Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I. 

Tim’s lungs are starting to burn by the time he crosses the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, but he keeps pedaling as fast as he can. His parents are coming home soon. Their flight lands in less than eight hours, and he should get at least a couple hours of sleep before he wakes up to clean.

Then he hears the engine, a low rumble that he’d know anywhere. He gets across and pulls his bike off the road just in time, and he crouches in the bushes, safely hidden. 

The Batmobile is still halfway down the bridge when the sound changes, the engine accompanied by the bright thudding rhythm of a pop song through an open window, along with a high, familiar voice sing-shouting along. Tim doesn’t know the song, but he’d know that voice anywhere. The chorus is bratty and bold, or maybe it’s just that Jason doesn’t know any other way to sing. 

Tim’s breath catches, and he fumbles with the lens cap. The bridge is well-lit, unlike most of Gotham. It’s a sallow yellowish light, nowhere near as elegant as the wash of neon that he gets downtown, but it’ll look just fine in black and white. 

Tim readies the camera and snaps at exactly the right moment. 

The sound of Jason’s laughter fades quickly. Tim finds himself smiling too. 

The sun is starting to come up by the time Tim gets home. He puts his bike away in the garage and lets himself into the big, empty house. His footsteps echo in the formal foyer. For a moment, he considers singing. Just… throwing his head back and belting out a stupid catchy song. He could do it. There’s nothing stopping him. But he doesn’t. 

He goes to the kitchen, grabs an Eggo from the freezer, microwaves it quickly, and eats it dry, standing there at the counter. He climbs the stairs and goes into his room. The camera goes on the desk. Tim toes off his shoes before getting in bed fully dressed. 

He won’t be able to get the film developed until his parents leave again, but eventually, the prints from tonight will join all the others in the lockbox, hidden beneath the loose floorboard under his bed. 

Tim was only just starting to get good at photography when Dick moved away, so he doesn’t have that many good shots of the original Boy Wonder, but he remembers the differences in the way Dick moved. Dick had all the poise of a born showman and the unruffled smile to match. He always made it look so effortless, like he really was flying, like he’d been born to fly. He barely ever looked down at the ground beneath his feet; if he was afraid (of the heights or the Rogues alike) he never let it show. 

Jason is different. When Tim watches Jason, he knows exactly what Jason is feeling; he can see all the effort, all the fear, all the fire. All the joy, too. Jason has been Robin for almost a year now, and he still laughs sometimes as he swings across the rooftops – a gleeful, giddy, breathless belly laugh, like he’s getting away with something. He wears the mask, but he never hides. 

It’s part of the reason Tim is so fascinated by him. Jason’s approach to the world is a revelation. 

The picture from the bridge comes out just as he remembers seeing it: Jason framed in the open window, blurred with speed and illuminated by the streetlights, his smile the brightest thing in the shot. 

II. 

No music in the Batmobile tonight. Bruce brings the car to a gentle stop in the Cave. The engine goes quiet, and Bruce doesn’t fill the silence. When Tim opens the door, there are a few actual bats fluttering up toward the ceiling, coming in to roost. 

“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, crisp as ever. “Master Timothy. I have prepared waffles. You should eat something before you turn in for the night.” 

“I still have reports to write,” Bruce says brusquely. 

“Hm,” Alfred says, with a disapproving glare that Bruce ignores as he settles down in front of the computer. “I will bring your plate down here. Master Timothy, will you join me in the kitchen?”

“Yes please,” Tim says, with his most polite smile. “As long as it’s no trouble.” 

Alfred gives him a slow, steady look that Tim can’t read. It’s a look Alfred gives him a lot. “Of course. No trouble at all.” 

Tim is about to head for the locker room when Bruce says abruptly, “Well done tonight, Robin. You were very patient.” 

“Thank you,” Tim replies, automatically, before his surprise gets the better of him. 

“Dick… always struggled with stakeouts,” Bruce says, almost to himself. “Fidgeting.” An inhale, like he wants to say something, but then — silence. One of those silences that always replaces memories of Jason. 

Tim knows, though. He has the pictures to prove it: Dick-as-Robin practicing his handstands while Batman was still and statue-like beside him. Jason-as-Robin nudging Batman with one bony elbow, leaning in to mutter something Tim couldn’t hear, something that made his broad shoulders shake with repressed laughter.

Tim hasn’t managed to make Bruce laugh yet. 

Stillness, though – patience – those are things Tim can do. He spent a long time practicing stillness when he was growing up. Training himself out of the urge to fidget and rock and bite his cuticles, at his mother’s insistence. In a way, his mother’s golden rule was the best preparation for Robin he could’ve asked for: “Never let them see you struggle.” 

By the time Tim thinks to say anything, Bruce has turned back around to the computer, already absorbed in his reports. 

On Tim’s way to the locker room, he passes the alcove where Jason’s memorial case is illuminated. A good soldier, reads the plaque, which still doesn’t seem right to Tim, no matter how many ways he looks at it. Nothing about Jason ever reminded him of a soldier. 

Nothing about this shrine reminds him of the Jason he remembers – but maybe that’s the point. Jason was always in flight, always smiling. Always so alive. And now he’s not. 

The shredded, bloodstained uniform looks wrong up there. Not necessarily because of the holes, but because it’s static and still, without breeze or movement to catch the cape. Jason always wore it like it was wings. Like it really could let him fly. Like it set him free. 

When Tim first considered offering to step in, he practiced his Robin smile in the mirror, just like he used to practice his society smile with his mother. He tried both versions. Dick’s was a serene showman’s smile, meant to be seen in the spotlight, unshakeable. Jason’s was more like a snarl, something half-feral, meant to be seen as a threat. Both were magic in their own way.

For all his practicing, Tim still can’t seem to master their joy. 

Tim is a very different sort of Robin. He’s beginning to understand that. 

And hey, at least he’s doing something right. A compliment from Bruce is rare; it’s something to be proud of. He tries to savor it. 

Tim gets changed in the locker room. Before he heads up the stairs, he tells Bruce, “Goodnight.” 

Bruce already took off the cowl, so Tim can see the way he blinks at that, blank, like he forgot Tim was still here. There’s a plate at his elbow, untouched. 

“Goodnight, Robin,” he says. 

Jason and Bruce frequently ended their patrols with chili dogs from Batburger. Tim has dozens of photographs of them, silhouetted against the dawn, side by side. Sometimes Bruce would put his arm around Jason, give him a little squeeze against his side, and say, “Well done tonight, chum.” Or he’d ruffle Jason’s hair, and Jason, with his mouth full of chili dog, would complain and try to duck away. 

Tim doesn’t like chili dogs. He’s only ever had one, and he mostly wanted to try it because Jason seemed to love them so much. But they’re not for him. Too messy. 

If Tim ate the way Jason used to – mouth open, too-big bites, all but inhaling his food – his mother would be appalled. He’s been sent to bed without dinner for much less. But Jason was always a little bit disgusting when he ate, and Bruce just watched him fondly and kept extra napkins handy.

Something inside Tim aches when he thinks about that. It’s not hunger, but it feels similar, all hollow and gnawing. 

Tim heads upstairs quietly. The kitchen is his favorite part of the Manor, and not just because it’s warm and well-used and always smells like fresh baked goods, unlike his own. Alfred is drying dishes. He already has a plate set for Tim at the breakfast nook, and Tim slides into the booth eagerly. 

