Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Your right, Replacement,” the mechanical voice calls, and Tim dodges out of the way as Red Hood plows into the thug staggering to his feet. Hood hits like a fucking battering ram, and Tim has just enough of a breather to wince as the thug is slammed into a brick facade, grit and mortar crumbling down on him. 

Red Hood might have stopped killing, for the most part, but he was still vicious, and Tim can still remember the feel of those fists, that implacable strength turned on him in rage and violence. 

He shivers away from the thought and ducks as another thug comes at him. 

~

He’s crouched on the edge of a building, watching the streets, quiet and almost peaceful below him. 

As peaceful as Gotham ever gets, he supposes. There was a dustup in the Narrows early during patrol, something that Batman and Robin had handled while Spoiler had skipped across the rooftops chasing down a car thief. 

He’s bored, he realizes. Bored and tired and he wants to go back to his Nest, wants to curl up with a box of leftover fried rice and a cup of coffee and pass out. 

“Red Robin.” 

There’s a spike of interference, Oracle making her displeasure known as Red Hood cuts into their comms again, but he privately thinks it’s obligatory. 

No one, not even Oracle, is ever going to truly complain about Jason shoving his way into their lives, demanding and impatient and a little belligerent, like he isn’t sure of his welcome, like any of them would refuse him. 

“Hood,” he says, and there’s a beat of silence. 

“You look bored, Red. Wanna chase a lead with me?” 

His heart tumbles over and for just a second, it feels like he’s in freefall, like he’s on the downward swing before his grapple catches his weight and swings him back up. 

Jason’s never done this before. Never asked him for help. They tolerate each other--well. 

Jason tolerates Tim. He doesn’t try to kill Tim anymore but he isn’t friendly. He doesn’t ask any of them for help, except Alfred, on the rare occasions they’re all in the Cave together, and Jason asks for help patching himself back together. 

“Red Robin?” Hood prompts, and Tim is aware, abruptly, that he’s been quiet too long, that the silence is stretching across all of their comms, that somewhere, Batman is listening, that this is a hand reached out that none of them have had, and he doesn’t think Bruce will ever forgive him, if he fucks it up. 

“Yeah,” he says, softly. “Yeah, what do you need?” 

~

“Drake,” Jason says, and Tim startles upright. 

They’re in one of Jason’s safehouses, one of the endless flophouses characterized by an abundance of weapons and tripwires on the windows and sliding stacks of books that Tim has learned over the past month working with Jason to avoid asking about. 

He did ask about the windows and Jason had given him the nearest window a dirty look. “Dickie doesn’t know what doors are for,” he grumbles, and Tim had rubbed his mouth to stifle his grin. 

He remembers the glimmer in Jason’s eyes though, the shared amusement that he’d hidden away as he grabbed a stack of casefiles and handed them to Tim. 

Jason is watching him now, and it takes a long minute to figure out that it was his name that Jason said, something that had filtered into their conversations over the past month of chasing a new drug flooding Crime Alley. 

He’d fallen asleep. 

It takes a long time for him to understand, to understand the careful way that Jason is watching him now. 

He’s never slept here.

Not in the a month of working together, of stakeouts and long nights tracking financials and shipments, hacking into hospital records to track OD’s and one memorable weekend in disguise at a rave that seemed endless, dancing with Jason’s hand on his hips and ass and eyes sharp on the shadowy corners of the club as they watched deals being done in plain sight, as they watched pretty little things tripping on the dance floor strung out and incoherent and vanishing into the back of the club, escorted by coaxing hands and promises and Tim had whispered, “Todd.” 

And Jason had nodded, his jaw tight, “I know, Drake.” 

It’s over now. The supply has been burned and the bastards behind the drugs and the fledgling trafficking ring were in GCPD custody and Batman had come across the comms long enough to quietly say, “Good work, Hood, Red Robin.” 

It had made something spark in his chest, hot and pleased, even as Jason’s mouth had gone tight and bitter. 

“Chinese,” Tim had said, because he knew now that redirection was the best way to take Jason’s mind off the endless anger. 

It’s how he ended up here, so tired he’d finally fallen asleep on the couch, still in his uniform, still aching and so tired he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to shovel fried rice in his mouth. 

