#jasonxtim

He's already grabbed the pot of coffee (and adding “Coffee Addict” to the “List of Things I Know About Tim Drake”), when he notices the post-it attached to the side.

“Drink me”, the bright square of paper tempts him in sturdy-looking block letters. Scribbled underneath, smaller but still bold, it says: “I promise I'm good. Hopefully still warm, too. A Brazilian blend and unsweetened, which is always a plus with you.”

Tim sniggers a little to himself, feeling the disappointment dissipating inside his chest, just like mist under the first warm rays of sunlight. He hobbles to the cupboard, reaching inside for a mug. He grabs the green one without thinking, and is greeted by a second post-it:

“You'd better eat something with that coffee,” with the word “better” underline twice.

Tim blows the hair out of his face with a little puff, but the look on his face is far from annoyed. He tries to school the giddy little grin into something more appropriate to his status of disgruntled, just woke-up alone, severely-wounded vigilante, but then remembers that he's home alone, and graciously allows the grin to stay where it is.

Pivoting on his heel, he goes back to the coffee-maker, fills his mug to the brim and takes a long sip. He turns toward the fridge, wondering if there's food stacked inside, and whether it's still within date, since they've been away for so long. He notices a third post-it. This time, the message is just a doodled arrow. Tim dutifully moves his eyes in the prescribed direction. A trail of post-it notes leads his eyes across the wall and towards the kitchen table. A cluster of doodled arrows greets him, each  one arranged as to point to a brown bag sitting innocently between a bottle of orange juice and a little pile of napkins on the table.

“Eat me”, invites the post-it attached on top of the bag, and then, added underneath as if as an after-thought: “You know you want to.”

When Tim is done chocking on his laughter and opens it, he finds a final note (“Stop chortling, Alice, it wasn't even that funny.”) and a blueberry muffin that melts on his tongue as if it were made of the same stuff as clouds.

He's sucking the last crumbles from his fingers when he notices a quick scribble on the bottom of the muffin's cup, this time in blue ball-point pen ink. It's short and to the point.

“You're welcome,” it says.

Tim murmurs a soft “thank you” before he's even aware of it.

After breakfast, he's tempted to reacquaint himself with the apartment. Explore around, search the cabinets with the hope to spark a memory, rearrange those books. But he's equally as tempted to prop his ankle on the armrest of the couch and tinker the day away on that laptop he glimpsed the night before. Temptation aside, though, he does nothing for a long, long while. Just glancing through the kitchen door at the living room makes his stomach churn with unease.

This is his house, he supposes. This flat, it's where Timothy Drake used to live. But it's not home. Not now. Not yet. Not to this amnesiac boy sitting helplessly at the kitchen table, with a crumpled muffin-cup sitting in his palm. He doesn’t feel entitled to do anything. Even wondering about this or that secret compartment (and boy, he can see a lot from where he is sitting) makes him feel like he's overstepping his boundaries, doing something forbidden.

Reading is not off-limits.

He thinks.

Hopes.

So he cleans after himself, carefully collects all the post-its (throwing away the arrows and pocketing the scribbled messages), and slips into the living room. He's chagrined to see an imprint of his body on the couch -  the contours of his ass, his back and legs are sketched in big, black strokes of coal dust on the pale fabric. It looks a bit like a Michelangelo sketched with charcoal on parchment. But Renaissance genius he is not; couches aren't canvases to draw upon, and all in all it's not a pretty sight. At all.

He has no idea where the cleaning supplies are, or even if he's up to the physical strain, which means that cleaning it is out of the question. He throws the couch a last guilty look and veers towards the bookshelf. It's brimming with classics. Not that he'd pegged either Jason or himself for the sort to read cheap harlequins, but it's staggering to see several copies of prize-winning novels in several different languages. Which one of them can read fluidly in Arabic, he wonders. And is that Russian?

He's engrossed in page 197 of a pocket-sized copy of Paradise Lost, when Jason comes in.

From the window.

Bright red domino mask on his face, a backpack on his shoulder and a number of bags festooning both his arms.

“Oh. Hi,” he says, voice and face utterly blank. For a loaded, absurd moment, it feels like between the two of them the one who is doing something strange and unusual is Tim. (And now panic settles in. Is he doing something strange? Wasn't he supposed to touch the books? Did he not enjoy reading before the accident?).

Carefully, Tim lowers his foot from the upturned box he'd used to prop it, tucks the book away and clears his throat.

“Uhm. Hi,” he echoes.

Jason is sitting astride the window, one leg inside the apartment, the other outside, looking rather like a strange cowboy. The heel of his boot is tap-tapping a circle on the floor. He keeps looking at Tim as though trying to get the other boy to read into his mind.

“You went shopping?” Tim prompts before the scene gets any stranger, his heart beating a nervous staccato against his ribs.

Jason ducks his head a bit, raises his hand as if he wanted to rub the back of his neck, but the weight of the bags impairs him, so he aborts the motion on the third try. He seems to weight his words very carefully for a long moment; then offers: “Just. Collected some of your stuff from... err... other safe-houses we've got in town.”

