Tim's no stranger to insomnia. Has suffered sleepless nights staring at the inside of his eyelids over and over until... Well, if he wasn't going to get any sleep anyway he might as well do something else. Tailing Batman and Robin when he was younger then working on cases, tinkering with gadgets in the early morning hours in the Batcave; anything to maybe force his body past the point of no return so he could actually sleep.

While it's gotten better, Tim still spends more time awake then he does asleep. It might be easier, some nights, but not always.

"I'm heading in early." It's a thankfully quiet night but Tim can feel the exhaustion tugging at his limbs. By his estimation he's gotten a scattered total of ten hours of sleep the last couple days and none of it was particularly restful.

"Alright," comes Oracle's computerized voice, "you okay?"

"Fine. Just feeling a little under the weather." It's true enough and Tim manages to be in bed in his apartment a little after 12:30am.

He just has to close his eyes. Close his eyes, stop thinking...

Two hours pass and Tim still. Can't. Sleep.

Fine then. There's WE reports to review anyway. If he passes out while working on the couch then so be it.

The sun is beginning to rise, Tim's living room cast in a deep orange light when there's a noise at the balcony. Even as tired as he is Tim manages to fish a batarang out from the underside of the coffee table and brandish it at the intruder.

"The hell are you doing awake?"

Who turns out to be the Red Hood in all his armoured glory, a plastic takeout bag dangling from one hand.

Tim drops back onto the couch in a huff, rubbing one hand down his face.

"Honestly couldn't tell you. What're you doing here?"

"Blondie told me you were sick," Jason says simply, placing the plastic bag on the coffee table with a thunk. The helmet follows soon after. "Thought I'd drop off some food as thanks for helping me out the other day, especially if you were doing it while getting sick."

Huh. That's awful... thoughtful of Jason. Unfortunately, Tim wasn't any more sick than he was normally, Stephanie had probably exaggerated the problem just through hearsay.

Jason is looking at him. Scrutinizing him in a way only a bat can.

Tim's never exactly told anyone about his troubles with insomnia, content to let everyone just assume it was by choice. Which was probably an entirely different problem in and of itself.

"Alright, come on," Jason says. Commands, really. He's gone from the other side of the coffee table to grabbing Tim by the bicep and hauling him to his feet in the span of a blink. Or maybe Tim's perception of time has completely deteriorated. One of the two.

"What?" Tim asks belatedly in the middle of being dragged from the livingroom to the bedroom. Jason doesn't answer, instead drawing the blackout curtains to block out the rising sun and... it's not quite a shove, but it's definitely not a suggestion either that Tim lie down.

He disappears out the door leaving Tim to wonder if he actually hallucinated all that. There's noise in the apartment- the fridge door opening, the rustling of a plastic bag, the fridge door closing. Tim expects Jason to leave, sighing into his comforter as he tries to get comfortable. If he's lucky he'll fall asleep in a few hours at this rate.

And then he hears the bedroom door close. Footsteps and a weight on the bed. Warm, strong arms pull Tim in until he's pressed flush against Jason's solid body.

Tim starts to wonder if he did fall asleep on the couch and is currently just. Halluci-dreaming. Or something.

Jason's chest expands, his breath ruffling Tim's hair.

"Stop thinking, babybird," he rumbles, squeezing Tim a little tighter.

Cool air rushes to meet Jason as he pushes the door to the Wayne Enterprises rooftop patio open. Behind him the sound of a heavy bassline continues to pound through the walls, melody faintly audible underneath. Technically speaking, it's a Wayne Enterprises party, although the only WE employees in attendance are Bruce and Tim. More accurately it's a "holy shit I can't believe we're all still alive," party.

So the top floor with its fancy open plan floor space and over abundance of space was currently infested by a large number of superheroes and in typically Gotham fashion: a few more morally grey anti heroes (Jason included).

Needless to say, it was chaos. A joyful, heady kind of chaos but chaos nonetheless. Which was why there was a lone figure over by the glass railing, head tilted towards stars they couldn't see beyond the smog and light pollution.

"Enjoying the view?" Jason asks, coming to stand beside Tim and knock their shoulders together. Below them the bright neon tinted lights reflect off of glass and metal, people continuing on without even knowing how precariously close they came to being wiped off the map.

Tim turns his head, hair falling into his face, grin just this side of lopsided and says, "I am now."

Jason can't help his affectionate chuckle even as he rolls his eyes. Tim's smile grows wider before he goes back to looking up at the sky. Despite his mostly relaxed posture Jason can see the way his eyes scan the sky.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Hey," Jason says gently, prying Tim's hand free of the railing, "dance with me."

