It’s almost dawn when the last guest leaves.
It’s not that strange, not that different from their normal night job. But it’s exhausting in a different way, to be Timothy Drake-Wayne, and not Red Robin.
After a month of galas and events, all culminating in this one, held in Wayne Tower, with a fireworks display even Brucie would say is excessive.
His whole body throbs and he wants a hot shower, wants the warmth of his bed and the solid pressure of a body pressed against his.
They all left earlier. Cass vanished an hour into the party, and Steph only stuck it out until just after one before she dragged Damian back to the Manor. Bruce was gone before the clock struck midnight.
Dick stayed the longest, flitting through the crowd, tugging Tim onto the dance floor to twirl and laugh and give him a break from the never ending crowd who wanted the attention of WE’s CEO.
But even he had left, around three am, with the last of the Board and high society.
The Birds of Prey had the city, and Babs would have looped them all in, if something had gone wrong in the city. It wasn’t the nightlife that lured the family away.
He didn’t mind. He understood it, even, the way they all slipped away. The holiday gala gauntlet was rough on all of them.
He stares at the empty ballroom, at the mess of confetti and empty champagne glasses and half-eaten plates cater waiters hadn’t whisked away.
The cleaning crew will be here in minutes, and once he lets them in--he can go sleep for thirty hours. Tam would do it, but he’d sent her home when one of the models that follow Brucie threw up on her shoes.
He thinks about dropping into one of the chairs while he waits, but he thinks that if does, he won’t move again.
“Yep, in here,” a gruff voice says. “Everything goes. Get it ready for business, alright?”
Tim looks up and it takes a moment to understand.
Because he knows the voice. He’d recognize that voice anywhere, from when it was young and bright and laughing in the dark, to the modulated growl of it as it stalked him through Titan Tower, to the teasing inflection of it, over comms and dinner and Alfred’s horrible waffles. The needy rasp of it in his bed.
Jason is directing the cleaning crew, dressed like a low level WE exec in slacks and a rumpled button down, like he belongs here, like he isn't the long dead son of Bruce Wayne.
He looks like he’s been haranguing the staff all night, like he never left, even if Tim hasn’t seen him until now.
He looks like the best goddamn thing Tim’s seen all week and he wants, abruptly, to cry, exhaustion falling down around him so hard and fast he sways where he stands.
“Com one. We're going to your penthouse,” Jason says, softly, when he comes to stand in front of Tim.
And there’s staff all around them, but Tim knows Jason, knows that if he brought a cleaning crew into Tim’s space, they’re Red Hood’s people, and he trusts Jason.
So he tips into Jason’s chest, and let’s Jason wrap a warm around his waist and inhales the scent of him--of gunpowder and leather and paper and tea, while Jason sighs and strokes his hand down the back of Tim’s expensive suit.
“You and me,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of Tim’s ear, “are gonna go to your Nest and I’m gonna blow you nice and slow in the shower, the way you like that turns off that pretty brain of yours.”
Tim shivers at the words, at the dark promise and the sweet touch of him.
“And then I’m gonna tuck you into your big bed and make you matzo ball soup and when you wake up, if you eat a bowl without fighting me, I’ll fuck you on the couch before we cuddle. How’s that sound, baby bird?”
Tim smiles into his boyfriend’s broad chest as the sun rises over Gotham, over the first day of a new year and all the shit and hope that holds.
“Sounds perfect,” he says, softly.
He smiles up at Jason, and there’s confetti glitter, shining in his hair.
