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Tim really should’ve known better than to let Dick speak at the engagement party.
“—and now that they’ve finally admitted they’re in love,” Dick says, grinning like a man who knows no fear and has never read a room in his life, “we can all start placing bets on which last name they’re taking.”
Silence.
Tim blinks. Jason’s glass is halfway to his lips, frozen mid-sip. Steph leans forward like it’s the first interesting thing she’s heard all night. Damian exhales in a way that sounds distinctly like pathetic. Bruce is looking at the crystal chandelier like he’s willing it to fall on all of them.
Dick, undeterred, raises his eyebrows. “C’mon. Is it gonna be Wayne? Todd? Drake?”
“We’re not taking Wayne,” Jason and Tim say at the same time, with the shared horror of two men who would rather die than be accused of brand loyalty.
Tim clears his throat. “Obviously, we’re going with Drake.”
Jason snorts. “Yeah, no. Todd.”
“No offence, babe,” Tim says, calm and cutting, “but Drake has significantly more name recognition. Public trust. Corporate history. I can sign an NDA, and people actually care.”
Jason sets his glass down. “And Todd doesn’t scream ‘former child billionaire who’s probably started multiple cults’ when you Google it.”
“Wow,” Tim says. “I’m sorry I didn’t come with built-in street cred and a tragic backstory.”
“Not all of us had the privilege of being emotionally repressed and IRS-audited before twenty-one.”
“Okay, okay,” Dick interjects, holding up his hands like a referee between two feral cats. “Maybe this is a private conversation. Or a trial by combat. I’m flexible.”
Jason looks at Tim. “You didn’t seriously think I was gonna take your last name, did you?”
Tim arches a brow. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I’m the one marrying up,” Jason says, waving a hand at Tim’s ridiculous penthouse. “If anything, you’re the one who gets the name upgrade. Todd is classic. Gritty. No-nonsense.”
“It sounds like an overripe melon someone forgot in a grocery cart.”
“It sounds real.”
“So does a hospital bill.”
There’s a long beat.
In the corner, Cass is silently filming them with her phone. Duke is taking notes. Damian has already started a bracket system in his sketchpad.
“Anyway,” Jason mutters, crossing his arms. “Not like it matters. I’m not changing my name.”
Tim scoffs. “Neither am I.”
“Cool,” Jason says flatly. “Guess we’re both the bride.”
Bruce takes a very long sip of his wine and asks Alfred if it's too late to fake a power outage.
There’s a Post-it on the bathroom mirror.
Brush your teeth, love — Tim Todd 💙
Jason stares at it for a full five seconds before carefully removing it and sticking it onto the inside of the medicine cabinet door. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of the realm of nightmare scenarios where someone calls him Mr. Todd-Todd.
He’s not losing this.
The next morning, Tim wakes up to find his phone folders renamed:
💼 Business → Jason’s Assistant
💖 Photos → Pictures of Mr. Wayne-Todd
🛠️ Work → Bridal Prep (Tim’s Panic Edition)
He doesn’t even blink. He just calmly walks to Jason’s side of the closet, takes out one of his leather jackets, and tapes a tag to the inside.
Property of Timothy Drake.
Please return to rightful owner if found trying to start shit.
Their group chat—Wayne Family Circus 🎪—has become a battleground.
[Dick]
okay but “Drake-Todd” sounds like a jazz duo from the 30s
[Steph]
"Todd-Drake” sounds like a legal firm that does crime on weekends
[Duke]
just go full chaos and pick a new last name. combine your middle names or something. be the couple that trademarks their vows
{Damian]
you are all imbeciles. adopt my name. Problem solved.
[Cass}
💡 CassTodd.
💡 CassDrake.
💡 CassWayne.
I win.
It only gets worse.
Jason starts calling Tim “Mr. Todd” in public, especially when they’re in front of shareholders.
Tim retaliates by updating all of Jason’s contact info: voicemail, email signature, even the metadata on his favourite playlists.
“Hi, you’ve reached Jason Drake—yes, that Drake—leave a message after the emotional baggage.”
Jason files for emotional damages. Tim files for trademark infringement.