Just like Tim’s mother, Alfred doesn’t believe in putting condiments on the table in their original containers, so it’s in a pretty little white ceramic jug. Alfred gets the same sort of maple syrup his mother prefers, too, the high-quality real-maple stuff. Tim prefers the butter-flavored Aunt Jemima, but really, he’ll eat anything sweet. He sets to work pouring a little syrup in every square of the waffle; Alfred looks on bemusedly. 

“And will you be staying with us tonight?” Alfred asks. 

“No, thank you, I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed, but I really appreciate the offer. And you don’t have to keep me company, I’m sure you’re tired.” 

Alfred’s got another familiar look in his eyes, soft and worried – he’s been looking at Tim like that more often, recently, and Tim never knows what to do with it. He does just fine on his own. 

“As you wish,” Alfred says. “Leave the plate in the sink when you’re done, I’ll handle it in the morning.” He glances at the pink-streaked sky that’s visible through the window and amends, “Well, in the afternoon, at this rate.” 

“Thank you for everything,” Tim says. He’s not sure if Alfred can hear the sincerity in it, or if it sounds like just another practiced bit of manners, but – Tim means it. 

He takes a small bite. The waffle is just as bad as Tim remembers from the last time Alfred made them, which is… charming, somehow. It’s the only thing Alfred doesn’t seem to know how to cook. 

Alfred comes over to the table and rests one gentle hand on Tim’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. Tim goes very still, fighting the urge to lean into the touch. 

“Are you quite sure there’s nothing else I can do for you, Master Timothy?” Alfred asks. 

“Very sure, thank you,” Tim says. 

Alfred pauses like he wants to say something else, but then he just nods and says, “Goodnight, young sir.” 

“Night.” Tim keeps his smile in place until Alfred rounds the corner, and then he lets himself slouch a little bit. 

The waffles really do taste like cardboard, but Tim raised himself on microwaved Eggos; he eats the whole stack. Then he scrubs the plate carefully, drying it and putting it back in the cupboard where it belongs. Last but not least, he takes a damp rag and wipes down the table, making sure there’s no trace of his presence. 

His eyes itch, and he feels like he weighs about a thousand pounds, and for a moment he pauses in the foyer and looks longingly in the direction of the guest wing. Then he retrieves his bike from the garage and begins to pedal slowly down the road to his empty, echoing home. 

III.

The redhead who shot Tim has been spotted in Gotham, and Jason and his team have been called in to help. Tim has mixed feelings about this. 

On one hand: Tim has to deal with Jason. 

On the other hand: he gets to patrol with Hawkeye. 

Unlike the rest of the team, Hawkeye doesn’t seem to be nursing a healthy serving of secondhand venom. Tim wouldn’t even blame him for it, if he did. He understands how difficult it is to be around Jason for any length of time and not take on some of his feelings about the world. Tim got some of his joy, back in the day, even from a distance, and Jason’s not shy about sharing his hatred of Tim. But no. 

Hawkeye doesn’t wear a mask, and he insists that Tim call him by his real name, and he keeps talking to Tim as they patrol. Asking questions, cracking jokes. Complimenting him when he lands a particularly tricky hit with a batarang. And it’s nice to patrol with someone who doesn’t seem to be staring like he intends to collect Tim’s mistakes for future use as missiles. Maybe that’s what this warmth in Tim’s chest is. He doesn’t feel like he’s being compared to some invisible rubric of the perfect Robin. Instead Clint stares at Tim the way Tim stares at crime scenes, fascinated, noting each individual clue so he can put them together into a logical whole. 

Maybe Clint is just what happens when people grow up outside of Gotham, out there in the Midwest. Maybe the sun sinks into your bones when you see it more than once a month; maybe Clint just has enough to spare. Even if Tim hadn’t read his file, he would know that Clint isn’t a local.  Gotham breeds people like Tim and Jason: prickly, defensive, sharp by nature and nurture alike, harsh enough to survive inhospitable conditions. Gotham's ecosystem wouldn’t support Clint's sort of sweetness. 

Sweet. Clint’s just sweet, in an open, unguarded way that Tim would chalk up to innocence if he didn’t know better. But he does know better, and there’s nothing innocent about the way he fights. Nothing soft about those hits. Nothing sloppy or lazy about him, even when he is slouching. He doesn’t seem to be paying any sort of attention, but he keeps catching things before Tim sees them. 

Tim was raised to believe that this sort of dichotomy can’t exist, that you have to give the impression of complete control in order to maintain any control whatsoever, but here Clint is, existing anyway. 

When they’ve run their patrol, Clint asks, “What do you do for fun around here?” 

There’s always a chance that Clint’s warmth is a different kind of defensive mechanism. Like the scent of a carnivorous flower. Tim’s not entirely convinced, just yet, that he can let his guard down; that’s when the spines snap shut. 

Tim should probably point out that it’s almost dawn, that they’ve been up all night… but instead he says, “I’ll show you.” 

He just wants to spend more time with Clint. It might have to do with the muscles cording his arms when he draws his bow, or the freckles that dust his shoulders, or his smile. Tim doesn’t really get “crushes” the way most people describe them, but he does find all those things appealing, from an aesthetic standpoint. And he finds skill very appealing, too. 

Those things are part of it, but Tim suspects they’re not all of it. 

Clint just makes it look so easy. Not only the archery — everything. The way he moves through the world. The way he inhabits his body. It’s all languid sprawling and warm smiles and pure physical confidence. It’s like he’s never felt the urge to slide right out of his skin. Never looked in the mirror and seen a stranger. Never felt anything but 100% comfortable with who he is. 

Tim can admit that it aches to imagine what that might be like. But he’s ashamed of being jealous, so he tries not to be. 

Just before he they hit the bridge, he pulls off to the side of the road, tucking his motorcycle out of sight, and Clint does the same with his own. 

Tim gets out the grapnel and aims carefully up at the bridge, and Clint follows him up (and up, and up…) until they’re perched on one of the steel girders, far over the river. Clint doesn’t seem at all flustered by the height. He just lets his feet dangle and stares out at the purpling horizon. 

Tim was terrified, the first time he came up here with Dick. 

“Don’t look down,” Dick said. “At this height, it’ll paralyze you. You have to keep your chin high and believe gravity can’t touch you.” And they came up here every night while Dick was in town, until Tim was so good at pretending he could fool even himself into thinking he wasn’t scared. 

Clint grew up in the circus, just like Dick. 

Tim used to think Dick’s smile and poise were effortless, too – something he was born with. Then he got to know Dick and began to understand just how much they have in common, not least of all their single-minded determination when they decide to master something, and the fact that they were both raised in the spotlight, with everything that entails. Don’t look down; don’t let them see you struggle; don’t let them see you sweat. Practice until it’s perfect. 

Maybe that’s where Clint gets it, too? 

No, it’s not quite the same. Clint doesn’t have Dick’s poise. He doesn’t walk around like he’s under a spotlight. Dick is perfectly comfortable with the idea that there will always be eyes on him; Clint doesn’t seem to like it all that much when people look at him.

“Thank you for the – the support,” Tim says, and it comes out more stiff than he wanted, like he’s speaking to an investor in a meeting. “With this particular target, I mean.” 

“Well,” Clint says, with a small smile. “She shot you. I take that kinda personal.” 

“She wasn’t the first person to shoot me,” Tim says. “I don’t hold a grudge.” 

“Kinda seems like it’s the sorta grudge that’d be justified.” 

For a minute or so, neither of them says anything. 

He did hate Jason for a while. Not because of the bullet wound, but because of the damage it did to his memories of Jason as Robin.  

Then Clint says, “Oh, shit. I forget, sometimes. That J– that Hood shot you.” 

