#cherriffic

Barry gave him a weird look, for about a tenth of a second, before his brain caught up.

'Did I say that out loud?'

'Yep.' Clark could have looked less gleeful. After a moment he did, and the mirth was crushed by concern. 'You okay?'

'If I give myself a moment to think about how tired I am I'm going to collapse,' Barry laughed, utterly truthful. 'We are all owed so much overtime.'

He glanced over at Clark, a little jealous of how immaculate he still managed to look. Well, covered in dust and blood and a little sludgy purple slime, but without dark circles or bruising. His shoulders were still straight. It was unfair.

They came to pause in one of the streets they had been walking down. Removal and cleanup crews were dotted around the nearby blocks, swearing at the timing of the fight. The night before Monday, and they’d have to clean up all the debris before rush hour tomorrow or Metropolis would grind to a halt. Funny how people were now more annoyed about traffic jams then supervillans.

Clark being Clark always hung around to help out - they all did, actually. Barry could see Diana standing atop a pileup of cars and directing efforts.

He almost tripped on a stray rock before his reflexes kicked in. Clark sighed. ‘Go home.’

'I was hoping you hadn't seen,' he grumbled. Clark just smiled and raised an eyebrow in bemusement. Yeh, okay, any plan that relied on Clark having human senses was bound to fail. 'You're spending too much time with Batman,' he said instead.

'Flash,' Clark said, slipping just slightly into a command. 'I don't want to know how many miles you've run today. Rest.'

'Go to get home first,' Barry pointed out, good-naturedly. 'Are you sure you can -' he began, and paused to watch Diana lift up a beam out of the street. People cheered. 'Yeh, I'm sure. See you!'

Before he could think of the pain in his muscles he was off. The route home from Metropolis was well worn enough that Barry allowed some measure of autopilot to take over. It did result in him running through a river before he could correct his path, but he was going to take a shower eventually. (Could his shoes get wet? They must be able to. Unless water somehow fused them to skin and - okay, stopping now. Clearly in no state for hypothetical science.)

By the time he was home it was dark. Granted, when he left it was dark, but the general gloom pressed down like another set of weights on his shoulders. He stripped off the costume and shoes straight into the washing machine (and sent up a prayer for its ease of cleaning.)

The water was like heaven and Valhalla and medium rare steak wrapped in one. Everything was so warm, and the drops hit the floor in a smooth staccato that drove any thoughts out of his head. The tiles were smooth when he rested his cheek against them. Everything was so …. nice.

—-

'Babe,' a voice said in his ear. Barry blinked one eye open. Where was the danger and how could he shut it up? Hal was leaning in the shower entrance, looking just a little too pleased.

He very consciously said ‘uhhhh’ and made a flailing motion.

'Babe you're in the shower.' Barry shot Hal a one eyed no shit look. Hal just laughed. 'You fell asleep in the shower. You're freezing.'

'I run hot,' Barry mumbled.

'Oh I know.' Hal probably added a wink to accompany the statement but Barry had already closed his eyes. A moment later there were hands dragging him up - more than two, and they felt more like shovels. At least Hal handed him a real towel.

Once he was sort of upright and had made peace with being awoken, Barry blinked his eyes open. They were still in the bathroom. Hal was leaning against the sink now, watching Barry with a softer smile. Barry should probably be blushing, being naked and half asleep, but -

There was a bag on the counter. He could smell the delicious mix of bad quality meat and fake cheese.

Barry had to swallow a couple times. ‘Are those cheeseburgers?’ He hadn’t eaten in forever - for his standards, anyway, and judging from the stack there were at least six.

'Clark might've texted,' Hal shrugged, but Barry was already upon them.

'I love you,' he muttered through a mouthful.

'You better, those are from California.'

Tim managed to get here first this time, dropping off a file for Bruce (and hunting his expression for any sign of emotion regarding the shower incident of last week.) That done, he’s left to wander into the kitchen and sing praises to Alfred.

  Its a gleaming, spotless room with a tray of freshly baked, perfectly cooled and dangerously delicious cookies resting quite innocently on the island counter. Tim hops up and starts cramming them into his mouth as fast as possible.

  It’s a fairly quiet day around the house, mostly due to Damian’s absence at school. He catches glimpses of Alfred running various errands through the halls. There’s a patch of sunlight shining through the skylight and warming his hair. Bruce is somewhere above in an office handling Wayne CEO work for once. It’s all rather quaint and lovely.

  Tim doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until the sound of leather shoes and a faint cough startle him.

  ‘Morning, Alfred. This are delicious,’ he greets the butler, trying not to talk through a mouthful of cookie pieces. Alfred smiles but it looks strained. He almost looks -

  Oh. There’s a laundry basket resting on the counter and inside are a pair of black and red boxers Tim is rather familiar with. The locker room floor in the Batcave is also rather well acquainted with them, and from Alfred’s expression so is he. Jason kicked them out of the shower (and to assign equal blame, Tim is the one who dragged him into said shower by said underwear.) Tim would be wavering between gladness and annoyance of the evidence if not for the disappointment on Alfred’s face.