A week before the wedding, Jason finds a beautifully wrapped box on their shared desk.
Inside: a navy blue passport, freshly issued.
Jason flips it open.
Name: Jason Drake
Jason yells loud enough for the security system to activate. Upstairs, Tim smiles to himself and clicks “confirm” on the backup Jason Todd passport application he filed, just in case.
Later that night, they both collapse on the couch, exhausted from work and name-based warfare.
Jason’s sprawled out like roadkill. “We could flip a coin.”
Tim doesn’t look up from his laptop. “We’d both cheat.”
“True.”
A beat.
“…What if we just kept our own names?”
Tim glances at him. “That’s the logical answer.”
Jason shrugs. “But then Damian doesn’t get to hand out ‘Team Todd’ hats at the wedding.”
“…He made hats?”
Jason tosses one to him. Black with red embroidery. MR. TODD in all caps.
Tim squints. “There’s glitter in this.”
“Yeah, that was Cass.”
Tim sighs. “We are never going to live this down.”
Jason leans in and presses a kiss to Tim’s temple. “Good thing I love you more than I hate paperwork.”
Tim hums. “We’ll see if that still applies when I print a Mr. and Mr. Drake banner for the ceremony.”
Tim wakes up to Wayne Manor: Great Hall of Passive Aggression.
The long dining table is set for brunch. There’s three kinds of coffee, six different teas, an omelette bar. Alfred is plating scones like he’s hosting a UN peace summit. Everyone has a custom nameplate.
Tim blinks. His reads: Timothy Drake-Wayne-Todd-Wayne-Todd-Drake
Jason’s says: Jason “Seriously?” Todd
“Why are we here?” Jason mutters as he sits, “And why does my nameplate sound like a tax form?”
Dick beams. “Family intervention.”
“Intervention,” Tim repeats, flat.
“Because we love you,” Steph says. “And also because I’m sick of getting texts like ‘He renamed my Roomba to Jason Todd’s Lesser Twin.’”
“It was a joke.”
“You made it avoid dark corners so it wouldn’t ‘be like me.’”
“That’s innovation.”
“Now,” Dick says, clapping his hands. “Today’s agenda: The Name. I’ve brought compromise options.”
He holds up a whiteboard.
(1) Todd-Drake
(2) Drake-Todd
(3) Take Wayne (crossed out violently)
(4) New Surname: Bloodhawk (Duke’s suggestion, marked ‘badass’)
(5) Just ‘Tim and Jason’ like celebrities
(6) Shared Initial: Dott? Trake? Todake??
(7) Merge names: JaTimothy (this one has a tiny Batman drawn next to it)
Tim leans forward. “You spelt ‘Drake’ wrong on option six.”
Jason points at #5. “Honestly, ‘just Tim and Jason’ is starting to look good.”
“Bloodhawk sounds like a D-list antihero,” Tim mutters. “You want us to sound like we eat glass recreationally?”
“I mean, I do.”
Alfred appears silently beside them, placing down fresh scones. “Might I suggest a practical consideration?”
Everyone pauses.
“You will, inevitably, be known by whichever name the press uses first,” Alfred says, with the calm menace of someone who’s raised several masked vigilantes and two homicidal toddlers. “So perhaps you should determine which of you is more… brand consistent.”
Jason frowns. “What does that mean?”
Tim already has his phone out. “It means I’m running a brand perception poll.”
Ten minutes later, the votes are in the groupchat.
Poll: If Tim and Jason got married, what name would you believe more?
(A) Jason Drake
(B) Tim Todd
(C) Mr. & Mr. Emotional Repression
Duke votes A. Cass votes C. Steph texts “I voted 3x and made Bruce vote too.”
Jason side-eyes Tim’s phone. “What if we just arm-wrestle for it?”
“You’re 6’0 and sleep in a tank top,” Tim says. “You don’t need the ego boost.”
“You’re 5’10 and sleep in malice.”
“Exactly.”
Leslie drops by mid-discussion, invited by Alfred. She’s the first to offer actual emotional insight.