“I haven’t forgotten it,” Tim says dryly. “But that’s alright. I manage to work with Hood just fine these days.”

That’s a stretch. They tolerate each other, in a prickly sort of way, but tolerance is a low bar that leaves room for plenty of stinging barbs, and Tim is always on the defensive when Jason is around. 

Clint doesn’t call him on the exaggeration, though. He repeats, “I forgot. Doesn’t seem like him. He’s never – he doesn’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.” A pained, strangled noise. “Aw, hell. Not that you deserved it. I just mean –” 

“I know.” Tim stares out at the skyline, struck by an inexplicable wave of grief. He swallows the lump in his throat and says, “People change.” 

Tim wanted to imagine that it wasn’t the real Jason who shot him. He’d rather believe that his childhood hero had been replaced by an entirely different person. But that wasn’t the case. Jason had just… changed. Maybe that’s why Tim’s so frustrated by the way Jason calls him “replacement.” It would’ve been so much easier if that were true. A replacement part can be swapped out and swapped back at will; switch one for the other, it’ll still work the same. 

But Jason’s death changed a lot of things. Changed Bruce, changed the role Robin needed to play for Batman, changed Tim… and of course changed Jason himself. It’s not the sort of change you can reverse. More like a chemical reaction. Grief and loss as the catalyst for explosive transformation. 

Clint says, slow and pensive, “The guy I know saves his bullets – and his fists – for the people who earn ‘em.” And then, fervent, like it means more than Tim knows: “I wouldn’t – couldn’t work with that other kinda guy, you know?” 

Tim knows better than to look down. But if he were to look down, he thinks he could see it like it was yesterday: Jason’s blinding smile framed in the window of the dark car, speeding down the road, laughing out loud. 

Tim still has all the photos he took. He’s never shown them to anyone. Doesn’t look at them very often, either. 

“People change,” he repeats, softer this time. 

“Do you really believe that, or are you just givin’ me an easy out?” Clint asks. 

It’s so blunt and artless that Tim almost laughs. But the laugh catches in his chest, and his voice is very solemn when he says, “No, I really believe that.” 

“Yeah,” Clint says, and gives him a bashful, crooked smile that leaves Tim speechless and warm. “Me too. Gotta keep believin’ in second chances.”

They watch the sun rise, even though Tim’s eyes itch with exhaustion. It’s the first completely clear morning in almost two weeks. Worth appreciating while he can. 

A few nights later, when Hawkeye doesn’t take the shot – when Jason doesn’t either, and they bring the redhead in alive – Tim’s not at all surprised. 

Chapter Text

IV. 

Bruce informs Tim he’s not coming home in the same way he does everything: cold, direct, unyielding, and as impersonal as it is efficient. He says he needs to stay in California to support Jason, which Tim decides does not hurt at all. 

His body needs a moment to get onboard with that decision. He doesn’t so much as blink, but for a moment he can’t breathe. Then he says, “Understood.”  

“Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier will be arriving in two days to provide backup. Under the circumstances, they have been given full access to the Cave, temporarily. You will take point and report to me nightly. Is that clear?” 

Instead of pointing out that it’s rude to refer to people by names they’ve chosen to leave behind, that James Barnes is no longer the Winter Soldier, he says it again: “Understood.” 

Bruce nods and cuts the video feed, and that’s that. 

This is a good thing. It means Bruce trusts him. 

Tim knows that independence is an earned privilege, a mark of trust. He doesn’t need Bruce to say that in order for it to be true; he’s not a child who needs to be coddled. He wasn’t like that even when he was a child. 

As his mother used to remind him, “What’s the point unless you’ve really earned it?” She believed that constant praise would make him soft, just like eating too many sweets would rot his teeth, and Bruce is very much like Tim’s mother in this way. He rations his affection, calculates each dosage of kindness and doles it out to maximize its efficiency. Tim knows how Bruce works. 

He tries to focus on the implicit trust, instead of the small, childish part of him that just wants Bruce to come home. 

He never used to leave Jason or Dick alone. 

The first night Tim meets them in the Cave to patrol, he wonders briefly if Bruce was right after all. Barnes is… different. Emotionless, robotic, cold. Slightly terrifying. 

There is no social etiquette that fits this moment, no way to say “I’m sorry your boyfriend was taken” without making it sound like Tony is already dead, and Tim flounders for a moment when Barnes gives him a cool nod in greeting. 

He almost says something like, “I miss him too,” but Tony’s not Tim’s to miss. He has no right to feel any sort of protectiveness over someone he barely knows. They have a working relationship based on a shared appreciation for technology, and sure, Tim appreciates him – appreciates the way Tony always smiles at him, talks like they’re equals, doesn’t seem to nurse a grudge on Jason’s behalf any more than Clint did. But. He shouldn’t act like he understands how Barnes feels right now, even if he does think Tony is just about the most brilliant person he’s ever met. He’s been looking forward to their next project. 

“We were working on plans for an upgrade to my bo staff,” Tim blurts out. “He’s supposed to come back to finish it.” 

There’s a long beat of silence, and Tim realizes that he over-corrected; that probably sounded like a cold thing to say. 

Before he can backtrack, Clint breaks into a soft smile – a pale, tired imitation of the sunshine grin Tim remembers, but a smile nonetheless. He says, “He’ll be back. He wouldn’t leave you hanging.” 

Even if it is more for Barnes’s benefit than his, Tim appreciates that. 

“Well, you’re the boss,” Clint says. “Tell us where you want us.” 

Tim directs them to seats at the big conference table and pulls up the projector screen with its map of Gotham. He clears his throat and starts to explain how he’s planned out patrols: details the route they’ll be taking tonight, gives them a brief synopsis of the elements at play and which problems they’re most likely to encounter in each area of the city – color-coded accordingly – and then he runs through a brisk summary of the various Rogues they might meet along this particular route, and how they should each be handled. 

They’ve both been here before, but there’s a lot going on in Gotham. Can’t be too careful.  

“Any questions?” he asks, when he’s done. 

“Did you have all that memorized?” Clint asks. He’s staring at the map with wide-open appreciation on his face. 

Tim isn’t sure if he’s being teased. “It’s nothing.” 

“Really not,” Clint counters. 

“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” Tim says. Which – he really has, hasn’t he? And then, flustered, he leads them deeper into the Cave. “If you’d like to drop your things, the locker room is back here – Alfred will take care of your armor and uniforms, so they’re ready for you by tomorrow night. Over there is the advanced forensics equipment. And –”  

He stops short, wheeling around, but it’s too late. Barnes’s eyes are locked on the alcove where the shredded remains of Jason’s bloodstained uniform are on display. 

They’ve been to the Cave before, though, haven’t they? But – only in the main area, and only with Jason, Tim realizes. Jason would’ve steered them away from here. 

“He’s mentioned it,” Clint says softly, in response to the question Tim didn’t want to ask out loud. “But it’s – it’s different seeing it in person.” 

Barnes’s feet in their heavy boots don’t make a sound as he walks closer. 

For a moment Tim is convinced that Barnes is about to do what Jason’s always threatened to. The metal arm could punch through whatever reinforced glass Bruce used. 

Tim’s not sure he’d try to stop Barnes, if it came down to that. 

But Barnes’s face doesn’t show any trace of emotion. He barely seems to be breathing. 

Tim realizes, abruptly, what it means that Barnes is here when Jason isn’t. That the pair of them have decided to be apart. Somehow he hadn’t considered how much Tony’s absence would change the fabric of the relationship he left behind. 

