. “His mother?” 

“Speak of the devil,” Bruce murmurs, gaze rising behind Jason’s shoulder. A terse smile splits his features. And then, louder, “Talia.” 

Jason feels a spiral of nerves chase up his spine at the name, but steels himself to face her as she strides down the aisle, Damian attentively at her heels. 

Damian is in a strategically neutral black turtleneck, his features pinched with latent concern as he crosses the walkway to his father’s side. He looks out of place between his father’s obnoxiously Joker-branded jersey and Talia’s Assassins’ red attire. Once again, Jason feels a pang of remorse for the kid, though all things considered, he seems to shoulder it well. 

Talia looks immaculate, not a single strand of hair daring to sit astray in her updo. She looks as severe as ever, her jawline a firm guillotine beneath the purse of her lips. Her green gaze is piercing when it slides from Bruce with bold disregard to land on him. 

“Jason,” she says. 

“Talia,” he replies. 

Her eyes sweep over him from head to toe, and Jason’s posture draws tighter reflexively under her scrutiny. It’s been years since Jason was her charge, but that urge to impress her, to garnish the unrufflable Talia’s praise, is hard to shirk. 

Whatever she sees draws a contemplative hum to her perfect, blood-red lips, but Jason doesn't think it's necessarily disapproval; he's known Talia's disapproval, better than most. This feels nearly... amicable. Stiff though it may be. 

Still, they don’t exchange pleasantries. Jason fixes his gaze on the zamboni making a final lap around the rink while Bruce and Talia negotiate their next handover, and then she departs for the Assassins’ locker room. Jason releases a tight but tentative breath, and Tim squeezes his hand in consolation. 

“I should probably get going too,” Jason says when Damian lets out the breath he’s been holding. He nudges the teen’s shoulder. “Good choice on the seats though. Your dad’ll be able to see everything from here.” 

Damian smiles, quiet and hesitant, at that. Jason can see the pride in his posture when he turns to tug Bruce towards the end of the row, right near where the Jokers will soon be filing into the benches. 

Bruce resists long enough to offer Jason a, “Good luck,” before he’s dragged away for a thorough interrogation on his hockey knowledge. 

Jason smiles at the sight, at the animated way Damian gestures to the empty rink. Then he looks down at Tim, who’s smiling fondly. “What?” 

“You’re happy,” he points out, taking Jason aback. “It’s a good look on you.” 

Jason blushes, but scowls self-consciously nonetheless. He tucks his huge palm into the back pocket of Tim’s jeans, steering them up the aisle towards the locker rooms. “Of course I’m happy, princess. I’ve got a Cup to win and someone to show it off to.” 

“Are you going to kiss it when you win it?” 

Jason grins. “Of course. You can kiss it too.” 

Tim’s nose scrunches in a laugh, and Jason bends down to kiss it as they shoulder through the first set of doors. 

There’s two figures partway down the broad corridor, crowded around a door. Jason can make out Waylon’s concerned brow tucked around the frame as his blond accostee rambles excitedly. 

“For our friend,” she’s explaining, tossing those golden curls over one shoulder. Her quieter, darker-haired friend thrusts a Jokers' cap and sharpie in Waylon’s direction. “Yea high, big fan. Defected from the Assassins, in fact.” 

Jason snorts loud enough to draw their attention, even as Waylon gingerly takes the offered marker and merch. “‘Defected’.” 

Steph scowls at them as they approach, one eye on the scrawl Waylon is scribbling across the brim. “He technically did.” 

“You can’t defect when you’re the GM’s kid,” Jason argues, leaning up against the cinderblock wall to watch the proceedings. “It doesn’t work like that.” 

“Who is this?” Waylon interjects with one raised brow. 

“Make it out to Damian,” Jason instructs before Steph can, leaning over to inspect his handwriting. It’s more legible than he expects, for a guy who spends his days getting regularly checked. 

“Isn’t that the kid you wanted one of my old sticks for?” 

Jason nods. “Same one. Big Killer Croc aficionado. Knows your shooting percentage by heart.” 

“I don’t even know my shooting percentage,” Waylon bemoans, but offers the cap back to Cass. Jason smiles at her ecstatic grin, watching her thumb the purple cotton. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, man, the kid’s a huge fan.” He reaches over to grip the door, pushing it open enough for Waylon to pull his shoulder away. “I’ll take it from here, you make your escape.” 

“Thanks, man,” Waylon says hesitantly, glancing once at Steph like she might protest before he ducks back inside. 

The blond does give Jason a melodramatic sigh. “We had more caps.” 

“And we have a game to win,” Jason counters pointedly, scoffing at her eye roll. “Bruce is looking for you. Pre-game’s about to start.” 

Steph smirks, but relinquishes her post at the door without a fight. “Break a leg,” Steph says, clapping him on the shoulder. He barely feels it through his padding. “Not your own, but someone’s.” 

Jason gives her a two-finger salute that Cass reciprocates, and then it’s just Tim and him standing alone in the corridor. 

“So,” Jason says, turning to grin down at him. “Any wise words for the ga-” 

The rest of his sentence is swallowed up by Tim’s lips on his, his warm palm on Jason’s jaw. When he pulls back, Jason sees stars. 

Tim’s eyes gleam up at him, buzzing with excitement and adoration. “Can’t wait to watch you play.” 

“Keep your eyes on me,” Jason murmurs, and bends down to claim Tim’s lips again, slow and searching as Tim rises to his tiptoes to meet him. 

Tim beams when they pull apart, squeezing Jason’s palm one last time before he starts backtracking for his seat. “Where else would they be?” 

Please enjoy this art by the breathtakingly talented ride-the-dinos. They've been holding onto this fanart for over 18 months waiting for me to write this chapter. If you could take even take 30 seconds out of your day to send them some love via their askbox or in the comments below, I would be incredibly grateful. 

Chapter Text

Jason’s not sure he’s got a concussion, but his skull sure as shit feels like it’s been wrung out and everything jammed back in again. The twenty minutes he’d been taken off for the medics to plaster over his temple had been agony. Every muscle had been strained toward the rink, ear crooked for each swelling cheer from the audience, trying to distinguish the home crowd from the travellers. Leg bouncing incessantly as he mentally tallied plays in his head. 

They’ve been neck and neck on the scoreboard the entire night. Every time Jason, Harvey and Waylon manage to scrape ahead, the Assassins’ forwards are there to return the favour. For every brutal block that Slade and Roman hand out, their defenders are just as impassable. 

They’ve burnt through the early buzz of excitement. The whole team is down to fiery, sweat-fuelled drive. There’s no room for errors, no time for fancy footwork or careful checks. Everything reeks of merciless play, and Jason loves every second of it. 