“When I changed my name,” she says, sipping her coffee, “I didn’t do it for tradition. I did it because I was stepping into a new chapter of my life.”
Tim frowns. “So… symbolic meaning?”
“Sure. Or just pick what makes you feel like yourselves, together.”
Jason tilts his head. “...So not ‘Drake.’ Got it.”
“Or ‘Todd,’” Tim says sweetly. “Unless we’re trying to convince the world we live in a garage and argue about peanut butter.”
“Garage living is economical.”
They don’t reach a consensus.
But as they leave, Bruce pats them both on the shoulders and murmurs, “Whatever you pick… thank you. For making a family of your own. Even if it’s got a bad last name.”
Jason makes a gagging noise.
Tim blushes and mumbles something about trademark filings.
Cass records the whole thing and posts a captionless screenshot of the whiteboard. It gets 3 million views.
The name war goes quiet after the brunch.
No more Roomba sabotage. No more email signature edits. No new polls in the family group chat (though Damian has been silently tracking everyone's betting odds in a Google Sheet called The Weak Will Fall.)
Instead, there’s silence.
Not awkward silence.
Not hostile silence.
Just… quiet.
Tim finds Jason on the roof one night, sitting on the ledge with a cup of coffee that’s gone cold. Gotham’s glowing below them, orange and tired.
“You ever think,” Jason says, without looking up, “how weird it is that we have last names at all?”
Tim sits beside him. “All the time.”
Jason takes a breath, slow. “I didn’t have one. Not really. Just Todd. My dad didn’t leave much else. I used to think it was this anchor—proof I existed, even if no one wanted me.”
Tim’s heart twists.
“I hated it for a long time,” Jason admits. “Especially after I came back. It sounded like a gravestone. But now…”
He finally looks at Tim.
“Now, you make it sound like something I chose. Something that matters.”
Tim doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stares at him like he’s trying to memorise the moment. Like it might disappear if he blinks.
Jason shrugs, almost shy. “So. I think I want to take your name.”
Tim’s breath catches.
“Drake,” Jason says again, soft. “I think I want to be Jason Drake.”
Tim doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t make a joke.
He just leans forward and says, quiet and serious: “I was going to take your name.”
Jason freezes. “Wait, what?”
Tim laughs, short and stunned. “I kept thinking about it. About what ‘Drake’ really means. Corporate legacy, all that noise. But you… You’re the one who built yourself from nothing. You made Todd mean something. I wanted to be part of that.”
Jason stares at him.
Tim stares back.
Jason: “So what, we just scream at each other until one of us wins?”
Tim: “Sounds on-brand.”
Jason groans. “We’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Later, back inside, Tim’s typing up forms on his laptop.
Jason leans over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Changing our names.”
Jason squints. “Wait… you’re making me Timothy Drake-Todd?”
“Nope.”
He clicks submit.
The screen reads:
Name Change Confirmation
Jason Peter Todd-Drake
Timothy Jackson Drake-Todd
Jason laughs—an actual laugh, the full-body kind. “We’re hyphenating in opposite directions?”
Tim grins. “Exactly.”
Jason drags him in by the shirt, presses their foreheads together. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I love you, too.”
The next morning, the family group chat lights up.
[Steph]
TIM-DRAKE-TODD AND JASON-TODD-DRAKE. I LOVE MARRIAGE.
[Dick]
That’s… that’s so much name.
[Steph]
You two just invented legal soulbonding.
[Duke]
It’s alphabet soup but gay. Iconic.
[Damian]
Disqualified. This is cheating.
Alfred simply replies: Your place cards have been updated. The font size is now 6pt.
The day of the wedding dawns grey and golden.
It’s raining—lightly, just enough to make Gotham’s skyline mist over, to blur the edges of rooftops like someone smudged a painting with their thumb.
The ceremony takes place on the rooftop of the Gotham Museum of Contemporary Art—Jason’s pick, surprisingly. “It’s got good bones,” he said, weeks ago. “Modern, brutalist, but not cold. Like us. You know, if we were a building.”