  ‘I have no qualms with your involvement with Master Jason,’ Alfred begins and his voice is the sort of quite that shows a deep set anger and disheartenment. ‘But to use it so crudely in order to hurt Master Bruce is not something I will accept.’

  Tim wants to cower away and never do such a thing again. He doesn’t, though, because while he’s got more respect for authority than Jason he has marginally less respect for Alfred than the others. He loves Alfred, they all do, but he never quite felt the worship the Robins before him did. They’re all human: Tim knows it best.

  ‘He chooses to be hurt by it,’ Tim selects as his answer. It’s more accusatory than he wants to convey. There’s a flash of anger on the butler’s face and Tim continues quickly. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong. You’re right, it’s crude, but it’s the only way to show him...’ Tim licks his lips, drops his gaze and considers his next words with care. ‘To show him this can exist. That we can be happier for it. I am,’ Tim looks back up now, holding Alfred's gaze and trying not to shake. ‘Happier for it. He could be too.’

  If we can do it, two people who’ve tried to kill and hurt each other for so long, its just a little more evidence to suggest that he can too. It’s a little more to suggest that love can and does win. He’s spent so long around demons and dysfunction that he’s forgotten anything other than his mad justice.

  ‘It would be good for him,’ Tim finishes softly, trusting that Alfred can interpret everything unsaid.

  ‘That was not your original intent.’ No, Tim thinks, and hot shame flushes through him at being found out.

  ‘It is now.’ Alfred watches him for a few moments more before nodding, slowly, and pulling the laundry basket to his hip.

Tim absolutely blames Jason's presence for the delay between his brain computing the thoughts 'Bruce is here' and 'I'm in a bed with Jason' to reacting by supplying situationally appropriate panic. It's hard to be constantly alert with a heavy arm slung low across his hips, rising from a deep REM cycle. At least, he thinks in a mild state of terror, we're both wearing underwear. Wait, Jason is, right?

  That thought has him turning his head to check, feeling his heartbeat subside slightly at the sight of the Superman print Jason is sporting. He'd laugh and curl up against him if only Bruce wasn't staring silently down at them both. Tim's kind of surprised the sheer atmosphere of judgement coming from Bruce hasn't woken Jason.

  What exactly is the protocol for when your cape wearing, emotionally unresponsive adopted father/mentor/vigilante figure finds you half naked in bed with your adopted brother/adversary/partner who once tried to kill you oh and is legally dead? Tim's pretty sure his tactic of just staring back isn't the best option for handling the situation, but somehow he can't quite bring himself into full panic-analysis mode. He's comfortable.

  Jason is sound asleep next to and on top of him. One arm is slung under the pillow, fingers peaking out to graze Tim's neck. His other rests diagonally across the boy's chest, elbow resting in the V beside Tim's hipbone. These fingers are curled lazily into the bottom of his boxers, sliding up Tim's thigh. Jason's face is hidden into Tim's shoulder.

  In contrast to Jason's easy curl Tim is pretty much sprawled on his back, the hand and foot nearest the door hanging off of the bed. Tim wants to pull them back in away from Bruce's eyes. The bed is the safe zone; his runaway limbs are crossing no-man’s-land into hostile territory. They might not make it back intact. From the blankness on Bruce's face, Tim is going to assume it's hostile territory for now. He can't quite get a read on Bruce's thought process here.

  As he becomes more awake, Tim starts to be conscious of other things. Like the day old hickey blossoming spectacularly on his inner thigh, just below the fabric line, or the faint Jason-shaped bruises on his hips. Jason's got marks spaced to match the gaps between Tim's fingers down one side. Tim's pretty sure that, should he ever stop mashing his face into Tim's shoulder blade, Jason's got one hell of a bite mark at the junction of his throat. Any chance of passing this off with the ‘too-tired-to-get-separate-beds-after-that-really-hard-patrol-no-Dick-we-hate-each-other’ charade evaporates.

  (Yes, they've used that line before. It's actually worked, but that might have more to do with the gun in Jason's sleep loose grip than the believability of the tale. (They also have a bad habit of this happening when crashing in houses that aren't their own.))

  Bruce is still staring. Tim decides that he's either gone into shock...or he's gone into shock. The air around him almost seems electrically charged. Tim entertains himself for a moment guessing at who he's more appalled by before remembering that, in this, Bruce's opinion means fuck all. Tim's allowed to have some things Batman-free.

  He shifts, slightly, and the movement makes Jason's fingers slip entirely between his legs. And there's the blush. He'd been wondering where his embarrassment had scurried off to. Tim can feel it throwing a dinner party in the red of his cheeks.