Tim huffs but goes willingly, probably not even fully aware of how he was working himself up. You can take the bat away from the paranoia but you can't take the paranoia out of the bat. Jason would be lying if he claimed he didn't understand Tim's uneasiness. That it isn't over, they haven't won, until they've also lost something or someone.

But Jason's also learned over the years that you have to savour the good times while they last. Maybe tomorrow the threat will return, or another will take its place but tonight.

Tonight is for celebrating.

So Jason leads Tim into the middle of the patio, placing one hand in the small of Tim's back to press him close. They sway back and forth for a while like a couple of teenagers at highschool prom before the beat coming from inside changes and Jason grins as he sets the pace for an improvised quickstep.

Jason had always enjoyed the dance lessons he’d gotten as a kid. Not for more than the basics, just enough to impress the various little old ladies who attended the various galas. It was just one more thing Jason figured he’d lost to death and the pit for years until Tim ended up asking him to partner on a case that happened to involve undercover at a ballroom dance competition. They didn’t end up winning the competition (despite their best efforts) but they did solve the case so it wasn’t all lost. And Jason and Tim found a new hobby.

They’re a little off beat for the song, and Jason throws in more than a few spins and twirls just because he knows they make Tim laugh. By the time the song tapers off, they’ve gathered an audience watching from the glass windows.

Tim looks up at Jason, eyes shining like that’s where Gotham’s stars went and smiling like he might never stop. Jason imagines he looks the same to Tim. He can’t quite help himself, he never can really and Bruce rails on him for his lack of self control constantly, so he leans down to capture Tim’s smile in a kiss.

Stephanie’s holler can be heard through the glass, accompanied by the rest of their friends and family also joining in to cheer and clap. With their hands still linked, they break apart and bow for their appreciative audience who’s cheers only get louder.

It doesn’t matter what happens tomorrow. What enemies lie in wait, whether they will see another sunrise or live another year. They have right here, right now, and that’s enough. As long as Tim’s here beside him.

“Wanna go again?”

-

The thing about being the only human in a pack of werewolves is that Tim is often smothered. It's not that he doesn't appreciate their concern, mostly, it's just... Tim would like some independence.

He might not be able to turn into a giant wolf but that didn't mean he was helpless. He was a witch in his own right, the best in Gotham village, and he wanted to practice his craft without his pack mates complaining about the smell of his various concoctions.

It was traditional for witches to set up post along the edge of the territory. Dick had whined that Tim didn't need to go off on his own so far from town, his apothecary didn't have to follow tradition, but Tim liked the quiet. He liked the duty of setting and maintaining wards along the entrance to their territory, greeting visitors and returning townsfolk alike and offering his potions when needed.

Besides, it's not like he was actually that far away. Not for a bunch of wolves who could cross the town in a quarter hour if they needed to.

So really, there was nothing they could complain about.

Well. Except the rogue wolf that shows up just across the river one day.

At his feet, crumpled on the floor surrounded by fire and debris is a body.

No.

Not a body.

That's him.

The voice in his head is louder now. It's grief.

And yet Jason can't quite touch the feeling.

"No, I won't," a voice says.

Jason turns, everything slow and distorted, to see two figures. Both dressed in shrouds of black. The taller is a woman, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in stark contrast to her clothes and the crown of black thorns she wears. The shorter one wears a hood, the shadow concealing their face from view.

The woman sighs, pursing her lips.

"You only get one."

One what, Jason wants to ask. Wants to ask a lot of things, actually, like who they were and what they were doing here.

"I can't," the other repeats. They sound young. Younger than Jason, he thinks. They turn their head, looking up at the woman and Jason barely gets a glimpse of their mouth as they say in defiance, "I won't take Robin."

The world goes cold, then hot, Jason's chest is exploding in pain.

When he wakes up it's to the sound of a heart monitor and the weight of Bruce slumped over his legs.

He tries to piece things together, holding on to a memory that slips through his fingers like water. It only gets harder when Bruce wakes, gingerly holding Jason's head with quaking hands as if he can't believe Jason is real. It only gets harder when Alfred and then Dick arrive, both looking just as haunted as Bruce.

They recount in shaking words that he'd nearly died.

Generally, Tim stays out of the limelight. Disastrous PR debacles was more Bruce’s thing, a man known for swinging between partners and parties like a squirrel caught in a hurricane.

Not that Tim didn’t make his appearances but each was carefully crafted to affect a certain image. Timothy Drake-Wayne was known to be kind but aloof, just funny enough to get people to let down their guard. Charming and put together.

Bruce knew how to cook.

Bruce knew how to cook in theory.

Cooking was just following a set of instructions. He could do that.

He did do that.

And yet.

"Three cups?!" Harley howls from the other side of the dining table, slamming one palm against the wood as she does so. "You used three cups of salt?!"

Her plate of casserole is still steaming in front of her, fork clattering against the plate every time she almost gets her composure and inevitably starts laughing again.

