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Tim stomped out of Robinson Park in a bad mood. Ivy had been in a snit, and even though the situation had been resolved without property damage, Tim was still covered in the shimmering dust that Ivy had never stopped stocking after she first caused a crying Robin clinging to a panicking Batman like a koala.
If Dick had managed to hold back the tears for five minutes longer, Ivy wouldn’t have found the situation hilarious enough to recreate it, again and again and again.
The pollen wasn’t truly dangerous, the cold insubstantial, but it was still annoying. It felt like someone made him swallow ice cubes, and the sensation was particularly uncomfortable as Tim finished the decontamination shower and started cleaning out all his gear. He was aware that he was sulking, his entire face pinched into a glower, but he was cold, and he wanted a hug, and there was no one here.
Steph and Cass were on vacation in Hong Kong, Bruce had taken Damian and Alfred with him on his tour of W.E. offices abroad, and Dick was in space. Tim was left holding the fort in Gotham, and it had been only two weeks but it already felt like an eternity.
His fingers were trembling by the time he finished sorting through his gear. The tea took too long to make, and by the time Tim discovered that someone had moved the weighted blankets, the ice cubes had spread down his arms.
He was shivering.
Tim stood in the middle of the hallway, staring at the linen closet with his arms wrapped around himself, and felt his eyes begin to prickle.
It was stupid. It was stupid. He was Red Robin, he practically ran Wayne Enterprises, he was one of the most accomplished teenagers in the world, and he was about to have a breakdown over a lack of hugs.
He was pathetic.
Tim turned towards his room—the sweatshirt he was already wearing wasn’t cutting it, but maybe stealing one of Bruce’s gigantic ones and then snatching Zitka from Dick’s room before curling up in a comforter would mimic the weighted blanket enough to let him sleep. Ivy’s pollen would wear off before morning, and then he’d be perfectly fine.
It would be another week before Bruce got back, Steph and Cass wouldn’t return for another month, and god knows when Dick would be planetside again. Another ice flower unfurled inside Tim’s chest, strangled in his lungs, choking him and freezing him at the same time.
He had to suck it up. Sure, cuddling up with someone would be easier, but it wasn’t necessary, he could just run a hot bath or drape himself on top of the heater because there was no one in Gotham tonight—
Tim froze mid-step.
But that wasn’t quite true, was it.
Jason Todd didn’t usually pop up on Tim’s list of family members, but the Red Hood had slowly started reconciling with the Bats, especially after that city-wide fear toxin outbreak a few months ago that had needed all hands on deck. Tim was no longer afraid of being met with a bullet if he strayed into Crime Alley, and Hood had joined their cases a couple of times, maintaining a wary peace bracketed by Batman’s painfully hesitant hope and Nightwing’s determined cheer.
Hood had even provided back-up on the drug bust in the East End a couple nights ago, his sniping minor and within the boundaries of friendly teasing. He still avoided the Cave at all costs, but it was pretty clear that the Red Hood was an enemy no longer.
As an ally, it would make perfect sense for him to help Tim with the aftereffects of a Rogue chemical attack.
As Tim’s childhood hero, as the dead boy whose place Tim had stolen, as the murderer who had once broken into Titans Tower to beat him unconscious—as Jason Todd, Tim was terrified of asking him for help.
Empty room and not enough blankets to drown out his misery, or questionably stable antihero that could still be holding a grudge?
Fuck, he was really losing it if asking Jason for help was even an option on the table.
But there was something tight between his lungs, something squeezing, something insisting that he could phrase it as a favor, trade Hood intel on cases or Bat gear or something, anything he wanted, please, please—
Tim exhaled, and went to go find his keys.
Jason was too tired for annoyance when he heard the knock at the door. Stifling a yawn—the majority of the Bats were out of town, leaving only him and Red Robin to patrol Gotham, and the hyperawareness was exhausting—he wearily plodded over to the door of his latest safehouse-turned-apartment-because-he’d-been-too-lazy-to-move. Patrol had ended much later than it usually did, and he just wanted to sleep, and he was too tired to even go get his gun in case whoever was at his door needed some persuading to leave him alone.