The Assassins favour precision over power, but Jason can personally vouch for the fact that that doesn’t make them any less ruthless. Training under Talia has given them a fine-honed sense of brutality, and the whole team has a front row seat to it tonight. The few times Jason has glanced up into the stands from the ice, levelled after a cold-blooded check, Tim has been wincing in the stands, face stricken. 

But energised, blue eyes alight and burning. Even from all the way down in the rink, Jason can feel Tim’s bellows, is energised by his exhilaration. 

They’re having fun. Even when they’re knocked a point down, this is fun. Jason hasn’t experienced gameplay at this level since he was with the Assassins himself. He wouldn’t trade this in for the world. 

The game feels like it flies past him, every second crucial as they trade goals down the rink. Every slide of his wheels has Jason’s heart thudding in his chest. He can feel perspiration on his brow, hear his laboured breaths, taste the sing of electricity on the back of his tongue. And he can see it in everyone else too. No one is holding off, no one is holding anything back. Nothing to spare. Everything on the table. 

The third period has come and nearly gone in the time it takes Jason to start really feeling the fatigue, the burn in his calves and thighs that threaten to collapse beneath him. Every second drips by, marked in each drop of sweat down the back of his jersey. 

They’re on the defensive, trying to hold even ground as the clock ticks down, until they can push into overtime. Or regain control of the puck to push ahead. 

There’s less than a minute on the clock when Lawton gets control of the puck out of sheer dumb luck. Jason rushes to intercept - just as much as every Joker does - and gets blockaded by Cain in the neutral zone, piled up against the boards. 

When he manages to detangle himself, Crane is lurching for the puck, and even halfway down the rink, Jason knows it’s not going to cut it. The puck sings against the metal of the goal, drilled down into the net as the bray of the crowd is drowned by the final blare of the clock. 

Jason lifts his gaze to the scoreboard above the rink, at the red lights forming the damning 6-5 on every face. The crowd is on their feet, pressing against the plastic shields. Voices rising in delight and dejection until it’s all a roar in Jason’s ears. 

Cain wheels away to join his team where they’re beginning to huddle, leaving Jason to pull himself to his feet and filter through the gates into the Jokers’ benches. Everyone looks as worn as he feels, all of them collapsing onto the seats or trudging towards the locker room to strip out of their padding. 

But even with the dawning loss, as the feeling settles heavy in his chest, Jason can’t say he regrets a moment of it. He doesn’t think he’s alone in saying they gave it their all, and even if they don’t have a cup to show for it, they clawed their way to the finals. They played every game of the season with abandon. 

It’s startling, to realise how much more content Jason is losing with the Jokers than he’d been under Talia. None of the crushing guilt comes forth, even when the rest of the team shoulder through the gates into the benches with solemn dejection on their features. There’s disappointment, yes, but it’s tempered. 

Even Slade pauses to ruffle Jason’s hair as he passes, ignoring the forward’s protest. “Good game, kid,” he grunts, and there’s a smirk on his lips. 

Jason can’t help but marvel at how… okay it is, to be here. To be standing on the other side of the finals, with his team and his family, and the whole rest of his career to look forward to. A week ago he was looking at a suspension and an impermeable black mark on his name, the threat of never seeing Tim again looming over him. And now, with another Cup loss under his belt, Jason feels lighter than he ever did. 

He ruminates in it as he gathers his gear, dropping his helmet on a bench before he lets himself out into the stands. 

Tim is waiting to push up onto his toes and kiss his sweat-streaked cheek. A tired laugh filters from Jason’s sore lungs as he shucks his gloves, fingers trembling from the exertion as he tucks his stick under his arm. But it lets him hook his fingers into Tim’s belt loops and drag him closer. That closeness is more than enough to soothe the aches in Jason’s core. 

The rest of the family is hovering nearby, and it’s the only thing that sways Jason from kissing Tim right there and then. He feels exhausted, head pounding from dehydration and muscles twitching from exertion. But it’s nothing compared to the blazing furnace in his chest as they gather to congratulate him on a game well-played. 

From his vantage point on the other side of the rink, Jason has a front row seat to watch Talia take to the ice, shoulders squared as she shakes Commissioner Luthor’s hand with a severe smile. Jason doesn’t think he’s seen her this happy, even though her outward posture gives none of the game away. The glint in her eye when they hand over the Stanley Cup speaks for itself. 

“It’s a shame you didn’t get to be up there,” Bruce commiserates gently, slotting himself into the space at Jason’s side. Damian plants himself between them to watch the proceedings with green-eyed rapture, Dick not far behind. 

Jason shrugs easily, rolling out his shoulder when it aches from the movement. “I guess. We played well though. I’m just happy to be at the Cup again. It’s been a hot minute.” 

Bruce’s smile is something old, a bright relic of Jason’s past, when he beams and pats him on the back. Jason rocks forward with the motion, some of his trepidation knocked loose at the touch. 

“Thanks,” Jason says, throat a bit tight, “for coming to watch me play.” 

Bruce’s gaze is warm, discerning in all the ways Jason used to fear. “My pleasure.” 

His chest burns with the force of a sun. Jason clears his throat and casts his gaze down to their youngest. “Enjoyed the match, shortstack?” 

Damian gives him a curt nod, tucked beneath Bruce’s arm, but Jason can see a glimmer of excitement in those green eyes when he glances up. And a fair amount of gratitude, as he looks out at the ice with his father. “Good game, Todd.” 

“Glad you got to see it from this side of the rink, pipsqueak,” Jason shoots back with a grin, and Damian’s lip twitches. He excuses himself quickly, jogging up the stairs to skirt the rink. No doubt to join his mother in her victory lap. On the rink, the Assassins players are starting their celebration, cup held high. 

Jason glances down at Tim, squeezing the bones of his hip through his jeans. “How about you? Enjoy yourself?” 

“It was good. I do have some questions,” Tim admits fondly, “about the gameplay. Some things I want to understand better.” 

“I’m sure Damian will be happy to tutor you,” Jason quips, and laughs at Tim’s fleeting horror. It’s drowned by the chatter of spectators, the cheers of a winning crowd as thousands begin to file out of the stadium. 

Tim tucks himself into the line of Jason’s body, a smile curling his lips as he tilts them up to Jason’s ear and purrs, “I was hoping for more private lessons.” 

Jason can’t help but snort at those implications. 

They’re distracted by a commotion starting up behind them, from the benches. When Jason swivels to glance over his shoulder, he can make out the spindly silhouette of Jack, face red beneath his pallor as he stalks across the width of the box to jam a finger in the face of an Assassins’ supporter. 

He looks incensed, the catharsis of a game well-played lost on the Jokers' manager as his lips peel back in a snarl. There's nothing but malcontent in the flat glint of his beady eyes, the rigidity of his pose as he bellows up at the fan. 