Clint doesn’t seem to know what to say, either, but his expression is a wide-open mess of all the emotion Barnes’s doesn’t show. Because even if he wasn’t part of the team officially, Tony’s absence ripped a hole through the fabric of each of them. Tim’s seen (up close and really goddamn personal) what that sort of loss can do to a person. It’s not the sort of loss you recover from. 

God knows Bruce still hasn’t. Tim’s staring at a reminder of that right now. 

Barnes looks down at the plaque, and Clint follows him, reading over his shoulder. Tim’s stomach churns. He’s stared at that plaque long enough, over the years, that he can see it in his mind’s eye with perfect clarity. 

“Is that how you saw him?” Clint asks, dangerously soft. 

Tim almost flinches, but… practice makes perfect. 

“No,” he says. “No, not at all.” 

Barnes glances from him to Clint and then back again, cold and lifeless. 

“Let’s go,” Barnes says, and they both follow Tim to the Batmobile without further comment. 

Patrol is a quiet affair. 

Clint’s competence hasn’t gotten any less striking; he doesn’t miss a shot or a clue or a single flicker of movement in the shadows. But it’s not like last time Tim patrolled with him. There are no jokes, no questions, no unnecessary acrobatics for the sake of making Tim laugh. Just quiet efficiency and a stormy, slow-burning anger. 

In a strange, joyless way, it’s satisfying to find out that when they met, Clint’s kindness was genuine – that his sweetness wasn’t just a ploy. Or if it was a front, he’s just not very good at keeping it up. Because Clint is not particularly sweet tonight. 

Tim tries not to be bothered by the anger. He would rather have honest anger than false kindness, and it’s not like he’s unused to patrolling with surly, silent partners. But he can’t stop hearing Clint’s voice: “ Is that how you saw him?”

He keeps thinking about that cape flapping in the wind, and that cackling laughter echoing over the alleyways, and that beacon of a smile illuminating countless photographs – and the gunshot splitting the air, and the rage on Jason’s face every time he looks at Tim, and all the sharp, shitty things they’ve said to each other since. 

Barnes and Clint have only ever seen the venom. They’ve seen Tim proudly wearing the new cape while the shreds of Jason’s are displayed like a trophy in a case. And Tim’s come to terms with the fact that all his mixed-up emotions about Jason can co-exist, but he has no idea how to even begin explaining them to another person. It’d come out all cold and soulless again, like when he tried to talk about Tony. 

When they pull into the cave at the end of the night, Tim says it before the thought is even fully formed: “I’d like to show you something, before you go.” 

Barnes and Clint exchange a look. 

“It won’t take long.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Clint says reluctantly. 

“I’ll just be a moment,” Tim says. “Sorry. Hang on.” 

He walks as fast as he can without running. His room is still the same, albeit tidier than it was when he lived here. Before he can talk himself out of it, he goes to the closet, peeling back the corner of the carpet and lifting the right-most board. He has his photo boxes organized by date, so it’s simple enough to pull out the one from Jason’s first year as Robin. He tucks it under his arm and brings it downstairs with him. 

Barnes is sitting at the big conference table, stiff, staring straight ahead. Clint is in civvies, texting on his phone, mouth a flat, unhappy line. 

Tim puts the box on the table cautiously and slides it over to Barnes, who blinks slowly up at him. 

“You can open it,” Tim says, and goes off to the locker room to rinse off and change. He very carefully avoids looking at the display case. 

He doesn’t look up when he comes back, either – just slides into a seat across the table from them. 

“You took these,” Clint says. 

Tim finally meets his eyes. He has to look away again immediately. All that raw affection is too much. 

He nods, staring down at his hands. Then he sneaks a glance up at Barnes, and his breath catches. Barnes is smiling down at a photo. Not his usual smile, and not the one Tim’s seen in history books, but a tiny, wistful one. At least that awful blankness is gone. 

It’s difficult to explain the extent to which Jason was changed by death, but Bucky Barnes, of all people, probably understands. 

“These are good,” he says. His voice cracks, and he sits back in his seat, swiping a hand over his face with a sigh. “What time is it in California?” 

“‘Bout 1:30,” Clint answers. “2, by the time we get back to the safehouse. But he’ll pick up.” 

“Yeah.” Barnes blinks a few times, slowly, and says to Tim, “Thank you for this.” 

“Please don’t tell Jason about the photos,” Tim blurts out. “It’s not — I just —” 

Barnes gives him a long, steady look that makes Tim feel like a bug on the end of a pin. All he says is, “I get it.” 

“Thanks for letting us see,” Clint says quietly. He’s still staring at Tim like – 

He doesn’t even know. He’s not sure anybody’s ever looked at him like that before, with absolute breathless wonder in their eyes. 

Clint starts to put the photos back in the box with reverent hands. Tim doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods, and says goodnight, and sits down at the computer to start typing out reports. 

V.

Things are better, over the course of the next week. 

Dick has been in town sporadically, helping out when he can, and even if they don’t know Gotham very well, Clint and Barnes are skilled enough to make up for it. Barnes still fades in and out, like a staticky radio – mechanical on most nights, with occasional attempts at playacting his usual self — but at least Clint’s not angry. 

Patrol is… fun might not be the right word, but. Occasionally, Tim does enjoy himself. 

The important part is that patrols run smoothly; Tim’s not the only one who thinks so. Early on the second morning, when Tim’s cataloguing evidence from the weapons shipment they just intercepted, Clint says it out of nowhere: “You’re good at this. It was a good plan.”

Tim blinks. His first instinct is to assume that this is a back-handed compliment, barbed in some way, like the “compliments” he might get from Gotham high society. Condescension? Flattery, maybe. The run-up to a request. 

“Thank you,” he says warily. 

Clint glances at him, maybe hearing the skepticism, and shrugs. “I just meant, like, no wonder he feels okay leaving you in charge.” 

“Oh.” Tim is pretty sure his ears are bright red, which is unfortunate, but he smiles anyway. 

He knows how Bruce works. He doesn’t need the praise, and god knows he can’t let himself get used to it. But there’s a small, childish part of him that wants to hug Clint for it, wants to hold on tight and cling, wants to shout, “See how simple it could be?”  

Clint still makes it look easy – kindness, in all its forms.  

There’s one evening when he’s late, delayed at work, and he has to meet them along their route instead of making their rendezvous at the Cave first. Tim’s apology is met with a shrug and a steaming to-go coffee cup. 

Tim takes it. Stares at it. “What is this?” 

“It’s coffee,” Clint says. 

“You didn’t have to bring me coffee,” Tim says. 

“I know.” A happy, lopsided little smile, like Clint’s trying to hold it back. “I wanted to.” 

Tim takes a cautious sip. It’s perfect — just how he likes it. He doesn’t even remember an occasion when he might’ve told Clint his coffee order, but Clint seems to know anyway. 

There’s one night when they bust up a drug smuggling operation in one of the warehouses by the river. Tim decides to stay for a while after the police arrive, to watch from above and make sure they’re handling everything correctly, because he has some suspicions. Clint stays with him, even though it’s almost dawn and he must be exhausted. He had his first run-in with Scarecrow the previous night, didn’t get his mask on in time, and even though they got the antidote in him quickly, Tim knows from experience that the exposure was enough to make for a long and sleepless night. 

Clint decides to stay, and he settles next to Tim in his chosen perch. The section of beam he’s sitting on isn’t wide, so Clint has to sit close, and their legs keep brushing. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Tim says, frowning. 

But Clint’s face falls. “If you’d rather be alone, I can go.” 