Of all the people that could’ve shown up at his apartment, the Replacement in civilian clothes was very, very low on the list.
Jason blinked. Tim stared up at him.
“Are you okay?” was the first thing that came out of Jason’s mouth. He couldn’t imagine any other reason that the kid would be at his door—Jason could admit that he no longer wanted the Replacement dead or gone, but they weren’t exactly friends.
Did he get hurt on patrol? Jason hadn’t heard any chatter about someone clipping a bird. Shit, Bruce was going to make disappointed eyes at him. He’d told Jason to keep an eye on the kid.
“I—I wanted a favor?” the kid was stuttering, which was unusual, and Jason was sorely tempted to growl because couldn’t this have waited till morning?
Bruce’s disappointed look. It was different from Batman’s disappointed look, and it made Jason feel two inches tall.
Jason made a wordless grumble and swung the door open wider.
The Replacement shuffled in like Jason’s apartment was a bear cave, and Jason couldn’t restrain himself from the rolled eyes as he closed and locked the door behind them. “Well?” he arched an eyebrow, making no move to gentle his voice. It was four fucking AM, Jason was exhausted, and he might not hate the Replacement anymore, but the annoyance was still there. “You going to spit it out sometime today?”
The kid flinched. Jason refused to feel bad. He waited, mostly impatiently, as Tim opened his mouth. And closed it again. And opened and closed it again. He could clearly still speak, but no words crossed his lips, and the Lazarus Pit had done Jason’s temper no favors.
“Are you trying to mime what you want?” Jason snapped, forcing down the urge to grab the kid’s collar and haul him out. “Or do you want me to get some paper so we can play Pictionary? Just fucking spit it out, Replacement.”
The kid was almost trembling. He took a shaky breath—and it cracked on something that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
Jason froze, instinctively glancing at the window like Nightwing would appear to save him—please tell him Jason wasn’t supposed to play big brother here, fuck, Jason was not equipped for this—but there was no one but him.
“A—actually,” Tim mumbled, as though the whisper would disguise the hoarseness of his voice. “I—it’s okay.” He edged towards the door. “I’ll—leave. Sorry.”
Oh, so the kid thought he could come here, keep Jason awake, then leave without saying anything? Fuck no. Jason growled and grabbed the Replacement’s shoulder before he could reach the door, pulling him back to face him—
That was definitely a sob, and when Tim lifted his gaze, Jason could see the tear tracks glinting on his cheeks.
Jason’s mind went blank. He—he hadn’t done anything—the kid had come here—Jason wasn’t dressed as Hood, wasn’t armed or armored—and Jason hastily let go of Tim’s shoulder and backed up a step.
“No!” Jason flinched back, but the kid was faster, and—and there were arms wrapping around him and a face buried into his sternum and gasping, choked sobs. “No, please—please don’t—please—”
Jason really, really wanted to call for help now. “Tim?” he tried, slowly, hesitantly wrapping his arms around the kid’s trembling back. “What happened?”
Terrible things flashed through his head—something had happened to Bruce, to the girls, to Damian, to Dick, to Alfred—but Tim managed to dredge up enough breath to stutter, “I—Ivy. Pollen.”
Oh. Oh. Some part of Jason untensed in relief.
“Please,” Tim choked out, “Please, please—I—I’ll help with your cases or—or get you gear or—or anything you want, Jason, please—please—”
“Tim,” Jason said quietly, and then louder when the kid didn’t stop crying, “Tim. It’s okay.” He tightened his grip. “I’ll help you.” Tim clung to him, like Jason hadn’t once broken those very same arms, and Jason slowly maneuvered them backwards, until he could sink down in the cushions.