The man is half-leaned over the banister, jeering heartily at the Jokers’ general manager, painted face twisted into a grimace of gleeful victory. Jason can’t distinguish what he’s saying from over here, but based on the way it’s visibly ratcheting Jack’s blood pressure up, it can only be taunting. 

His suspicion is only confirmed when Jack reaches up to wind a hand in the front of the man’s jersey and drag him over the railing into the box. 

The fan’s throaty jeers are swallowed up in a scream as he topples to Jack’s feet, and Jason has enough time to shout a protest before Jack is straddling the guy, bony fingers wrapping over his throat to slam his head back into the carpeted concrete. 

Jason starts towards the fight, everything else forgotten in the wake of his shock and horror. He gets tangled up in Tim when he reaches the gate, both of them falling over one another in their desperation to reach the pair. 

He gets the gate open, sweaty fingers sliding on the plastic as he shrugs through the opening to launch towards the altercation. He’s clumsy in his gear and skates, but Jason manages to pry Jack off and shove him back enough that he can drag the bleeding fan out from under him. His heart lurches up into his windpipe. 

The guy is dazed, blood seeping into his red jersey. His face is a mess of purple bruises, paint smeared by the swipe of knuckles, and his nose is leaking. Jason wraps a hand in his shirt and drags him far enough away that he can prop him up against a wall, squatting down to gingerly pat his cheek and call to his attention. 

“Are you with me, buddy?” he asks, trying to get a glance under the man’s swollen eyelids. Jack did a number on him, and Jason’s stomach revolts at the sight of his wrath stamped out on the fan’s skin. “Hey, can you hear me?” 

It’s Tim’s shout, equal parts pain and fury, that snaps Jason’s head around. Makes his neck prickle with the reminder that Jack is behind him, that Jason has his back turned. 

Jason turns in time to see Tim sprawl back across the carpet, the breath rushing from his lungs as Jack steps over him and lunges forward. 

He gets his hand on Jason’s shoulder first, face a sneer of rage as he bears down. His nails cut against the bared skin of Jason’s neck, fisting in his jersey as his knuckles bruise through the padding Jason’s wearing. They tumble to the floor in a mess of limbs, Jack’s elbow knocking into Jason’s ribs with a grunt. 

Everything’s a blur for the next minute. Jason tries to lift his arms and shield his face, even as Jack scrabbles for his throat. He can feel Jack’s weight on him, hear the man’s indistinguishable snarls. The broken syllables of “little birdy” torn to shreds between Jack’s bared teeth. The panic finds him a few shaky breaths later, as Jason’s beleaguered mind struggles to keep up under the assault. Distantly, he realises he’s not fighting back, and wonders if he ought to. 

He can hear shouting, hear footsteps. Someone jostles them both, and then Jack is being hauled off him. 

Jason pants, chest heaving, and glances around at the commotion as the room rights itself. 

Bruce is towering over him, fists wrapped up in Jack’s shirt as he pins him back against the nearby wall, far out of reach of Jason. His face is a storm, dark and looming as he growls, “Don’t you dare touch one of my students like that ever again.” 

The steel in his voice is dangerous, unyielding, and it makes Jason’s breath hitch, even though it not directed at him. His skull aches, the blur receding enough for him to remember the sound of Tim hitting the carpet. 

His eyes widen as he scrambles upright to locate Tim, to assure himself he’s okay. He spots the smaller skater behind Bruce’s frame, sleeve pressed to what Jason suspects is a bloody lip as Steph checks him over. Some of the panic eases at the sight of Tim sitting up, even though the bare-faced fury he levels at Jack has Jason’s breath hiccupping in his lungs. 

Bruce’s eyes flicker down to him after a moment, icy blue slicing through Jason’s chest. “Jay, are you alright?” 

Jason lifts a hand to his throat as he nods dazedly, and Bruce makes a dissatisfied grunt behind a clenched jaw. His fists tighten around their handfuls of Jack's shirt. 

“Not a word," Bruce warns pointedly, and his cold glare heats at Jack's responding sneer. Before Jason can try to interpret that, Dick slips out from behind Bruce's frame, expression stricken when he drops to his knees at Jason’s side. For a moment, he looks all too much like Jason's mentor, fretting over a messy fall or a skinned knee. 

“You alright, Little Wing?” he asks, offering him a hand to pull Jason up into a full sit, and steadying him when he sways. 

Security arrives with a cacophony of shouts that rivals the pulse thundering through Jason’s skull, the battered Assassins' supporter their immediate priority as bodies flood the small area. Jason presses a palm to his cheek, to his chest, to confirm he’s all in one piece himself. 

His hands are shaking, but Jason feels oddly calm. Maybe it’s Bruce’s presence, the solidity of him pinning Jack back against the boards as security step in to break up the fight. Maybe it’s those disgusted looks being turned on Jack for once. But, inexplicably, Jason feels safe, protected. An eye in a storm. 

“Jay,” Dick presses, as Jason watches Bruce reluctantly hand Jack off to give security his version of the events. His brows are pinched above those blue eyes, and Jason tries to focus on him enough to reply. “Are you okay?” 

“‘M fine, Dickie,” Jason mumbles. He feels roughed up, but no more tender than he’d been during the game. Jason chalks his astonishment up to shock and adrenaline more than any possible concussion. “What’d he do to Tim?” 

“Tim’s fine. Just a cut,” Dick assures him, and lifts a thumb to press against Jason’s throat. He hisses and winces at the pressure, and Dick’s lips turn down. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need a medic?”  

“I’m fine, I’ve had worse,” Jason soothes, ignoring Dick’s scowl in favour of climbing to his feet. Dick layers a steadying hand over his shoulder when he does, the heat bleeding into Jason’s skin. The Assassins' supporter is already being tended to, and Bruce is disengaging, stiffly, from his conversation, though one eye remains fixed on Jack as he's corralled away. 

“What was that about?” Bruce growls when he’s within ear shot, gaze flying over Jason. Assessing for injuries, no doubt; six years, and old habits die hard. Tim’s on his heels, expression a mess of rage and concern. 

Jason reaches for the skater, tucking him under his arm to press a kiss to the crown of his head when Tim buries his forehead in Jason’s collarbones. His presence does more to galvanise Jason than any reassuring words ever could. “It’s alright, princess, I’m alright.” 

Tim’s shaking in his arms, trembling fists a bruise on Jason’s spine, but he says nothing. Jason’s not sure if it’s out of fear for Jason or because he doesn’t trust himself to speak yet. He suspects it may be the latter. 

Bruce is talking, tone rich with distaste, but Jason only catches the tail end of, “Attacking one of his players like that. What kind of manager does he think he is?” 