"That's what the recipe said," Bruce defends miserably, more to himself than anything because Harley is currently bent in half laughing into the crook of her arm.

He looks down at his own plate. Surely, it couldn't be that bad? It's what the recipe said after all.

He raises a bite to his mouth and.

Salty is not a strong enough word to describe it.

It goes straight past salty to some mixture of burning and wet at the same time.

Bruce tries to cover up his gag with a napkin.

"Perhaps, there was a typo..." He concedes, the taste of salt still lingering in his mouth.

"Ya think?" Harley barks, eyes bright and amused despite the dinner date disaster.

Bruce desperately wants to go down to the cave and not emerge for several days. Perhaps by then he'll stop tasting the abomination of shame in his mouth.

OOOH what a good one. i usually headcanon that harley is accepted as the arkham psych right after jason's death and joker's admission into arkham post getting almost every bone in his body broken for it BUT

i like this a lot here we go

-

It's the first time Bruce has been in public since Jason's death.

Jason never liked these things. Neither has Bruce, not really, but especially now he feels the sharp sting of holding a champagne flute in one hand and holding a placid smile on his face with no one here to commiserate.

The parade of well wishers seems never ending. People coming to shake his hand and sympathize for his loss in one breath and try to talk business the next. The same people had shown Jason nothing but disdain when Bruce had adopted him; whispering about street rats like Jason belonged under the shoes.

Bruce clenches his fist, not for the first time tonight. He wants to be out on the streets. He needs to be out there. Out on patrol where he doesn't need to hide behind a tired smile.

"Hey, take it easy there, big guy."

There's a hand on his bicep and for a moment Bruce sees pure red. He barely manages to reign in a snarl as he turns to whoever just touched him-- gently. Like they actually cared. None of them actually cared--

Blonde hair swept over one pale shoulder. A red cocktail dress with a slightly garish feather boa wrapped delicately around her elbows. Red lipstick and pale blue eyes looking at him without fear.

Harley Quinn. Joker's girlfriend. What was she doing here and did that mean Joker was prowling around too? He should be in Arkham, there was no way he was fully healed from Bruce's last encounter with him--

"Hey, hey, eyes down here," Harley says, snapping her fingers in front of his face. Bruce's vision focuses back on Harley, a small smile gracing her face when he makes eye contact. "Deep breaths. He's not here, he's not coming, okay? Let's go sit down before you break that champagne flute."

She gently reaches for the glass, taking it easily from his hands and leading Bruce off to the side from prying eyes.

His mind continues to race. Was this a trap? And-- she mentioned him. She's must mean Joker but then. Did she know? If she did, how did she know? And why was she even here?

"Sit," Harley demands as they step outside into the night air.

Numbly Bruce finds himself sitting on the bench she points at, dropping himself onto the polished wood with a grunt. Harley settles in next to him, a small gap between, and begins to pick at the feathers in her boa.

"He was a good kid. He didn't deserve that."

Bruce has heard a lot of people say some variation of that all night long.

It's the first time he's actually believed someone means it.

"You know," he says in response. There's no use in denying it. He's too tired to even try.

Harley looks at him with a lopsided smile.

"Course. Who do you take me for? I've got a PhD, y'know."

Silence settles between them. Bruce doesn't know what to do. Even with her association with Joker, she wasn't involved in what happened. Bruce was clear headed enough to acknowledge that.

"I'm not with him. Anymore, I mean. We were already on a break when he left and..." she's fiddling with her boa again, red feathers falling to her feet. "You have no reason to believe me but I never wanted to hurt Jason like that."

Harley stills, taking several deep breaths.

"I never wanted to hurt you like that. But this isn't about me." - Harley stands, dusting plucked feathers off her lap. - "I just wanted you to know that."

Bruce grabs her wrist before he has time to really think about it. She starts, looking at him with wide eyes. There's going to be talk tomorrow, probably pictures in the paper.

Brucie Wayne with some new arm candy after the death of his adopted son.

Let them talk. There was no stopping the gossip mill regardless.

Harley was the only person at this gala that really saw him.

"You can stay," he whispers, releasing his grip on her wrist. "If you want."

Harley smiles, small and genuine.

-

Jay should have known better. Should have known better than to trust Roy and Kori. Trust that he'd found his past and where he belonged. Of course he wasn't the missing Jason Wayne, any resemblance was simply coincidence that Roy and Kori had aimed to exploit for money.

The ballroom is too big, his clothes too tight. He isn't meant to be here at this party, in this manor, attempting to fit into this life. He pushes past the throngs of dancing couple roughly in his sudden bid to escape, mumbling halfhearted apologies as he goes.

He hears Kori call out to him but it doesn't matter. She was part of this too. He needs out.

Now.