He gets like this, after a case. The hyperfocus vanishes, and all that’s left is exhaustion. 

“I gotta get to the Nest,” he mumbles. 

“You aren’t going home,” Jason says, like Tim had asked permission and he swivels. “Drake, you’re gonna hit a building the first time you shoot that damn grapple. Your bike is down by the wharf, and even if it weren’t--you’re in no shape to ride. Just stay here. I’ll get you back to your Nest in the morning.” 

Tim stares at him, lips shiny with grease from the hot and sour soup, face still flushed with heat from his shower, loose and relaxed in grey sweats and a Knights t-shirt, his hair tousled and curling around his ears. 

He doesn’t look dangerous, like this. 

He doesn’t look like the nightmare that tried to kill him. 

And looking at him, Tim can’t remember the last time Jason called him Replacement. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Ok. But I’m not sleeping on your shitty couch.” 

~

“Tim,” Jason rumbles, and Tim shifts in his sleep, warm and cozy and pleased, the shape of his name in Jason’s mouth, rough and close enough he could feel the sound of it against his ear and vibrating against his chest, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

“Not yet,” he mumbles into his pillow and it laughs, a quiet amusement that doesn’t feel barbed, doesn’t feel like something that will be used against him, in the future. 

He feels the pillow--Jason, he thinks, fuzzy with sleep, he fell asleep in Jason’s bed, and that massive wall of heat he’s cuddled against is Jason--sigh and snuggle into the blankets. “Yeah, ok, Timmy.” 

He knows he should think about this more, but Jason’s hand is stroking fire and comfort down his back, mindful of the bandages from last night’s fight, and he sighs and presses closer and lets sleep tug him down. 

~ 

“So give me the kid,” Jason says, more exasperated than irritated, and at the bank of computers, Tim goes still. 

It’s not a--a betrayal. They worked together on that case a month or so ago, and Jason haunts his patrol once or twice a week, calls him to grab burgers after patrol regularly enough that Tim plans for it. 

They sleep in the same bed with confusing regularity, something that snowballed from that first night, when Tim crawled through one of the windows of Jason’s safehouse, and into his bed, strung out from a lack of sleep and a plethora of nightmares. It happened after bad patrols, and after good ones, when they unwind with Jason cooking in the Nest and Tim lazily scrolling through his phone before Jason wrestles him into bed and drapes himself across Tim’s back to keep him still. 

They’re friends. 

It’s even improved the relationship Jason has with the other Bats--an ever changing dance of letting them close before he flits away wrapped in anger and hurt has settled more, found a rhythm that even allows for the occasional family dinner. 

Alfred had squeezed Tim’s hand in wordless thanks, tears in his eyes, the first time Jason stomped into the Manor and belligerently sat at the table, and said, “Tim says you’re making lasagna.” 

Still. 

It’s not a betrayal. He doesn’t have any kind of claim on Jason. He can work with whoever the hell he wants, and if he wants Damian, well. 

Everyone wanted Damian more than they had ever wanted him. 

Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad. 

Because he thought Jason was different. 

“Robin?” Dick says, doubtful and a little protective, as Damian shifts near Bruce, irritation and offense on every line of his face at the nickname. 

Jason snorts. “Not the demon. Gimme the kid. We did good work, last time.” 

Tim is aware of the silence behind him, and twists away from his computer to look at them, and the words sink in, register. 

Bruce is watching him, and he wonders what the Bat sees in his expression. 

Dick is looking at him with a half-teasing smile on his lips. 

And Jason--

Jason is watching him with patient expectation, like he’s waiting for Tim to catch up. 

Kid. He’s the kid. He isn’t sure he likes that one, he thinks. 

“Yeah,” he says, and turns back to the bank of monitors because he doesn’t want to see what their faces do. “Yeah, that’s a good plan.” 

~ 

He hears the gunfire first, and lifts his head, blearily. 

There’s panic on the guards face, and it makes him smile, a wet red grin that aches. “You’re fucked,” he mumbles.

They trade wide-eyed worried looks, and then--

The skylight shatters as Batman comes crashing in, a heartbeat before the doors at the far end of the warehouse shatter inward under the force of two bodies, and Red Hood storms through, guns drawn and bloody. 

Tim can feel the moment Hood catches sight of him, that stutter of stillness that precedes an absolute storm of violence. 