“Just leave it,” Jason advises, but there’s no bite there. He can feel the palpable weight of their questions, of their concern. Normally he’d be all too happy for their consideration, but right now it’s all he can do to stay on his feet. He can feel the adrenaline bleeding out of his pores, leaving him bereft. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” 

“Jason,” Bruce says sternly, and the worry in his eyes twists Jason’s gut, bails his words up into the back of his throat. “You have to tell us what’s going on. If we need to protect you-” 

“Then I’ll ask for it,” Jason says, gently. He’s surprised by his own platitude. He knew this conversation was coming, knew it would be a fight to wrestle his personal life out of Bruce’s cloying control. 

He doesn’t expect Bruce’s tight shoulders to slump, for the fight to wash out of his eyes. There’s still a distrust there, a raging concern in the line of his clenched jaw and the wavering breath he draws into his lungs. But for once, blessedly, Bruce doesn’t press the issue. Jason supposes that's sort of a hallmark of the progress they'd made, that Bruce is so easily willing to take his word. 

“Thanks for your help,” Jason mutters, not insincerely, and glances down at Tim when he pries himself away from Jason’s chest. The apprehension there is thick, but held at bay. His hands don’t part from where they’re fisted in handfuls of Jason’s jersey, like he can’t bear the thought of him slipping away. Jason threads his fingers into Tim’s hair and bends to kiss his forehead, pitching his voice low when he says, “You alright, princess?” 

“You’re alright,” Tim answers, drawing a choked laugh to Jason’s lips. There’s an anguish behind his tone; it twists Jason’s heart up in his chest. 

“I’m tired,” Jason corrects, and lowers his hand to twine his fingers with Tim’s, prying them gently off him. Tim resists for a moment before relinquishing. His brow softens when Jason presses a kiss to his knuckles, but that protectiveness doesn't ebb. “I’m going to shower and get changed, and then I’ll be right back for you. Okay?” 

Tim stiffens, something dark and sharp flashing through his gaze. “If he tries to come find you-” 

Jason squeezes his fingers. “Then I’ve got all of you at my back, yeah? He’s not coming back, princess. I’m not waiting around for him to. I’m coming right back to you.” 

He draws Tim against his chest, into his embrace, to savour the warmth of him one more time. Rests his cheek on Tim’s dark hair, and breathes through the exhaustion for a few minutes more. 

“Let’s go get something to eat after this,” Jason suggests tiredly, eyes flickering over to Dick. He hasn’t shifted from Jason’s side, hovering like he can’t decide if he wants to sweep Jason up in a hug or leave him be. Jason thinks a Dick Grayson Hug wouldn’t go astray right now, but he's not sure how much longer he can bear to be on his feet. A small smile curls Jason’s lips. “I’m sure Dickiebird knows a great waffle place nearby. Let’s make it a party, hmm? We can celebrate.” 

“If only we could be celebrating your win,” Tim mumbles into his shirt, laced with sympathy, and Jason chuckles, trailing the back of knuckles over Tim's temple. The spark in his chest is small, but it’s growing. 

He runs his palm through Tim’s locks, holding him close. “Who says I’m not a winner? I managed to get all of you to a game, didn’t I? That deserves a celebration.” 

It takes a moment, but Tim finally steps back and lets him go. His expression is stern, even if he’s conceding ground. “If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming in after you.” 

“I’ll warn the guys,” Jason tells him with a smirk. “You can be terrifying when you want to be, you know that, princess?” 

It’s timid, and nowhere near the blinding grins Jason’s used to, but the sight of Tim’s little smile has Jason unwinding. “Don’t be late. We’ve got a date.” 

“Absolutely,” Jason promises, and takes Tim’s soft jaw in his palm, tilting him up to meet his lips one more time before he heads for the locker room. 

Chapter Text

“The thing I hate most about losing the Cup,” Roman grumbles, tugging at his bowtie with a grimace, “is the fucking galas.” 

“There’s no better time for it,” Harvey interjects with sullen resolution. He has the air of a military commander about to lead his men into a strategic massacre. “We have to drum up funds before the hype dies down.” 

They share a moment of commiserating silence, during which Jason fiddles with his shirt sleeves and Waylon picks at a pimple in the mirror over the mantle. They're gathered in the expansive entertaining room of a chateau, awaiting the arrival of their soon-to-be sponsors to begin the night's demure festivities. Squeezed into uncomfortable eveningwear and buttered up with - in Roman's case, toothless - smiles. It's a poor mask for the lingering loss of the recent Cup, but they're galvanised by each others' company. 

Their self-soothing sorrow is cut abysmally short by Slade, who shrugs into the large room looking trim in his suit. Jason has a suspicion he gets his tailored; it would make sense after all these years. Either way, trading in his purple jersey for a sleek black two-piece is a good look on the older player. 

“Grow up,” he grumbles at Roman, bending to toss another cut of wood into the gently crackling fireplace. It douses the room in a warm amber glow, something that looks homely. Jason wonders if the ambience helps loosen up their guests’ checkbooks. “Act like professionals for once in your lives.” 

“Or what, you’ll fine us?” Roman sneers. Slade ignores him in favour of pulling out his cell, thumbs moving through a quick text. “Just because you’ve gotten used to shaking hands and kissing babies after thirty years doesn’t mean we have to.” 

Before Slade can shoot back a scathing retort, Harvey steps in to mitigate, lifting his hands in a placating surrender. “Easy, gents. Guests are arriving. Let’s keep it friendly, right, team?” 

“Yes, captain,” Roman drawls without an ounce of deference. Not that that’s anything new. 

“Leave your phones at the door,” Harvey reminds them, sternly. Slade doesn’t even look up, and Harvey sighs. “Last gala of the season; make it good.” 

Jason keeps his hands in his pockets and covers for Jonathan when he slinks off to hit up the buffet table almost immediately. The guy could use some meat on his bones. 

The room fills rather quickly, their guests dressed in elegant evening dresses and perfunctory suits. Jason suspects the jewellery in this room alone is worth more than their combined paychecks. He still smiles nice and pretty when the ladies wander over to admire his physique and the gentlemen commiserate over their recent loss. 

He’s done this a hundred times before. You don’t get to spend your life on a rink without a few nights sipping champagne with franchise funders. Part and parcel of the contract. 

Jason takes it slow, wanders around, letting himself be beckoned into conversations while he palms his flute of champagne and laughs at their jokes. The atmosphere is easy, the gatherings small and personable as he flits from group to group. 

Jack hasn’t arrived yet, but that isn’t new for the Jokers’ GM. He’ll be here eventually. 