Tim pauses, thinking about the way Clint held onto Barnes while the antitoxin worked its way through his system, and the occasional whimpers he overheard, and he can see some of that fear in Clint’s face, still. Every single one of his emotions is written all over his face, all the time. Tim almost wishes he would put on a mask, because – 

Well. Because somebody might see. 

“Of course I want you here,” Tim admits, brusque to cover for the moment of honesty, and out of the corner of his eye he clocks the blatant relief on Clint’s face. “But I don’t need your help.” 

“I know,” Clint shrugs, and shifts closer, so that their arms touch too, and Tim fights the urge to lean against him. 

He’s never quite grown out of the instinct to press into any physical touch, to savor it while it lasts because he knows it won’t last. Clint just leans right back, though, solid and sturdy. 

(Clint does end up catching something Tim misses – money changing hands where it shouldn’t be – and he’s nice enough to refrain from saying I told you so.) 

The next night, Tim goes undercover as Caroline, briefly, in the evening. Afterward, in his rush to make it to the Cave when he said he’d be there, he forgets to take off the makeup, and he doesn’t remember until he’s on his way. He chalks it up to a lack of sleep (two hours in the last twenty-four) and hopes he’ll be the first to arrive. 

No such luck. Clint gives him a curious look, head tilted, that makes Tim’s stomach sink. 

“What?” he asks defensively. “It’s for an alias.” 

It’s not disgust, just curiosity, when Clint asks, “How’d you learn to do that?” 

That’s not the question Tim expected. He blinks a few times. 

The long answer: from his mother. He used to love watching her get ready for dinner parties and galas, sitting at her vanity, applying her powders and paints. Sometimes she’d even tell him what she was doing, narrating the process, while he listened with rapt attention. 

But that was a long time ago, back when Tim was still allowed to show interest in feminine things. Before his masculinity (or lack thereof) became a point of contention between them. 

The short answer: 

“Youtube tutorials from drag queens,” Tim says. “Why does it matter?” 

“I’m impressed,” Clint says. “Used to be in the circus, remember? And yeah, that was stage make-up, it’s a little different, but – mine looked like shit most of the time.” He gives Tim a crooked grin and says, “You look good.” 

Tim’s heart thumps in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant, and he hurries off to get cleaned up before Clint can see his blush. 

He thinks there’s been something even sweeter, even softer, in the way Clint has been looking at him, since the photos. He’s not sure what that means. 

Two nights later, Tim is on stakeout duty while Clint and Barnes do the usual patrol. He’s tucked up under the Sprang Bridge, watching the water below for a particular boat, perched on the rim of one of the concrete buttresses while cars rumble overhead. 

It’s cold tonight, and around 3am, the usual Gotham drizzle turns into a steady rain. Tim huddles up as best he can. He has his stealth cape, black instead of yellow, but it’s not fully waterproof, just water-resistant. There isn’t a good spot to sit deeper under the shelter of the bridge; this is still his best bet for cover, but the wind starts to pick up, blowing the rain almost sideways. 

Tim is… damp. He copes. He’s had much worse assignments. This would be a breeze, probably, if he’d slept even a little bit, and really, it’s his own fault for taking so long with reports last night. This morning. Whatever. 

His comm crackles to life, and Clint’s voice over the open link says, “Might have to turn in early tonight. This cold is – not great. I, uh, can’t shoot too well when my fingers are goin’ numb.” 

He’s a terrible liar, but it is kind of him to take the blame. Tim has no doubt that Barnes is actually the one struggling. 

“Well, good news is that with this kind of weather, the petty thieves tend to stay home too,” Oracle tells him. “Do you want to head back to the Cave for a bit and come back out if the weather clears up?” 

“Yeah, might be a good plan.” 

“Ten-four,” she says. “Robin, what’s your status?” 

“Still on stakeout,” he says shortly. “I can see well enough to stay out. No sign of the target yet.” 

“Understood.” 

Tim zones out for a while, focusing on the pattern of the waves as the water tosses with the storm. 

“Robin, incoming,” says Oracle’s voice, and a moment later, he hears a familiar sound of a grapnel hook clattering against a steel beam. 

A soft landing. Careful movement. 

“Hey,” comes Clint’s cautious voice, and he sits down next to Tim, copying his position: back to the concrete, knees to his chest. “You good?” 

“Fine, thank you,” Tim says. He’s careful about it, not wanting his teeth to chatter as he speaks. 

“You must be freezing, Jesus.” 

“No, I’m very aware of my safety threshold for exposure,” Tim informs him. 

Clint is silent for a long moment before he says, “Uh-huh. Hang tight, I’ll be back in a few.” 

Tim turns to look at him, surprised, but before he can open his mouth, Clint’s gone, swinging back the way he came. Tim suppresses a shiver, telling himself that he doesn’t miss the company. 

Maybe ten minutes later, he hears the grapnel again. 

“Here,” Clint says, passing him a plastic shopping bag. It contains a bundle of dry cloth. 

“What’s this?” 

“A sweatshirt.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Maybe kinda broke into a cheesy souvenir shop, but I left money on the counter.” Clint gives him a sheepish smile. 

Tim surprises himself by laughing out loud. He unfolds the black “I heart Gotham” sweatshirt and says, with some admiration, “This is hideous.” 

It’s an XL; he swims in it, but god is it warm. He puts up the hood and sighs with relief. 

“Better?” Clint asks.

“Much,” Tim admits. Once he’s confident he can keep his voice steady, he adds, “Thank you. This is — you didn’t have to do this. I’ll pay you back.” 

“It’s a gift,” Clint says easily. “Gonna get ‘em for everybody. Jason’ll love it.” 

Tim sputters out a startled laugh. 

Instead of getting ready to swing away, Clint is settling in next to Tim on the concrete. Tim blinks at him, glad for the mask with its white-out lenses. Clint’s face is barely visible in the shadows of the bridge, but… he’s very close. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Tim says, bemused. “What are you doing?” His teeth chatter on the last word, and Clint frowns. 

“Keeping you company,” Clint says. “You sure you’re not cold?” 

“Of course I’m cold,” Tim huffs, ducking to hide his blush under the oversized sweatshirt hood. “But that’s fine. It’s not a problem.”  

Clint puts his arm around Tim, rubbing his shoulder, pulling him closer, and it feels so nice that Tim curls closer, melting into him, before he can check the instinct. 

Clint doesn’t seem to mind. 

Tim has spent a not-insignificant fraction of his life figuring out what people want from him. It’s a skill, like anything else, and many years of practice have made him very good at it. But he has no idea what Clint wants in exchange for his constant, unfailing sweetness. 

“I don’t understand,” Tim admits. 

“What don’t you understand?”  

“Why you’re always so nice,” Tim says, a little more waspishly than he intended. 

“Really?” 

Tim shrugs. “You’re always… being sweet. Doing nice things for people.” 

There’s a long pause. A truck goes over the bridge with a low, rumbling rattle. Clint keeps his arm where it is, a big warm weight on Tim’s shoulders.

Tim might need to sleep, because his eyes shouldn’t be going all hot and prickly like this. He closes them for a moment and lets out a shuddery breath. 

“Well,” Clint says, and Tim can hear the smile in his voice. “Is it rude if I say that I don’t care?” 

“Excuse me?”  

“I don’t care if you don’t understand,” Clint says, with a soft laugh. “I’m gonna keep doing it anyway.” 

Tim swallows hard. He forces himself to open his eyes, but he can’t seem to muster the energy to pull away from Clint. 

Clint adjusts, settling his arm more comfortably around Tim. His thumb is rubbing steady circles over the ball of Tim’s shoulder; it’s a little bit hypnotic. He doesn’t try to move away, even when Tim tilts his head sideways to rest on his shoulder. 