  Apparently this is where Bruce draws the line between horrified spectator and inquisitor because he takes a strong step into the room. The whole atmosphere suddenly becomes enclosing; suffocating rather than enveloping as before. Tim feels Jason's fingers close minutely tighter around his thigh and he knows that he's woken up. Bruce must see the tension in Jason's muscles because he addresses them both.

  'What is this?' his voice is a dangerous cross between Bruce Wayne and Batman, as if he can’t quite decide which persona to shield himself with. Tim unconsciously presses himself closer to Jason's side. All the warmth in the room is receding.

  Jason scoffs, still buried behind Tim's shoulders. Bruce can only see the black and white of his messy hair. 'This is called sleeping, oh great detective. You should try it sometime,' he answers in a biting tone, rearranging the arm under the pillow to wrap around the back of Tim's waist. It's a move he's playing off as making himself comfortable but it screams protection. He's mine, don't touch this subject if you want to live.

  'I think it's more than that,' Batman responds evenly. His voice is dry enough to hint at the lake of anger and misplaced feelings under the veneer of the conversation. It's enough to make Jason lift his head out. The look on his face is annoyance, masking the visceral anger that always accompanies interactions with Bruce. Deeper than that the anger masks uncertainty.

  Tim and Jason have never fully straightened out what this is. They are Red Hood and Red Robin, always tied together by something: anger, resentment, envy, compassion, admiration, love. They've tried to kill each other and they're not sorry for it. The life doesn't have much room for regrets, Tim's found.

  But this. This is good. The pattern they've carved out for themselves works, and Tim likes this spiral of intimacy they've fallen into. He likes having Jason's arm around him.

  'It's none of your business,' Tim says softly. He can feel Jason's eyes on his face and his lungs pushing air in and out of his chest cavity against his side. It's calming, somehow, to have Jason doing something as mundane as respiration beside him. It's proof that life goes on. 'We aren't your Robins anymore.'

  If Bruce is stung he doesn't visibly react. Tim's angry at him, too, for a myriad of reasons that all channel back to ‘you're supposed to have loved me more than Batman’. Its the baseline hurt that holds the fragile relationships between the exRobins together.

  Bruce's eyes trail over them silently. Tim struggles not to hold unnaturally still under the gaze. Jason, because he's a jerk, runs a foot up the side of Tim's calf. Tim has sudden bizarre visions of them testing how far Bruce's stoicism will extend.

  He stands a foot into the room for a few moments more, letting his disapproving air diffuse a little more before turning away. His steps are measured as he walks away.

  'He left the door open,' Jason mutters irritably, glaring at the space where Bruce had been standing. Tim shifts onto his side. He reaches up to comb a few messy strands from Jason's face.

  'He's being petulant.' Tim tilts his head to press a kiss to Jason's mouth. The fingers, now pressed entirely between his closed legs, scratch lightly against his flesh. Tim hums in satisfaction; Jason leers. He leans in close, as if trying to crowd the younger boy.

  'Good morning,' Jason almost purrs. His voice has lost bite, reverting back to sleep-graveled and really hot. A little part of Tim is soaring with how they brushed off something as potentially disastrous as Bruce. It gives a little more credibility to the idea that this is real, its good and he gets to keep it. From the low rumble of chuckles building up in Jason's chest, he feels the same.

  'You know what this means?' Tim asks, fashioning his voice low and secretive. His hand drops from Jason's hair to press against his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss just this side of wet and hot.

It confuses him when he encounters evidence to the contrary. There is no neon sign that pops up into his field of vision one day that proclaims NOPE, JUST YOU. It’s rather a slow amalgamation of incidences that take root in the back of his mind.

There’s a comedy show on TV which he watches when his mother is busy and school is over. The six characters onscreen never seem quite certain about anything and spend an awful lot of time questioning the motives of each other. They hide in closets and lie and spy on each other to find out the truth instead of just looking. Tim thinks its an awfully complicated way of going about.

It happens in other places, too: at the library once a mother was looking for her lost child and Tim didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just reach out and follow the trail of her son’s panic. Tim could still see it wafting through the air like the dismembered limbs of an octopus.

There are times when his parents fight and Tim just wants to scream from how they might as well be speaking different languages, caught up in their own misunderstandings. Why can’t they read the the tones of resentment and loneliness shooting off of their skin and out of their mouths? He tries to intervene afterwards, wandering up to where his mother is leaning against the fridge and explaining in a soft voice how daddy was just angry because the company makes him stay away so much and he misses her but she doesn’t seem to miss him back (Janet feels as though her heart is cut out when Jack is away too long, Tim knows from the acid welling up in her chest, but she’s proud and bent on self sufficiency above all else.) But she refuses to listen the way all adults immediately reject the things they secretly wish for when they are offered.

Sometimes Tim will say something that has people appraising him oddly, shaking their heads as if to refuse reality. He learns not to say those things because the waves of confusion that creep towards him from them make him feel a little sick.