Jason hasn’t seen him since the Cup game, hasn’t run across him during any of the end-of-season wrap up meetings in Cobblepot’s rink. Which isn’t unusual; Jack doesn’t always concern himself with the more mundane team matters. He usually leaves that sort of thing to Antonio and Harvey. And the less time Jason has to spend in his presence, the better. 

Tucking himself into a sequestered little alcove off the hallway, Jason takes a moment for himself, to sip down bubbles and passively admire the decor of the old building. He’s not sure if it’s one of Harvey’s parents’ properties or just a generous sponsor. Either way, they favour the sort of eclectic wall-hung aesthetics of the egregiously wealthy; he spots a muddied sepia of someone shaking hands with an old Gotham mayor, and snorts. 

He finishes his flute, runs a hand back through his hair, shakes off the craving for a cigarette, and heads back for the main event. 

When Jason weaves through some of the throng near the doorway and into the larger room beyond, he’s able to spot Bruce. He’s dressed to the nines in one of his better suits, hair combed back and the Wayne signature smile on display. 

He’s crowded around the mantle, champagne flute in one hand as he trades laughs back and forth with Harvey. They wouldn’t look out of place in a country club, Jason thinks. 

It’s still a little jarring, to see him here. It’s only been a week or so since Jason saw him at the game, but it’s still strange to see him here, in Jason’s life. Keeping distance from someone for six years tends to create expectations; the way Bruce has seamlessly fitted into Jason’s world still renders him speechless at times. Knowing how easy it’s been, how natural it feels. 

He’s glad Bruce is taking an interest. He’s glad Bruce is doing it out of a genuine curiosity and not just forced obligation. It warms a part of Jason that he thought he’d buried long ago. The part that used to preen at Bruce’s rinkside praise, used to seek out his applause at the end of a competition routine. 

Jason wouldn’t say he’s been looking for Bruce’s approval - hasn’t in a long time - but it’s nice to have it, nonetheless. He never thought he’d ever get to see his two lives intersect, let alone blend as seamlessly as they seem to have. He’s still adjusting to it, but it’s, on the whole, nice. 

He doesn’t disturb them, leaving the old friends to their tête-à-tête, circling around a few conversations until he spots the person he’s really looking for. 

Tim polishes up good in a suit, not that Jason thought he wouldn’t. It accentuates his slim waist and lithe build, the material soft beneath Jason’s palm when he slips an arm around Tim’s hips. 

“Didn’t know they made suits in your size, princess,” Jason teases, and Tim elbows him sweetly while he’s taking a sip of champagne. 

When it lowers, there’s a small smile on his lips, and Jason bends to give them a quick peck. “Was wondering when I’d get you all to myself,” Tim says, and switches the flute to his other hand so he can take Jason’s. 

“I’m working,” Jason reminds him sagely, grinning at Tim’s scoff. 

“I wish my work involved champagne parties with a bunch of millionaires every other week.” 

“No, you don’t,” Jason counters easily. 

“No,” Tim agrees. “You’re right, I don’t.” 

“Stick to the toe loops, princess,” Jason chuckles, ignoring Tim’s half-hearted scowl. “Leave the professionalism to the rest of us.” 

Tim affects a pout. “That’s hardly any way to talk to one of your beloved sponsors.” 

Jason arches a brow, breaking from his survey of the room to glance down at him. 

“Did you donate some money, did you?” 

“Aside from the door fee? I could probably stand to part with some cash more often if it means a night of seeing you wear a suit.” 

Jason chuckles, tugging Tim in closer until he can kiss his cheek. “I’ll rock a suit for you any night, princess. Just say the word. But I thought you preferred the dishevelled hockey bad boy type?” 

“I’m not the only one, it seems,” Tim deflects, garnishing Jason’s interest. 

The skater takes another sip of his champagne, turning into Jason’s side as he does so. He’s warm where he presses up against Jason’s suit, a welcome anchor in the tide of people shifting about. 

“Dick seems to be making friends,” Tim says surreptitiously into Jason’s shoulder, ice blue eyes flicking to their three o’clock. 

Sure enough, when Jason gives the room a casual scan, he spots Dick toward the back, milling about near the catering table with none other than Jason’s favourite teammate. 

Dick’s wearing a pressed blue shirt that makes his eyes pop and his smile shine, and Jason doesn’t believe for a moment the choice was unintentional. Especially when Slade bends forward to mutter something indecipherable in Dick’s ear and he laughs without restraint. 

Jason wonders if he should feel protective over his old mentor. But the truth of it is it’s been long enough since Dick had enough reasons to smile, and as much as it makes Jason’s blood pressure rise to see Slade touch Dick’s hip when he leans over to grab some hors d'oeuvres, he’s happy for them. 

Not looking forward to having to chew all six foot five inches of Slade out when he inevitably breaks Dick’s heart, but they’ll deal with that when it comes. Maybe it never will. 

“He looks happy,” Jason says, and there’s a softness to Tim’s grin, behind that same protectiveness. 

“So which one of us is on shovel talk duty?” Tim asks, prompting a bright laugh from Jason. “Or are we palming this one off to Damian?” 

“That is a fight I’d pay to see,” Jason admits with a lift of his brows, taking a deep swig of champagne. “Slade would have to lose, right?” 

“Or risk Talia’s wrath,” Tim concurs. 

Jason takes Tim’s empty flute and surrenders it to a passing waiter. “Thirty on the pipsqueak.” 

“I’ll take that bet. Anything to see Damian knocked down a few pegs.” 

Damian himself is abstaining from tonight’s festivities to be with his mother before she flies back out to Oregon. Jason can’t begrudge the kid a chance to celebrate the Assassins’ second-year win. In another life, he'd be right up there with them. When all is said and done, Jason thinks he prefers the honest commiseration of the Jokers, though. 

Jason shakes his head with fond bemusement. “So spiteful.” 

“I’m short, what else do I have?” 

“Jason.” 

He’s startled by the low timbre, hand slipping from Tim’s waist as he turns to greet Bruce. He still looks perfectly, completely unruffled, though Jason does note his glass is empty now. He pivots to meet Tim’s gaze and says, “I was hoping I could borrow your date for a short while.” 

Jason sputters over the word. Luckily, Tim recovers fast enough to shoot his coach a suspicious look and reply, “Sure. I’ll be near the buffet if you need me.” 

And then he’s slipping away into the crowd, leaving Jason red-faced in the presence of his former mentor. Bruce shifts, somewhat awkwardly, and nods towards one of the doors leading to the adjoining balcony. 

“Shall we go somewhere a bit more private?” 

That twists Jason’s stomach up into his chest, but he nods, letting Bruce lead to way. The subdued chatter dies behind them when Bruce clicks the door closed, sealing them outside beneath the open sky. 

Jason wanders over the pavement tile, consciously trying not to scuff his polished shoes as he sets his own glass aside and wonders what on earth Bruce would want to talk with him about. 