Chapter Text

VI. 

Clint asks Tim, “I could use some food. Is there anything open at this hour?” 

“Sure,” Tim says. “There’s always Batburger, and I know a good diner.” 

“What are you in the mood for?” Clint asks. 

“Oh,” Tim says. “You’re inviting me along.” 

“Course.” 

“Oh,” Tim says again. He swallows hard. “The diner is my favorite.” 

“Lead the way, then.” 

Tim sighs at the warm rush of air that greets them inside. The diner is nothing special, shabby and unremarkable, and for a moment he’s worried that Clint will turn up his nose. 

“This looks perfect,” Clint says. 

There’s only one other person inside, a guy in a security uniform who seems to be on the verge of face-planting into his scramble, so they have their choice of tables; Clint chooses Tim’s favorite table, a small round booth in the corner. Best sightlines. He slides onto the curved bench, and the old vinyl creaks. 

“Good morning, Lori,” Tim says, when the usual early-morning waitress approaches. She doesn’t bat an eye at the domino mask. Not that most Gothamites would, but he does still get the occasional sideways smirk when he goes to eat in costume. 

Today Lori’s lipstick is a vibrant shade of coral. As usual, it’s spider-webbing into the wrinkles around her thin mouth. Tim’s mother would have something to say about that. She always used to say that poorly applied lipstick would tell you everything you need to know about a woman’s class, or lack thereof. 

Tim has been trying to tune out his mother’s voice, lately.  

“Coffee?” Lori smiles and brandishes the pot.  

“Please.” 

“Make that two?” Clint asks. 

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” she says. “Be right back with cream.” 

Clint is watching him steadily. Tim unfolds and re-folds a napkin a few times. 

Lori is back, handing over the little pitcher of half and half – she only gives you the real stuff if you ask nicely, Tim’s learned; otherwise it’s the pre-packaged pods of creamer. 

“You need a menu?” she asks. 

“You got pancakes?” Clint counters hopefully. 

She gives him a smirk, raising one painted-on eyebrow and gesturing around them with the notepad Tim’s never seen her use. “We’re in a diner, sweetheart. Give ya three guesses.” 

“Chocolate chip pancakes, side of bacon?” Clint asks. 

“The usual?” she asks Tim, who nods. “Comin’ right up.” 

When she slouches off, they’re alone. Tim focuses very intently on fixing his coffee. Two sugars, a splash of cream. 

Clint asks, “You come here a lot?” 

“If I’m hungry after patrol,” Tim says. 

He’s never brought anyone else, though. He takes a too-big gulp of too-hot coffee, hiding his wince. Clint starts folding a napkin into some sort of flower, apparently unbothered by his silence.  

Tim is abruptly conscious of his own body and the way he’s bouncing his knee up and down.

“Sorry,” he blurts out, and forces himself to stop. 

“Bout what?” Clint asks, with a crooked smile. He shifts, extending his leg until his foot taps Tim’s ankle with every side-to-side jiggle. 

“Huh,” Tim says, an exhale more than a word. 

Clint stops jiggling his foot, but their ankles are touching now, a warm point of contact, and Tim doesn’t move away. 

“Chocolate chip pancakes, side of bacon,” Lori says, sliding Clint his plate, then Tim’s: “Chocolate chip waffles, side of bacon.” 

“Thanks,” Clint says, giving her a smile. He nudges Tim’s foot with his own and asks, “We gonna fight about it?” 

Tim lets out a quick laugh and offers him the syrup pitcher first, watching Clint absolutely drown his plate, before taking it. He starts to slowly, methodically, fill every indent in the waffle with its own drop of syrup. 

Clint saws a huge bite off the side of his pancake stack, stuffing it in his mouth all at once. 

“D’s it taste better tha’ way?” he asks, with his mouth full. 

“Not really,” Tim says quietly. His stomach rumbles. Almost done. 

“Hm,” Clint says, hacking off another massive asymmetrical bite. 

Tim cuts neatly along the ridge of the waffle, taking exactly four squares off the corner, and sighs happily when the artificial maple flavor hits his tongue. Clint’s leg is still touching his. He’s very aware of it. 

Predictably, he’s barely finished half of his waffle by the time Clint’s cleared away the pancakes and is starting on the bacon. 

“Can you even taste it at all when you eat that fast?” Tim asks, prickly with self-consciousness. 

“Mm-hmm,” Clint says cheerfully. He pauses for a moment, though, just before he bites into the next slice, and says, “When I was a kid — got in the habit of eating fast, cause sometimes dinners didn’t go well. Or with foster families, sometimes there wasn’t enough to go around, you know? Never quite broke the habit.” 

“Oh,” Tim says. “I’m sorry.” 

Clint shrugs, chewing contentedly. 

“My family wasn’t big on mess,” Tim volunteers. “Or sugary things in general, I guess.” 

“I thought your parents weren’t around when you were a kid,” Clint says. 

Nothing judgmental in his stare, though. Just the usual open curiosity. 

“They came home sometimes,” Tim tells him. Takes another bite, chews, swallows. “Better to just keep the same habits, right? So I didn’t have to suddenly worry about cleanup when they did arrive.” Another bite. Clint waits him out. “My mom came home and put her purse down in a drop of syrup I’d spilled on the counter the night before. After that, I figured it was better to just… make sure there was no mess to begin with.” 

“Huh,” Clint says. It’s slow, thoughtful. 

Tim clenches his jaw as he swallows and pretends not to notice the way Clint is watching him – like he just gave away a clue. 

“Here.” He cuts the remaining half of his waffle in half again, trying to slide it off his plate onto Clint’s. 

Clint slides it back decisively and says, “If I was still hungry, I’d order more. Do you still take pictures?” 

Tim is so startled by the non sequitur that he forgets to argue about the waffle. He shakes his head. “Not really.” 

“Why not?” 

Tim doesn’t have an easy answer for that. He stabs a bigger-than-usual bite in an attempt to stall, and Clint’s mouth twitches with a suppressed laugh. 

Photography started as an attempt to share his life with his parents — a way to show them what he saw when they were away. But he learned very quickly that they weren’t interested, and he kept taking pictures anyway. He thinks it might’ve been a crutch, back when he was at his loneliest. Might’ve had something to do with his childish need to hold on to fragments of good things, of people, of joy, as if that could keep them around. As if that could make them his. 

“I’m not sure,” he finally says. 

“Ever thought about starting again?” 

“No.” 

“Did it make you happy?” 

Tim frowns and takes another careful bite, thinking that through. 

Happy is a very simple word. 

But it was satisfying. He liked the magic of it, the act of celebrating something beautiful and making sure it wouldn’t be forgotten. The adventure of those nightly expeditions. The challenge of looking closely, seeing everything and deciding which parts to capture. 

“Wasn’t meant to be a brain teaser,” Clint says, an easy out if Tim wants it. 

“Yes,” Tim says, fork forgotten halfway between plate and mouth. “It made me happy.” 

Clint stifles a jaw-cracking yawn. “Maybe you should think about tryin’ it again. I like the way you see things.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The way you look at the world. It’s beautiful.” He shrugs. “I like it.” 

Tim… really has no idea what to do with that, so he doesn’t say anything. 

Photography was never about him; it was about everything else. It was about being in love with the world he saw, enthralled by its mess and its beauty, with no idea how to reach out and touch for himself. The only way he knew how to express his love was by bearing witness. 

I’m here. I see you as you are.  

But he never thought about what those images might reveal about him. Maybe because he never thought anyone would see them. 