He watches, because even if he could participate, he’s always been fascinated with the way Jason moves, the grace and controlled strength, the bone shattering violence. He’s massive, almost as big as Bruce in a pound by pound comparison, but he was Robin before he was that big, and he was a scrappy little street kid before he was anything, and he kept that, muscle memory that not even the Pit was able to overwrite. He moves with the dirty instincts of a kid fighting for his life, the grace of a Robin trained by Dick, and the power of a man who can go toe to toe with the Bat and come up swinging. 

It’s intoxicating and fascinating, and if he hadn’t been beat to hell, Tim knows he’d be more than a little turned on. 

He flinches away from that thought, and the leather clad fingers that brush against him, a whine half-voiced before he clamps down on it. 

The reaction is instant. Batman withdraws, nearly vibrating with tension. 

Red Hood punches the thug he’s holding in the face and then darts to Tim, and crouches in front of him. “Tell me what to do,” he says, the same thing he’d said over and over and over during that first case together and the months since then, and the nights when Tim had wavered between staying and leaving, inviting Jason closer and sending him away. 

It’s so utterly Jason, it’s impossible to mistake for anyone else. 

“Just you,” he says, through chattering teeth because the shock is setting in, the pain and the revulsion, the words and touches too close to the surface, even if they didn’t do anything. 

I could fuck you and send you back to the Bat. Would he even want a broken bird in the nest, honey? 

“Whatever you need, honey,” Jason says and Tim jerks, flinches back hard, slamming his head into the chair as he fights backwards. 

“Fuck, hey, Red,” Jason snaps, his voice that firm croon that Tim knows he uses with victims, with civilians who just saw some shit. “It’s me, Tim, you’re safe.” 

“Don’t--not that,” he says, and somehow Jason understands the disjointed plea. 

“He--he--” Tim doesn’t get out more than that, but he’s shivering and frightened. Jason’s jaw clenches and he nods. 

“Which one, birdie?” 

“That one--Nightwing’s got him.” 

Jason’s fingers are quick and impersonal as he cuts the zip ties and unwinds the chains holding Tim in place. “Anything broken?” 

“Fucked up my ankle,” he says, and Jason nods, scooping him up in a bridal carry. “I’m taking him to the cave,” he tells Batman. 

He pauses once, on the way out the door. In front of the thug that Tim pointed out, and he stares down at the man, his expression hidden behind his mask. “This one?” 

Tim’s grip on Jason’s neck tightens, “Don’t.” 

“He took something from you. From both of us.” 

Honey. Tim presses closer. 

He’s smart, is the thing. He can track patterns and he can see what they mean, can put the clues together, and he knows what Jason isn’t saying. 

“I know,” he murmurs, and then. “Please. Don’t.” 

Jason is quiet and still for long enough Tim thinks he won’t listen. Then he holsters his gun and sighs. “The things I do for you, honey.” 

And the name spreads over him like sweet heat, like a promise, like maybe it doesn’t always have to be tainted. 

“Thanks, Red,” he whispers and feels the cool curve of Jason’s hood press against his hair. 

~

Names mean something. 

In their line of work, names can mean everything. 

It’s why Jason hated him so much, when he came back, rage driven and aching with hurt. 

It’s why he took up the mantle in the first place, because the name meant something. 

He understands that. 

And he understands the progression, the way he’s gone from Replacement to Red Robin to Drake to Tim. 

It’s what comes after that he keeps tripping over. 

Because there’s fondness in kid.

There’s affection in the rare birdie and soft honey, and it reflects in Jason himself, in the way he’s comfortable in Tim’s space, the way he always makes sure Tim has the burner number of the week. It’s there in the way his kitchen is a little bit messy and there are neatly stacked containers of leftover soup, in the sweatshirt that isn’t his forgotten on his couch. 

It’s there, even, in the fact that Jason didn’t kill the bastard who threatened to rape him, even after he coaxed the story, halting and hurting, from Tim, drawn out like poison. 

Names mean something, and every name Jason gives him, tells him that this thing growing between them means something too. 

It’s why he ran, all the way to Titans Tower, for three long weeks before Bruce stopped calling and sending the other Bats with messages, and instead pulled out the big guns. 