Bruce joins him after a moment, leaning as casually on the balustrade as Jason thinks he’s capable of. He gives Jason a quiet moment to steel himself before he says, “You look better.” 

“Thanks,” Jason says, and nods at Bruce’s neat suit. “You do too.” 

“How’ve you been since…” 

Jason shifts his weight, slipping a hand into his pocket. Jack’s leer flashes behind his eyelids when he blinks. It almost makes him glad he hasn’t seen his manager tonight. He’s not sure how Bruce would react to seeing the man within grabbing distance. “Been doing well. Keeping my head down.” 

“Looking forward to the break?” Bruce asks politely. “Damian told me the season is nearly over, at least until October.” 

“Yeah,” Jason agrees with a breathless chuckle, glancing down. “I’m looking forward to some rest.” 

“Your birthday too,” Bruce says, and Jason starts. A smirk curls the corner of Bruce’s lips. “You didn’t think I’d forgotten your birthday, did you?” 

Jason shrugs. “Wasn’t sure what to think.” 

The silence stretches, long and unbroken but for the chirp of crickets in the summer air. The tension swells between them, trepidation gathering Jason's gut as he sips his drink. Bruce’s gaze roams over the grounds, pensive, before it returns to Jason’s face.

Here comes the lecture, Jason thinks wryly. There’s a solemnness to Bruce's features that twists Jason’s gut. When he speaks, his tone is soft and low. 

“I know we’ve had our differences,” Bruce admits, and Jason bleats a gentle, strangled laugh. “We’ve fought, at times.” 

Jason fingers the stem of his glass, for lack of something better to do. 

“You push everyone around you because you know they can be better. Myself included.” When Jason glances up, Bruce’s jaw is tight, but his eyes are soft. “You always have.” 

“Bruce,” Jason says, shifting. His chest is tight, and suddenly he can’t lift his gaze from his shoes. 

“And I’m not going to assume a place in your life,” Bruce continues, tone low. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d call it remorse. Regret, maybe. “I won’t pretend I’ve earnt that. But you’re my student, still.” 

Jason’s eyes flick up, throat laced shut. 

Bruce’s eyes are clear, and unwavering. “If you need help - of any kind - I want to offer it to you. I know,” he continues, with his own breathless laugh, “that you’re capable. I’ve seen it. But just know you don’t always have to be.” 

Swallowing, Jason curls his fingers into a loose fist. If only to quench the trembling in the digits. 

“You don’t have to be,” Bruce repeats, holding his stare with something firm. 

Jason stares, for a long time. Long enough that it takes him a while to work enough feeling into his jaw to say, “I’ve-” 

He wants to tell Bruce, he does. And maybe that’s childish, but even with all these years between them, Bruce will always be a stronghold for Jason. Their trust needs some repair, sure, but Bruce has always been someone Jason can invest the rawest parts of himself in. As a mentor, as a friend, as a- 

The door opens, loud in the quiet. Jason startles, spinning to face Slade, framed by the warm glow of the room behind him. He exhales at the sight of the man, squeezing his hands tight as he calms his racing heart. 

He wonders whether Slade heard anything, even when Jason knows that’s impossible. The hockey player’s expression is stern and stiff though, darkened by the shadows. 

“Slade,” Jason greets, wringing his wrists self-consciously. 

“Todd.” 

Jason shifts, runs a hand back through his fringe as he clears his throat. His pulse feels loud in his ears. “What’s up?” 

“I just got a call. It’s Napier,” Slade says gruffly. “He’s been arrested.” 

Jason’s hearing bleeds to a high, staticky whine. 

“What for?” 

“Aggravated assault.” 

He doesn’t know why he asks, “Anything else?” 

Slade gives him a quizzical look. “What else would he be arrested for, kid?” 

“Nothing, it’s just- I- nevermind,” Jason stammers, chest unexpectedly tight. It feels like a vice is closing on his ribcage, making every breath harder to draw than the last. “The other guy,” he remembers the injured supporter from the game, tries to gather his spinning thoughts, “he’s pressing charges?” 

“Yes. Napier’s looking at prison time.” 

It shouldn’t feel like a relief. It shouldn’t. Jason’s boss has just been arrested for brutally assaulting a man. Jason shouldn’t feel glad for that news. 

But- 

But if it sticks, that means he’s gone from Jason’s life, even temporarily. And if he is convicted, the league will boot him for a criminal record. He won’t be the Jokers’ manager anymore, and Jason will be- Jason will be- 

The sob bubbles up his throat before he can quench it, and it’s equally fear and joy. Jason’s not sure what it is exactly, except that it’s overwhelming, and he’s bowing forward to press the heels of his hands into his eyes and weep around a smile before he knows it. 

He can feel Bruce hovering, feel his large palm wrap over Jason’s heaving shoulder. Hear his soft, distant, “Jason? Jaylad, are you okay?” 

Jason nods, because his throat is too swollen to speak right now. He just leans forward and cries relief into the pavement between his polished shoes. 

Bruce must give Slade permission to leave, because Jason hears him murmur something over his head, and then hears the soft click of the balcony door closing behind the man’s exit. He draws in a sharp, cloying breath of summer air, fills his lungs with it until they feel like they’ll burst from the pressure. His head feels light, feels like it’s aching as he rests his forehead in his palm and tries to focus on breathing. 

Bruce waits him out. Not pressing for details. Just a warm, heavy, comforting hand on his shoulder and a patience shared between them. 

Jason leans into the touch, and if he wasn’t filled to the brim with overwhelming relief, maybe he’d notice how much he’d missed such a simple gesture. 

“You’re alright,” Bruce soothes, palm stroking over his shoulder, through his suit jacket. Slow circles that rub the warmth back into Jason’s heaving chest. 

Jason nods, lungs shuddering on the exhale. 

Bruce says, “You’re okay,” and Jason agrees. 

So he tells Bruce everything. He glosses over some of the finer details, keeps it to the reader’s digest edition. But he keeps his eyes on Bruce’s face the whole while, watches that scowl darken with concern, and then fury; a touch of guilt above his brow, a glint of sadness in his eyes. 

It makes Jason’s chest feel like it’s splitting, tearing wide to bear himself to Bruce like this. 

And through it all, Bruce just squeezes his shoulder and nods. Lets him talk it all out until Jason’s lungs are empty, until his head is swimming. 

Then Jason scrapes the tracks from his cheeks with the heels of his palms, thumbs the drops from the corners of his eyes as he stares at the pavement between his shoes and waits for Bruce to speak. To say something, anything. 

“You’re okay,” Bruce says, gently. Softer than anything else he’s said tonight, and Jason’s throat swells shut, tears brimming again. 