Clint waits, sipping a refilled mug of coffee, and lets Tim take his time with his food. 

They finish up, and head out into the gray, drizzly Gotham dawn.  

“I’m not far from here,” Tim says. “I’ll walk, if you want to take the Batmobile. There’s autopilot, and –”  

“I could walk you home,” Clint says.  

“Excuse me?” 

“Can I walk you home?” 

Tim blinks at him a few times. “What is this?” he asks, too sharply. 

“This is me… shooting my shot, I guess,” Clint says. 

“Was that a pun?” 

“Might’ve been,” Clint says. His mouth tugs up at the corner. 

“Was this a date?” Tim asks. 

Clint tilts his head, cheeks going pink. “Might’ve been. If you want.” 

Tim’s heart is pounding. He would like to blame it on the coffee, but coffee hasn’t had that sort of effect on him since he was roughly thirteen. 

“You can’t walk me home like this,” he says. 

“Oh,” Clint says, and quickly tries to force a smile. “Right, sorry, I –” 

“No, I mean – the entrance I use when I’m in costume is a secret,” Tim says, reaching out as if to grab him where he starts to turn away. His fingertips end up hovering an inch from Clint’s upper arm while they both freeze, gazes locked. “Nobody knows about it. Except me.”

“Doesn’t actually surprise me that you have a secret lair.” Clint gives him a slow, crooked smile. “Fair enough.” 

“I could blindfold you,” Tim blurts out. Clint blinks, and his eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. 

“Think we mighta skipped a base or two,” Clint says. He says it with an admirably straight face, but his eyes are sparkling. 

Tim’s cheeks burn. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight,” he tells Clint. 

“Yeah, I know,” Clint says, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “That wasn’t why – I just wanted to walk with you. See where you live.” 

“I want to show you,” Tim says. “I think you’d like the workshop. So. Yeah.” 

They stand there for a moment, smiling like absolute idiots, before they start moving. True to his word, Clint lets Tim blindfold him when they’re a few blocks away, standing stock-still while Tim uses one of his handkerchiefs to cover his eyes, and lets Tim lead him by the hand the rest of the way. 

The locks, hidden door, and other assorted security features get them as far as the secret sub-basement, which is a workshop of sorts. More like a complete and total mess. 

“Hang on,” Tim says, before Clint can reach for the blindfold. Just as a matter of principle, he does a quick lap, making sure there’s nothing top-secret that he should hide. 

Clint is just standing there, hands held loosely at his sides, posture completely relaxed. His cheeks are flushed. 

Tim’s stomach swoops and flutters. He walks over, stands face to face with Clint to take the blindfold off, which means that when Clint opens his eyes, he’s meeting Tim’s. His irises are a dappled sort of blue, and there are flecks of gold in them. 

Tim kisses him. Doesn’t think about it, just does it – rocks up on his tiptoes and brushes their lips together – and it’s barely a kiss, chaste and dry and too brief to feel like much of anything, but Clint’s hands are shaking slightly when they come to rest feather-light on Tim’s hips. Tim’s never seen his hands shake before, and he’s spent more time than he’d like to admit watching them. 

“Right,” Tim says, nodding to himself. “Okay.” He steps back, a little bit unsteady himself, and gestures around at the mess. “Here’s… all this.” 

Clint looks around, taking it in. 

Tim changes his mind and darts in for another kiss. This one is slower, lingering, and when Clint parts his lips, Tim gets a fleeting taste of sweet, artificial maple. 

VII.

Tim’s family was never physically affectionate.  Every so often his dad would put a hand on his shoulder, or slap him on the back. His mother never really kissed him for fear of smearing her lipstick. Sometimes she might smooth a well-manicured hand over his hair when she said goodnight. Might hum a lullaby. Tim always leaned into the touch and tried not to cling, because if there was anything his parents hated, it was being asked for more attention than they felt he deserved. 

Tim can admit, with the benefit of hindsight, that this might’ve fucked with his head. He’s been a little bit touch-starved his whole life. Never really grew out of the urge to lean into every touch, to press closer. His instinctive response to being held is to hold on twice as hard in return, with a strangling intensity that most people would probably find disturbing. He doesn’t actually allow himself to do that, of course, but… there’s always a tiny part of him that wants to. 

As it turns out, Clint grew up a little touch starved too, and he has exactly none of Tim’s qualms about letting himself have the things he wants. When they’re alone, he’s always holding Tim’s hand, standing close enough to lean his shoulder against Tim’s, resting a hand on the small of Tim’s back, all these casual touches that Tim’s just never had before. 

They nap together, in the snatches of time Tim can carve out of his schedule. It’s not much, but it’s a more restful sleep than Tim can remember getting in years. He’s never had such an easy time falling asleep as he does with Clint wrapped around him. 

Now that Tim’s had this, he’s not sure how to live without it again. 

Today he has some time. Doesn’t need to get up right away. He could sleep for another hour before he rouses Clint; Barnes isn’t expecting him back at their safehouse just yet. And Tim has only been asleep for two hours – could really use that extra hour. He wants to go back to sleep. 

Instead he eases himself out of Clint’s arms and sits up a little bit. He grabs his phone. It’s a compromise, right? He can still enjoy Clint’s company, while sort of… weaning himself off of the habit.

But Clint makes a soft, grumbly noise and shifts, groping around until he finds Tim again, slinging a leg over Tim’s and mashing his face into Tim’s side. 

Tim swallows the lump in his throat. He catches himself with his fingers poised an inch from Clint’s bedhead, and his hand hovers there for a moment. Then he slowly, carefully eases away again. 

This time he gets up. Puts on the oversized “I ❤️ Gotham” hoodie. It smells like Clint’s apple shampoo, and Tim wonders how long that’ll last, after he leaves. 

He gets the coffee machine started, and then he settles cross-legged on the couch with one of his photo boxes. He went looking through some of them after he showed Clint and Barnes. He knows they’re not bad photographs, exactly, but they’re hard to look at. It aches a little bit, like an old bruise down in his chest. 

It takes all of two minutes before Clint shuffles out to join him. 

“S’wrong?” Clint asks Tim blearily. He’s yawning, hair a disaster, drool on his cheek, sweatpants low on his hips, bare torso a mess of scars with a few half-healed bruises… 

Tim’s heart does a funny seizing thing in his ribs. 

Clint goes over to scowl at the coffee machine, and for a moment he clearly considers pulling out the carafe and drinking what’s there before the rest has had a chance to drip. But he refrains. 

He heads for Tim instead, giving him a squinty look, and asks, “Y’okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Tim tells him. 

Clint frowns and flops down next to him. “No, really.” 

“Really,” Tim repeats. “Fine. Just needed a little space.” 

He keeps his eyes on his photos so he’s not tempted to play with Clint’s hair again, but he can see Clint in his peripheral vision, and he can feel the way Clint is studying him. 

The coffee machine makes the sputtery sound that means it’s done brewing, and Clint gets up immediately. He fixes them each a mug. 

“You’re looking at your pictures,” Clint says softly, when Tim puts the box down on the coffee table to take the mug from his hand. 

“Mm-hmm,” Tim hums. His coffee is exactly the way he likes it. He closes his eyes and savors it for a moment. “I brought them out after – after we talked about photography. They’re better than I remember. There are a couple I might hang up.” 

“They’re beautiful.” Clint is mirroring his position now, cross-legged, with just his knee pressed against Tim’s. Tim blinks at him a few times, then looks down at his mug again. 