“Master Timothy, you will be home for your birthday, won’t you?” Alfred says, coaxing and utterly sure of himself, and Tim had sighed. 

“Can’t run forever, Timmy,” Kon had teased him, and he’d flipped him off and packed his shit. 

And now he’s here, perched on a gargoyle, the smog and smoke of Gotham as familiar and comforting as it is disgusting. His cape shifts in the wind, and he sees a flash of red in the corner of his eye, and smiles. 

Red Hood has been shadowing him all night, but he hasn’t come close enough to talk, hasn’t called out to him on the comms. 

He clears his throat, “O, I’m calling it a night.” 

She comes back, but Tim is already moving, dropping into  the city and skipping across the rooftops, flying and aware that Jason is chasing him, keeping pace. He laughs as he flies from one rooftop to another, the weightlessness and attention exhilarating. 

He goes to Jason’s current safehouse, one of the nicer ones that skirt the edges of Crime Alley, and he slips through the window deftly, confident that Jason will have left it for him. 

He’s in the shower, his uniform discarded on the floor with his bo staff and weapons piled in the sink, when he hears Jason push the door open. 

“Get dinner,” Tim calls, and Jason hesitates there, half hidden by the door. 

Tim sticks his head out of the sheet shower curtain and meets his eyes. 

Names, he knows, means something. 

“Jay,” he says and watches Jason’s eyes widen just a little. There are still creases on his face from the domino, and the roots of his hair are sweat soaked.

He’s still wearing his leather jacket and gloves. 

“Jay, get dinner,” Tim says. 

He swallows and leaves the bathroom. 

Jason has settled, by the time Tim emerges from the shower, is wearing his favored sweats and shirt combo that makes him look approachable. There’s a bag on the table, from Tim’s favorite deli, and it makes something twist sweetly in his belly, that Jason knew to stop and get something for them, that he’d bothered to go out of his way to get something he knew Tim would like. 

Jason is watching him, and he fidgets slightly, twisting the hem of Jason’s too large shirt as he stands in the doorway of the bedroom, unsure for the first time. 

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything…

“Come here,” Jason says, and it’s not quite an order, more a plea than anything, and it propels him into action, until he’s across the room and on the couch and curled into Jason’s side. 

Soft lips brush against his forehead, and he whines, a wordless noise high in his throat as he pushes closer, and Jason curls one strong arm around him, shifts until Tim is draped across his lap, his face tucked into the hollow of Jason’s throat, strong thighs braced under him. 

It makes him feel tiny. 

Tiny and protected, and he lets his lips brush against the skin of Jason’s throat, just above the thin scar left from a Batarang. 

Jason shivers under him, and curls him closer, and whispers, “What the hell are you doing to me, baby bird?” 

~ 

What he remembers later. 

He remembers the scratchy feel of Jason’s sheets and the smell of gunpowder and books and sweat. 

He remembers the weight of Jason on top of him and the way his hands felt, skating careful over his scars and skin, callouses catching on his nipple and causing his back to arch as he keened. 

He remembers the look of awe in Jason’s eyes as he came, writhing and begging, on two thick fingers slick and spreading him open. 

He remembers the way Jason had stared at him, eyes on shining, as he pushed into him, and the way the world went quiet as he did, the only sound he could hear was Jason’s voice shaping his name, calling him honey and baby and Timmy and beautiful. 

He remembers the way Jason had shivered as Tim had worked his cock, squeezing around him and wrapping his legs around Jason’s waist to pull him deeper, the way his control had finally shattered when Tim has growled and bitten the juncture of his shoulder, licked away the sweat and tang of blood, and Jason had moaned and fucked him finally, all that gorgeous strength and controlled violence turned on him and driving him out of his goddamn mind. 

He remembers screaming, when he came, and Jason’s voice, coaxing him higher and the way he had trembled like a leaf, when Tim had sobbed and shook through the oversensitivity and pleasure and begged him for more, for everything. 

He remembered the way Jason had moaned and come, when Tim had whispered Jay like a plea against his lips, against his tongue. 

Mostly, he remembers the way that Jay curls him close, a wall of strength between him and the world and says, “Don’t run away from me, sweetheart.” 

It’s an order and a question and a promise, he thinks. 

And he nods. “No more running, Jay.”