“Yeah,” Jason chokes out. 

“You’re going to be alright.” 

His hand squeezes Jason’s shoulder, hard, and Jason folds forward to bury his face in Bruce’s jacket, wraps arms around him. Bruce tenses up for a moment, and then his hand goes to the back of Jason’s head, just holds him while he shudders and breathes. 

“You’re going to be so much better than alright, Jaylad,” Bruce murmurs into Jason’s skin, the low rumble vibrating through him as he clings. 

Jason nods, forehead scratching on the material of Bruce’s suit, and breathes deep.

Chapter Text

“We got you a present,” Tim says simply. 

They’re in the living room of Dick’s apartment, listening to Jason and Damian bicker over who gets the last blanket. Jason’s got the flat of his palm smooshed to Damian’s cheek, and Damian’s got his heel jammed under one of Jason’s ribs, blanket stretched tight between them. Dick’s got half his attention on them, and the other half on the gift pinched between Tim’s fingers. 

Dick looks down at the nondescript thumb drive, and back up again, a crease in his brow. 

Tim smiles, sliding it into his palm. The presentation leaves something to be desired, but Jason had gone to the effort of slapping a bright blue bow on the top. “From Jason and I,” Tim elaborates, and shoves his empty hands into his pockets to stave off the nerves. “Hope you like it.” 

“It’s not your sex tape, is it?” Dick asks with a skeptical brow, and Tim flushes a violent shade of red. The curl of Dick’s grin tells him it’s entirely intentional, even as he tucks Tim under his arm in a half-hug. “Be honest with me, grackle. Is this safe for work?” 

“It’s not a sex tape,” Tim grumbles. Dick gives him a pealing laugh, but cuts him loose. 

“Thank you for the gift,” he says, and across the room, Damian emerges from their tussle with the blanket in hand. Jason pouts from the floorboards, one hand clutching his ribs. 

“You should play it now,” Tim suggests. “With everyone here.” 

Dick looks surprised, but he passes the drive back to Tim. “If you say so, grackle. You want to set it up?” 

“Richard,” Damian interjects, shuffling up from his coveted place on the couch to make room for Dick. The former skater offers a hand to help Jason to his feet before he settles in, letting Damian victoriously drape his blanket over them both. 

Jason concedes, snatching up a beer from the table as he takes Dick’s other side. Tim doesn’t miss when he jams his cold feet under Dick’s calf, smirking at his reactionary hiss. With the November chill in the air, it’s a fight just to breakeven. Doesn’t help that Dick, ever the ice princess, keeps his apartment at a temperature that would rival a rink. 

Tim slots the drive into the television while Jason flicks through the channels. From the corner of his eye, Tim watches Dick’s bemused expression, watches his brow fold into curiosity when the video thumbnail fills the screen. 

“Comfy?” Jason confirms, thumb on the play button. 

Dick pulls Damian deeper into his side, ignoring the teen’s wriggle. “Good to go.” 

“Sound off in the back?” 

“Roll the tape,” Steph calls from where she’s draped over the armchair, purple socks on display. 

Tim takes up a seat in front of the television, cross-legged on the floorboards so he can have an undisturbed line of sight between the video on the screen and Dick. 

Dick’s got a placid expression on his face, the sort like he’s humouring Tim, settling in for another one of his obsessed figures routine rants. Tim just keeps his eyes on Dick, on the way he frowns curiously when he notices the odd angle of the shot, how he stills when he starts to recognise the elements, starts to piece together the routine. 

Tim’s heart presses a bruise in his throat as he watches Dick’s expression open, raw and bare and stunned. Jason’s watching him too, Tim notices when his gaze flicks to the man beside him. There’s a pride in his blue-green eyes when he gives Tim a reassuring smile, before they both turn back to Dick. 

They’re more than halfway through the routine, and Tim can see Dick leaning into each step sequence, toes twitching on the carpet. Like he can actually feel the elements, can feel the chill of the ice and the burn in his muscles. Even Steph has straightened, socks touching down on the floorboards as she watches with a stunned gawk, Damian's face a mirror. Tim spares them the barest glance before returning to watch Dick. 

He’s straightening, pulling away from Damian to lean towards the screen, like he can dive right in onto the ice, fly there alongside Tim. He’s not even sure Dick’s breathing, he’s so embedded in the moment, so tense. Everything coiled around that feeling, and it breaks Tim’s heart to see that rawness, that vulnerable joy on Dick’s face. Seeing how much skating means to Dick is always a sacred experience. Never moreso than when he's wrapped up in the moment. 

There’s a blinding focus to Dick’s stare, to the bright burn behind his eyes. It makes Tim’s lungs ache with the breath he’s holding, waiting for the penny to drop. 

When it comes, Dick audibly gasps. 

There’s enough unguarded wonder there that Tim turns back to the screen to watch. Jason’s only in the shot for the barest moment, and then they’re all flying, right there along with him. 

It’s quiet, when the video ends. It looks shorter than it felt, an endless infinity condensed into two and a half minutes. The screen flickers to a still, the room just as much so, and Tim steels himself to turn and look at Dick. 

He’s crying. It twists Tim’s chest for a moment, panic lighting him up before he marks the silent trail of those tears where they meet his bright, beaming smile. Tim’s not sure he’s ever seen a sight so beautiful. 

“Happy birthday, Dick,” he says softly, and those blue eyes flick from where they’re still stuck on the screen to where he sits. Tim feels his eyes brim too, the emotion overwhelming when it spills over from Dick’s into his own. 

Beside him, Jason grins. “You’re an ugly crier.” 

Dick wraps him up in a hug so tight that Tim’s spine aches in sympathy. Jason manages to resist for all of twenty seconds before he’s slinging an arm around Dick’s shoulders, a small, wavering little smile slipping onto his features. For just a moment, he looks younger, a smaller skater trapped in Dick’s signature hug. 

Then Dick’s breaking off to glare at him, the heat marred by the smears on his cheeks. “You should know better than to do unsupervised throws, Jason Peter Todd.” 

Tim can hear Jason’s eyes roll from across the room. “I promise not to do any more throws if you swear off doubles.” 

Dick’s scowl is a complicated twist of muscles, his lip rolling under his teeth like he’s trying very hard not to chastise him. Eventually though, it unfurls enough for him to say, “Stalemate.” 

Jason nods, smirking. “Stalemate.” 

“Can we…” Tim’s never seen Dick look so hesitant, a hushed sort of wonder settling over his features as he sits back. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream. He looks floored, like someone’s ripped the rug out from under him and he’s found himself floating. Tim just hopes it compares to the feeling of flying. “Can we watch it again?” 