The museum cleared the rooftop for them entirely. The rain is light but constant, misting over the matte concrete and catching in the string lights that zigzag across the canopy. A glass-panelled shelter—sleek, minimal, warm—houses the chairs, floral arrangements, and a modest stage backed by the Gotham skyline itself, faded gold in the distance like a postcard someone forgot to send.
The flowers are wild—literally. Not tight bouquets, but curated chaos: dried lavender, eucalyptus, dark roses, sprigs of ivy. There’s nothing traditional about them, and that’s why it works.
Jason stands in front of the mirror in a dark suit and blood-red tie, his fingers twitching around the cufflinks Alfred gave him. He’s wearing both rings already—his and Tim’s—because, he claims, “if anyone’s gonna lose one mid-ceremony, it’s you, not me.”
Downstairs, Tim is doing a last-minute review of the paperwork. Because of course he is.
“Where’s the license?” he asks Alfred.
“In the folder you triple-labelled,” Alfred says, without looking up from ironing Damian’s emergency backup dress shirt.
“Which folder?”
“The one labelled Do Not Misplace, Tim, directly beneath God Help Us If Jason Signs First.”
Tim exhales. “Okay. Just checking.”
Tim’s in front of the mirror adjusting his tie for the fourth time when Cass appears behind him, uninvited and smug.
“You’re fidgeting,” she says, arms crossed.
“I’m not.”
She raises one brow.
“I’m adjusting. There’s a difference.”
“You’re nervous.”
Tim sighs. “I know every possible route out of this venue. I could disappear in under thirty seconds and be in Buenos Aires by dawn.”
Cass tilts her head. “So… very excited.”
That makes Tim pause. He meets her eyes in the mirror. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I really am.”
Cass walks over, tugs his tie into place in one smooth motion, then kisses his cheek. “Don’t vanish. You’ll miss the best part.”
Jason’s sitting in a back room of the museum, boots propped on an antique bench, staring at the ring box like it might bite him.
Dick pokes his head in. “You okay?”
Jason doesn’t look up. “I threw up in the sink.”
Dick blinks. “Like... recently?”
“Like five minutes ago.”
“Ah.” Dick walks in, hands him a bottle of water. “Nerves?”
Jason shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just realising I’m about to sign a government document that links me legally and publicly to Tim Drake for the rest of my life.”
“Terrifying.”
“Right?”
“But also…”
Jason sighs, finally smiles. “Yeah. Also kinda awesome.”
Dick squeezes his shoulder. “You’re gonna kill it, Jay.”
Jason grins. “Hopefully not literally.”
Bruce hands him a watch.
“It’s old,” Bruce says. “From your father.”
Tim turns it over in his palm, eyes going soft. “You’ve been holding onto this?”
Bruce nods. “I think he’d want you to have it today.”
There’s a long pause.
Tim clips it on his wrist without a word. Then: “Thanks, Dad.”
Bruce blinks twice. Doesn’t respond. Just puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeezes, harder than necessary.
Tim doesn’t mind.
Jason’s halfway through pacing a groove into the marble floor when Alfred intercepts him.
“Master Todd.”
“Drake-Todd,” Jason mutters. “Apparently.”
Alfred smiles, faint but proud. “Regardless of name order, you’ve made this family... something more. Something better.”
Jason swallows. “You think I’m ready?”
“I think,” Alfred says, adjusting Jason’s boutonnière with surgical precision, “you’re already doing it.”
There’s a moment, behind the curtain, where they’re alone—no cameras, no guests, no bickering family, just them.
Tim looks like he hasn’t blinked in five minutes. Jason’s hand is shaking slightly.
“You good?” Jason asks.
Tim nods. “You?”
Jason shrugs. “You could still run.”
Tim smirks. “So could you.”
“Wanna call it even?”
Tim reaches down and takes his hand. “Let’s call it forever.”
Jason makes a choked noise and pulls him in for one last kiss—slow, grounding, perfect.
Then the music starts.
And together, they step into the light.
Cass officiates.
Steph cries. Duke films everything. Dick nearly drops the rings when Jason glares at him for trying to do a bit.