“Do you think… Barnes would like a print? Of the one of Jason that he liked so much.” Tim clears his throat. There’s absolutely no reason for him to be choked up. He shifts, changing his position so their knees aren’t touching anymore. 

“He’d fucking love that,” Clint says. 

“I could make a better print, too,” Tim says, watching his own hands tighten around the mug. “Little bigger. Get it framed before you guys leave.” 

A long pause. Tim takes a big gulp of coffee. 

“Is that what this is about?” Clint asks softly. 

“What?” Tim huffs. 

Clint sets his own mug down on the coffee table, then grabs Tim’s, taking it firmly out of his hands. 

Tim scowls at him. “I’m sorry, what do you think you’re doing?”

“The space bullshit,” Clint says, raising an eyebrow in a challenge, and then he’s sliding close, wrapping an arm around Tim, pressing him down into the couch, and Tim’s so taken aback by the uncharacteristic physical imposition that he doesn’t think to argue. Because Clint doesn’t do that; he doesn’t throw his strength or his size around, not even when they’re patrolling, and he sure as hell doesn’t ever pin Tim the way he’s doing now, with half his weight sprawled on top of Tim, like the world’s most freckly weighted blanket. 

Tim lets out a small, shocked sound and tries to glare up at him. 

Clint gets a look in his eyes, all sparkly and fond, and kisses the very tip of his nose. He props his chin up on one hand and asks, “Do you want me to move?” 

Tim tries to say “yes,” but his arms are giving him away, snaking around Clint before he can help himself, and he really, really doesn’t want Clint to go anywhere, but – 

“You think it’ll make it easier when I go,” Clint says. “If you don’t let me cuddle you now.” 

“When you put it like that it sounds stupid,” Tim mutters. 

“Because it is stupid,” Clint says, in his blunt, gentle, straightforward way.

“Excuse me?” 

“People aren’t food,” Clint says. 

Tim scoffs. “Obviously.” 

“You’re treating this like your waffles,” Clint says. “Trying to moderate yourself to draw it out. And it’s not like that. Rationing it doesn’t make it last any longer. It’s not like I got a limit on how many cuddles you can have.”  

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, holding back tears. 

“Oh,” Clint says, after a moment, and Tim hates it. Hates how gentle Clint’s voice is, how understanding, and how easily he sees Tim. 

“I’m fine,” Tim insists. 

“Bullshit,” Clint says. His nose brushes Tim’s temple as he ducks to kiss Tim’s cheek.

Tim’s spent his entire life telling people that he was fine. He always thought he just had a great poker face; turns out nobody was looking closely enough to know the difference. 

“Affection has been a limited currency, for most of my life,” Tim says, once he’s sure he can get the words out without his voice breaking. “Physical affection in particular, but also – all of it. So. It was like sugary foods. A treat. My mother believed that praise, or hugs, or – rewards lose meaning when they’re given all the time.” 

“That’s fucked,” Clint says, and kisses the ridge of his brow bone, then the corner of his mouth. He gives Tim a little smirk, tongue in cheek, and says, “Bottomless hug brunch, over here. All you can eat.”

Tim huffs out a watery laugh. “Everybody has limits.” 

“I dunno about that,” Clint says, pensive. “Can’t really imagine any situation where you’d ask for a hug and I’d say no. Maybe if you were covered in, like, toxic goo? But even then. Kinda seems like you’d really need a hug, at that point.” 

“But I wouldn’t ask for one, if I was covered in toxic goo.” 

“Yeah, but you’d want one.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim tells him, which is an inane, redundant thing to say, because Clint is a patently ridiculous human being. 

A patently ridiculous human being who is still half-starfished on top of Tim, warm and heavy and comforting, giving no indication that he wants to move. 

“It’s like you and Gotham. You don’t stop helping when it gets bad. You help more, no matter what bullshit this city throws at you.” 

“That’s a terrible analogy.” 

“I don’t mean that you — come with bullshit. I just mean, there are no conditions attached for when and why you care.” 

“I do come with some bullshit, though,” Tim mutters. 

Clint pauses. Thinks about it. “Well, you’re not exactly normal, I guess.” 

“I’m sorry, did you have a point?” Tim asks bitchily. 

“Point was… you’re the Gotham in this metaphor.” 

“Polluted and full of lunatics and built on a cursed swamp?” Tim asks, because he’s just going to keep being a dick about this, apparently. 

“You know what I mean,” Clint says, and when Tim opens his mouth to argue, Clint kisses him before he can get the words out. 

“Does this mean we’re dating?” Tim asks later, over breakfast. 

Clint smiles at him, pure sunshine. “Sure. I’d like that. If you wanna date me, I mean.” 

For a moment, Tim is utterly certain that this is a mistake – that he’s going to fuck it up, cling too tightly, or chase Clint off by saying something inadvertently cold. He’s not sweet the way Clint is. He’s not good at receiving affection, let alone giving it. He’s never been anyone’s boyfriend before, and God knows his attachment patterns are all sorts of fucked up, and he never learned how to do any of this. 

But. 

If there’s anything Tim is confident in, it’s his ability to put in the work. It’s what he’s been doing his whole life. It’s what he did with Robin. He took the job and he made it his own – he doesn’t wear it the way Dick did, or the way Jason did, but he earned his chance and he practiced his ass off, and… 

Clint sees things clearly, and he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t see something worthwhile in Tim. Clint seems to think he’s earned a chance. 

Tim can figure this out.  

VIII.

Tim’s new camera arrives a couple days before Clint comes back. 

Clint doesn’t notice it when they get back to the penthouse just before dawn, but he does notice it when they’re waking up. He beams, thrilled, at the sight of it on the desk. Tim slides out of bed long enough to grab it, and brings it back to show Clint. 

“Film?” Clint asks curiously. 

“It’s familiar,” Tim says, shrugging. He’s still reacquainting himself with the weight of it, the satisfying click of the shutter, the smooth button under his fingers… he lifts the camera and snaps a picture of Clint’s bedhead, golden in the morning light, and the corner of his smile. 

“Aw.” Clint wrinkles his nose self-consciously.

“You told me… you like the way I see things,” Tim says. “That the way I see the world is beautiful. What did you mean?” 

“Just what I said.” Clint shrugs one freckled shoulder. “I like the way you look at things. It wasn’t what I expected.” Tim frowns at him until he settles back, staring up at the ceiling, taking his time finding the words. “The way you act most of the time – I thought you would be very – I dunno, precise? Logical? Like, clean lines and really careful pictures.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, surprised. 

“But that’s not it.” He frowns, forehead creased in thought. “You go right for the heart of things, but you don’t cut away the rest. There’s all this… mess and contradiction. All these things that shouldn’t work together, but they do. It surprised me then, but – I’m starting to get it now.” 

“I missed you,” Tim says quietly, and clicks the button just as Clint turns that shocked, sunshine smile on him. 

He takes more photos of Clint, over the course of his visit. It’s only two nights, but Tim fills an entire roll and a half. 

When he gets them developed, he doesn’t lock them away. He shows them to Clint, and they look through them together. 

In some ways, photography is  the same. Tim still goes right for the heart of things. He points his camera at the moments when Clint’s at his most alive – whether he’s scowling at the camera as he wakes up, or drawing back an arrow, or extending a fork loaded with waffles, or watching the dawn. And Tim is falling in love with him the same way he fell in love with Gotham: in his totality. His contrasts and contradictions, surprises, messy emotions and pure joy. 

This is still the best way he knows how to express his love: by bearing witness. 

I’m here. I see you as you are. 

These days, though, there’s less distance between lens and subject. In most of the photos, Clint is looking right at the camera – right back at Tim.