So Tim turns back to the screen and hits play again, watching Dick with abandon. Watches him shift through the motions, weight flowing from one leg to the other, eyes fixed on the screen. Thinking more with his limbs than his head. Tim can nearly feel the nip of the ice at his skin, the gleam of the spotlights over Dick’s body as he leans into each jump. 

He knows when Dick reaches that jump again, because he stills, the air sapping from him for the barest moment. Untouchable, as he breathes through that intangible feeling, held just out of reach until now. 

Dick’s crying again, before they’re done. Swiping his palms across his cheeks as he crosses the room to drop to his knees and draw Tim into a hug that he feels down to his bones, bruising and full. 

Tim doesn’t ask if it felt the same, or if it matches up. It’s obvious in the sheer, unbridled happiness on Dick’s features when he pulls back. 

“Thank you,” Dick says, and means so much more. 

Tim melts into that gratitude, throat too swollen to reply. 

Steph steps in to do emotional damage control, which Tim knows she’s incredibly skilled at, announcing loudly that she’s going to get popcorn. Damian scrambles to offer help, chattering loudly about butter and icing sugar ratios as Dick graciously stiffens his upper lip. 

Jason finds his way to Tim’s side in the ruckus, the warm slip of his fingers between Tim’s grounding him. He tilts his head back to smile at the hockey player, squeezing back. 

He’s an anchor, now as always. Tim doesn’t know how he ever lived without Jason, now that he’s lived the alternative. They’ve just passed their six-month anniversary, the occasion marked by a truly romantic private session in Bruce’s rink. And then an even more romantic private session that followed back at home. 

Jason’s just started up his regular hockey season again, and Tim likes attending his training sessions on off days. He’s in the off-season himself, gearing up to start his first year in adult figures rankings. But he can spare a few hours to watch Jason light up on the ice, features flushed with glee and attention centred on his opponent. 

He’s never seen Jason so free. 

The Gotham City Jokers assigned an interim manager following Jack’s arrest, but Jason’s heard rumours they’re planning to approach Slade for the role. Jason’s firmly of the opinion that Slade would sooner die than choose a desk over the rink. 

Tim’s gotten to know the team better, too. Jason had been quick to invite him on another one of their after-training dinners, nervous about having Tim reintroduced to the team following his absence. They’re a raucous bunch, but Tim’s gradually falling into the rhythm of them now. Jason, for the most part, seems relieved. 

He’s even been making strides at rebuilding bridges himself. Tim’s slowly coaxing him back into Bruce’s rink, and now that his relationship with his former mentor is past its teething stages, he’s much less hesitant to come watch Tim practice. He even made a point of visiting Alfred, Bruce’s back-of-house silent partner, just to introduce Tim to the concept of good old music for his next routine. 

Tim had snorted and waved off Jason’s insistence that Daft Punk didn’t classify as Worlds-appropriate music fare. And then made a point of demonstrating it in a training routine on the fly, right beneath Jason’s scowl and Alfred’s crisp smile. 

Damian finally gets Bruce to attend one of his high school games at the start of his junior year, and it doesn’t require half the bribery and teeth-pulling Tim expected. He even manages to beg Jason into bringing Waylon along to a team meet, and Tim swears the teenager doesn’t stop grinning for a whole month afterward. 

Dick, at least as far as Tim gets to see, has been keeping to his doubles limit. He doesn’t ask where the former skater sneaks off to after their training sessions, or who the growing number of hickeys above the high collar of Dick’s jacket have been coming from. It’s enough to see the way Dick’s face lights up every day, to know that he’s happy and safe, and doing what he loves. 

The drama and the disaster of the last year seem eons away compared to where they’re at now, Tim thinks. And even with all the turmoil the last year has had to offer him, Tim wouldn’t hesitate to walk through it again if it meant he’d get to stand here with Jason now, his warm hand in Jason’s palm. 

“Is that all the life-altering events we have scheduled for today?” Steph asks, returning with an enormous bowl slung under one arm. Tim’s not sure where she found it, considering how sparse he knows Dick’s kitchen to be. She cradles it in her lap when she returns to her seat cross-legged, scowling when Damian swipes a handful in passing. 

“Oh no,” Jason says loftily, the pride obvious in his tone as he smirks down to Tim. “Princess has got one more piece of news.” 

Tim smiles down at his toes, unable to quench the grin on his features despite the sudden rush of butterflies through his stomach. Jason’s fingers massage into his waist when he draws in a steady breath, centring him as he glances up. “I, um. I’ve been selected for Worlds.” 

There’s a beat of perfect silence, and then everyone’s ricocheting upwards, a swell of cacophonous noise rattling through Tim’s ears as they converge on him. Jason proves himself to be a spectacular traitor when he leaps back to let Steph and Dick wrap Tim up in a bone-crushing hug, feet clearing the floor as he chokes and writhes. 

“Congratulations, grackle!” Dick cheers when he’s finally regained his footing. He looks ecstatic, and Tim can’t help but grin contagiously. 

“Holy shit,” Steph enthuses, rattling him. 

“I guess they liked my silver,” Tim jokes. 

Steph gives him a blinding grin. “Queen routine takes the cake, every time.” 

Tim snorts, but it’s Dick who interjects, “When? Next year?” 

“Yeah,” Tim says, bemused when Dick practically vibrates with the news. “The announcement won’t be until January, but I’ve already accepted.” 

“They’re hosting in Canada this time, aren’t they?” 

“Yeah, Montreal,” Tim confirms. 

“Birthplace of hockey,” Jason chimes in proudly, deeming it safe to approach. He tucks Tim into his side, the warmth of him burning through Tim’s core. “We should visit while you’re up there.” 

“We should do a road trip,” Dick pipes up. Damian’s gaze lights with something indestructibly determined, and Tim blanches. 

“All of us?” 

“Absolutely,” Dick chimes with a shrug, tucking Damian into his side again. The teen looks like it’s taking visible effort to suppress his excitement at the prospect of dragging Dick into his hockey fanaticism. “We could hire a van, head up the coastline. Make an adventure of it.” 

“Sounds like a riot,” Jason drawls, thick with sarcasm. 

Dick’s eyes sparkle in the light of the television screen, all of him uncompromising when he says, “That includes you, Little Wing.” 

“Me?” Jason interjects, horror blooming on his features. “Why me?” 

“The whole crew,” Dick enthuses with the sort of threatening grin that can devolve into puppy dog eyes at a moment’s notice. “All of us.” 

Jason winces, and deflates in the face of Dick’s love of unnecessary road trips. “If you say so.” 

Tim grins and winds his fingers tighter into Jason’s. “I don’t know, I think it could be fun.” 

Jason glances down at him, lip curling in a smile. “You think so, princess?” 

“Only one way to find out.”

Chapter Text

You can find this art and more in the Check Yourself: Art Collection.