Tim, clearly unwilling to detach himself, ended up in Jason’s lap, still shivering. “Hey,” Jason murmured, “It’s okay, I got you.” Jason hadn’t hugged anyone but Dick in far, far too long, but the general principle was still the same. He squeezed tight, and listened to the kid’s breathing ease the longer Jason held him. “This good?”
“Mm-hmm,” the kid murmured, burying his face against Jason’s shirt. Jason pretended like he couldn’t feel the tears. He hadn’t seen anyone have this strong a reaction to Ivy’s pollen in years—not like he was any of the Bats’ first choice when it came to a hug.
He was definitely not Tim’s first choice for a hug either, not after what he’d done, Jason was surprised that the kid had turned up here at all. There—there was a part of him that was quietly warm, that had been suspicious of Dick and Bruce’s efforts to draw him back into the fold, that had been sure that he’d done too many unforgiveable things to be welcomed back.
But some of the most unforgiveable had been aimed at the teenager shivering in his lap, clinging tightly to him, and—and Tim had come here. Had come here to ask for Jason’s help.
Jason might be the last person on his list, but he was still on the list.
Jason wiggled down the couch, until he was stretched out with the kid on top of him, exhaustion pressing down. He muffled a yawn, and extracted one hand to search for the blanket he had draped over the back of the couch—the pollen would take hours to break down, and Jason was too tired to stay awake—but got sidetracked by a muffled protest.
“Tim?” Jason paused, “You okay?” Was he holding too tightly? Jason loosened his grip, and was met with a louder protest.
“Tighter,” the kid insisted, burrowing deeper against Jason. Jason squeezed him as tightly as he could without creaking his ribs, but Tim was still tense.
Jason extracted the blanket and made a token effort at draping it over the both of them, before twisting. He reversed their positions—Tim was on the couch now, Jason draped over him at an angle, practically squishing him against the cushions, and a startled sound burst free.
The kid went limp.
“Tim?” Jason asked warily, tense, ready to get off—
“Thank you,” Tim’s voice cracked, his arms still wrapped around Jason, and Jason let himself relax. His grasp was half a cage and half smothering, but Tim’s breathing evened out, and by the time Jason dared to run his fingers through that soft, dark hair, tugging lightly on the ends in an old, instinctive pattern, Tim’s eyes were closed.
Jason wasn’t doing any better at holding out—the next yawn nearly cracked his jaw—and he curled tighter around the baby bird, grounding him, and let his eyes slide shut.
Tim woke slowly and well-rested, a novel occurrence. He was wrapped up in warmth, a gentle, pulsing beat of it, and he felt…content. Completely, utterly content.
His arms were trapped, so he couldn’t rub at his sticky eyes, but he was lying on something soft and he felt like he was cocooned in sunlight, and nothing else mattered in the world.
Not even the vivid green eyes blearily cracking open inches from his.
The eyes blinked. Then furrowed slightly, and receded, the arms wrapped around him loosening enough to pull away a couple inches further. “Tim?” Jason rasped, sounding confused.
It wasn’t a sneered Replacement, and right now, Tim felt so peaceful he could melt. “Jason,” he murmured back.
Jason extracted a hand to rub at his face, bracing himself on an elbow to lever off of Tim. Tim mourned the absence of smothering warmth as Jason slowly woke up, squinting over Tim’s head at the window.
“You want breakfast?” the older boy yawned, and the quiet sadness was forestalled by a burst of joy. Was he—was he serious—“Cornbread?” he blinked down at Tim.
If someone had told him yesterday that he’d be cuddling with Jason Todd and invited for breakfast, Tim would’ve asked them what they were on and could he please have some too.
“Sure,” he squeaked, and apparently he hadn’t buried that part of him that had once pretended that Jason was actually his brother, because his heart squeezed painfully at Jason’s answering smile.
“Okay,” Jason said, face scrunching up in a yawn, and—dropped back down, curling around Tim and tugging him closer. “Wake me up in five minutes,” he murmured, and Tim dared to lean closer and snuggle into his grasp.
If this was a dream, Tim was going to murder someone.