#eidoloony

"Jason," Tim says, shocked. He cups Jason's face carefully, fingers soft against the bruises blooming across his cheek and jaw. "What happened?"

There's a smart answer on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't have the energy for snark. "Lost a fight."

Tim's hand ghosts over his shoulder, gently feeling the edges of the bandage, and then skips down to hover over his ribs. Sitting up to look would be fucking agony, but Jason knows his whole ribcage must be covered in developing bruises.

"Jason," Tim says again. His hand returns to the bandage. "Do you need Leslie?"

Jason starts to shake his head, but luckily controls the impulse before it can do more than ache in warning. Kinda feels like if he moves it too much, it'll fall right off.

"Nah," he says instead. "He wasn't trying to kill me, just make me suffer."

Tim makes a hurt little sound. "Who did this to you?"

There's an undertone to it, something angry and dangerous beneath the sweet concern. That's Red Robin there, lurking in the back of Tim's gaze and promising vengeance.

Jason knows it won't last, of course. That's why he draws it out, why he waits a long minute to answer. He wants to enjoy the clear rage on his behalf before it becomes disappointment.

"Jason?" Tim prompts eventually.

Jason takes one last second to savor Tim's worry and anger. Then he sighs and admits, "Bruce."

The answer shocks Tim's face into blankness. His careful hands spasm, freezing in the middle of their subtle injury check.

"What," he says flatly.

"Bruce," Jason repeats. He tries to make it defiant, but thinks he only manages tired. His head is throbbing. "We had another little disagreement about my methods."

Tim's jaw ticks. "Did you."

It's not a question, but the request for more information is implied. Jason thinks about telling him--about recounting the entire, fuck awful night--but ends up looking away instead.

In the morning, he'll be able to summon up his usual fury and indignation over Bruce's fucking nerve, the way he dares to think he can dictate how everyone else in Gotham works--the way he acts like he owns the city and outranks every vigilante in it by default.

Right now? Right now every inch of him aches. He can feel his heartbeat in his shoulder, pulsing in the puncture wound the batarang left. All he can feel is exhaustion.

However much of what Jason's feeling Tim reads on his face, it makes him sit back on his heels. He takes a slow, deep breath.

"Okay," he says. "I'll be back in a little while, okay? You need anything while I'm out?"

Jason's eyes snap back to his. He was expecting either a lecture or Tim storming off, not a casual little goodbye like Tim's planning to go get groceries.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

Tim pushes to his feet, bracing one hand against the back of the couch as he leans in to press a sweet, careful kiss to Jason's mouth.

"To find Bruce," he says.

Jason's heart misses a beat. "Tim--"

Tim's next kiss lands on his forehead in such a tender gesture that it steals the words right out of Jason's mouth.

"I'll be back," he promises. "I just need to talk to him, okay?"

To find out what Jason did that was so bad it earned this? To find out if Bruce is still okay with them dating, in light of his latest tantrum?

"About what?" Jason asks, dreading the answer.

Tim's mouth thins. His eyes blaze.

"His fucking methods."

Was Jason the kinda guy who marked up his partners as much and as often as they’d allow? Yes.

Was there a single solitary person in Crime Alley who was gonna look at Red Hood’s boyfriend long enough to even realize he had hickies, let alone count them? Absolutely fucking not.

So it was a lie, and Jason knew it. Knew that Tim would be lucky to get eye contact as long as he was undercover, because nobody would want to be the moron caught staring at Red Hood’s boyfriend. Jason had never dated anyone as his crime lord persona before, so they wouldn’t know what kinda punishment he’d lay down for staring…but he was sure they could imagine, and it would keep all of their gazes firmly averted.

But the excuse was right there—right there like the hickies he’d left before, scattered across Tim’s neck and just begging to be joined by some friends—and who was Jason to ignore it?

Tim hadn’t answered. Jason felt like that was a good sign; better hesitation than an immediate ‘no.’

“So?” he asked. He couldn’t resist the urge to apply a little pressure to the mark below his thumb, treasuring the way Tim’s pulse jumped in response. “More, yes or no?”

Tim’s pulse evened out immediately, and not in a natural way. No, that was Tim applying Batman’s lessons in controlling his heartbeat. That was Tim needing to control his heartbeat, because Jason was absolutely getting to him.

“Sure,” Tim said casually. “Knock yourself out.”

“Great,” Jason said, matching Tim’s casual tone. Not easy, when the jealous, possessive thing in his chest was nearly purring in satisfaction. He’d had so much fun marking Tim up the first time and couldn’t wait to do it again.

…But half the fun was flustering Tim, and Jason was pretty sure Tim had a strength kink. (It would explain his baffling and infuriating affair with the super clone, for one, and also Jason was like seventy-five percent sure Tim had checked him out the last time he took advantage of the Batcave’s weights.)

So he took the excuse of their height difference to lift Tim right off his feet and put him on the kitchen island. Without asking. With no visible effort. (No effort required, it’d be so fucking easy to just pin Tim to the wall and hold him there while Jason fucked him—)

Tim was blushing. Fuck yes.

He also wasn’t asking why Jason had done that, which was an even better sign, Jason thought. Still, for the sake of appearances—

“You’re too short,” he offered in explanation. Tim didn’t so much as roll his eyes; another good sign.

He wanted to keep teasing Tim, see if he could get that faint blush darker and more obvious, but the other half of the plan called. They had a date to go on.

So he stepped up between Tim’s splayed legs and gripped his hips, yanked him to the edge of the island, and went to town.

Tim’s skin was soft beneath his lips. His shirt rubbed distractingly against Jason’s chest. And the quiet, hitching breaths he kept taking were driving Jason out of his goddamned mind.

He was obviously trying so hard to stay cool, to play it unaffected like he wasn’t bothered all by Jason’s attention, and he was failing. Calm, cold, unflappable Tim was being really fucking flapped by Jason giving him a few hickies.

It was hot as fuck—and, more importantly, it gave Jason hope. Hope that this plan might actually work after all. That he might walk away from this not only with his traitors dealt with, but with Tim finally being his as a bonus.

And if not…well, at least he’d have this memory: Tim’s stifled moans, the taste of his sweat, and his visible struggle not to arch up into Jason’s touch.