Damian is the only one who doesn’t cry—though halfway through the ceremony, he loudly mutters, “This is so emotionally undisciplined,” and walks off to feed the doves.
Bruce stays silent, but when Jason says “I do,” he closes his eyes like someone exhaling after years underwater.
The name cards are perfect.
Two side-by-side chairs at the front:
Jason Todd-Drake
Tim Drake-Todd
Everyone in the crowd reacts in stages—blinking, rereading, smirking. Some clap early, others laugh. One woman murmurs, “That’s genius,” like they just invented joint taxes.
But when they walk down the aisle—hand in hand, rings gleaming, names trailing behind them like soft echoes—nobody’s laughing anymore.
Just smiling.
Because somehow, it fits.
Jason Todd-Drake and Tim Drake-Todd.
Two names. One life.
The rooftop transforms while the guests sip cocktails and Tim drags Jason off for photos he claims they’ll regret skipping. (Jason endures this with only mild grumbling, especially once Tim wraps his arms around him between shots.)
By the time they return, the space has shifted. Long banquet tables have replaced the chairs, lit by hanging Edison bulbs and candelabras perched inside rusted lanterns. There's no garish centrepiece or white drape in sight—just polished concrete, burnished brass, deep woods, and swaths of dark greenery spilling down the table edges.
The menu is unapologetically them: Gotham-style short ribs with blackberry reduction (Jason’s pick), Cacio e pepe with optional chilli flakes “for psychos” (Tim’s pick) and fresh bread, roasted vegetables, and a tiered cake that’s somehow both gorgeous and vaguely threatening (Cass helped decorate the top—there’s a tiny sculpted crow perched next to the grooms)
Duke DJed the first half of the night—until Alfred calmly relieved him after one too many ‘nostalgia bangers.’ (Jason will never forgive him for playing Backstreet’s Back during dinner.)
Bruce offers a toast, brief and deeply awkward, thanking them both for teaching him what family really means. Dick cries openly through his. Damian refuses to speak but slides them both envelopes with hand-drawn portraits of them as wolves in suits. “Don’t read into it,” he mutters. “It’s symbolism. Probably.”
And then—
The music shifts.
Tim is mid-sip of champagne when Jason tugs him onto the dance floor.
“You don’t dance,” Tim whispers, startled.
“Correction,” Jason says. “I don’t dance unless it’s very funny… or it’s for you.”
He nods to the speakers. The music starts soft—piano, strings, slow.
It’s Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.
Steph screams from the crowd. Dick practically does the worm. Alfred murmurs something approving in French.
Jason grins like a man who’s absolutely loving how wrong-footed Tim looks. “You said you wanted something memorable.”
Tim shakes his head, already laughing. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Jason murmurs, pulling him close. “You married me, remember?”
And just like that, they dance.
It’s clumsy. A little offbeat. Jason definitely steps on Tim’s foot at least once. But by the second chorus, they’re both swaying like no one’s watching—except of course, everyone is watching, phones out, eyes wide, hearts full.
Later, someone will post the video with the caption: They made the Batboys soft, your honour.
It’ll hit 2.7 million likes by morning.
After the ceremony, Bruce hands them an envelope.
“From Alfred,” he says. “He didn’t want to say anything during the wedding.”
Inside: a printed itinerary for the honeymoon.
Destination: undisclosed.
Beneath it, in careful script:
Mr. Todd-Drake and Mr. Drake-Todd,
Your bags are packed. You are expected to rest, and to be unapologetically happy.
With love—Alfred.
Later that night, curled on the hotel bed, Jason’s shirt undone, Tim’s hand on his chest, they’re still laughing about it.
“Our mail is going to be a disaster,” Tim says sleepily.
Jason hums. “I give it a week before the IRS calls to ask if we’re two people or four.”
“We should mess with them. Tell them we’re both.”
Jason tilts his head. “Tim?”
“Yeah?”
“I still think Drake-Todd sounds like a supervillain law firm.”
“And I still think Todd-Drake sounds like a guy who lives in a van and sells knives.”
Jason kisses him, laughing into it.
“Good thing we’re both idiots,” he murmurs.
Tim grins against his lips. “The best kind.”