Tim leans forward, all eagerness all of a sudden.

“Tell me you've got a toothbrush in there?” he says, voice lilting hopefully at the end, eyes roving hungrily from bag to bag to backpack and then starting anew.

Jason blinks slowly at him, ducks all the way inside, and carefully sets his loot down.

“Why a toothbrush?“ he asks, eyebrows furrowing together. “There is a perfectly fine one in the bathroom. It's even your favourite colour and all.”

“Yes, Jason,” Tim says patiently. “I'm sure there's one toothbrush. But there's two of us.”

Jason snorts, straightening up and running a hand through his windblown hair, messing it all the more.

“No, I meant. There's one for you as well. You didn't even check the cabinet? Christ, for a moment I thought you'd gone and used my toothbrush to clean the toilet seat or some other shit.”

“I wouldn't do that!” Tim protests, wavering between amusement and horror. Jason folds his arms across his chest and quirks a challenging eyebrow at him. Tim drops his face in his palms, but his shoulders are shaking with repressed laughter when he says: “I totally would, wouldn't I?”

“Your words, not mine,” Jason answers, raising his hands and looking the perfect picture of innocence.

Tim snorts, gets an eyebrow-wiggle in return and retaliates with an eyeroll.

“So, if not a toothbrush, what did you get?”

“Well,” Jason looks down at the bags, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Bandages and medicines, some weapons, gadgets. A few changes of clothes.” He lists. “I also got some food. Soap. CDs – all work related, though. Some stuff we can use to go undercover, uniforms and  the likes. I—I got you a laptop. Not yours, but. I got it at a thrift shop And... and a couple books, too. Some folders and shit on the last case you were working on.” He's massaging his fingers as if they ached. There are burned marks on his gloves, and dark smears across his shirt. When he notices Tim staring, Jason says: “Got troubles with the alarm system,” and leaves it at that.

Tim nods dubiously, not quite believing that Jason would have to resort to force the security of one of their own safe-houses, but doesn't ask. Jason probably ran into trouble on the way and just doesn't want Tim to worry. Tim doesn't like and doesn't need to be babied, but if Jason doesn't want to share, Tim can respect his need for silence.

For the time being, at least.

“Is that food I smell?” he asks, instead of pressing about the alarm system.

“I grabbed some take out on my way,” Jason answers, looking smug. “You hungry?”

It's a tricky question, and it shouldn't be. Tim takes careful stock of his body – he is aware he hasn't eaten in hours, and yet, he doesn't feel the pangs of hunger. He's also aware that this lack of appetite is not normal. All things considered – that he's wounded and in need of energy to recover, that he hasn't eaten properly in weeks – he should be famished. But he's not. Hunger is like an afterthought tucked like a secret far, far away in the back of his mind, a bad puppy that's been locked inside a closet in the farthest wing of the house. No one can hear it whine. No one will take it out.

Tim's eyebrows dip together into a frown, but it's not a lie when he says: “I could eat,” because he's been trained like that, to ignore his body needs, but also to force himself to satisfy them when the situation allows.

Jason frowns right back at him.

“We're gonna burn this food aversion right out of you,” he warns. He rips off the mask – literally rips off, rather than just peel it away like a sane person would. Doesn't he feel the pain? Doesn't he care?– grabs one of the bags and goes to Tim. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, the bag balanced between them, exuding strange and wonderful smells.

Tim peeks inside, and is genuinely taken aback when he doesn't see cheap fast food containers, soda bottles and a spill of greasy fries filling all the empty spaces in-between.

“What's this?” he asks, poking at one aluminium container. It's not burgers and chilidogs, it definitely is not pizza, and it's not a carton of Asian food either. What the—-?

Jason shrugs, reaches inside the bag, and takes out two container as if they were holy relics.

“Eggplant Parmesan” he says, taking the lids off both containers. He weights them in each hand, then hands over to Tim the biggest portion. “The good stuff,” he adds, as if Tim couldn't tell that by smell alone. His stomach went from being into knots to roaring with hunger in 0.12 seconds sharp. The smell is so good.

“Wha—is—I mean--Parmesan?” Tim asks, flabbergast, after the first mouthful. Oh, dear. And he thought he wasn't famished? This – whatever it is – is melting in his mouth like – like – like – he has no term of comparisons, sadly. He quickly shovels in his mouth another forkful or seven of steaming heaven, waiting for Jason to answer.

“Italian recipe. The original one,” Jason stresses, waving his plastic fork menacingly. “Nothing of that boiled-eggs-in-the-stuffing crap. This is fried eggplant, homemade sauce and a shit-ton of cheese.”

Tim blinks, fork balanced before his open mouth.

“We – are we of Italian origins?” he asks.

Jason is silent for a long moment. “The old house was in the Italian ghetto,” he says at long last, as careful as if he were weighting each word. “Which explains why the old man got involved with Two-Face in the first place. A contract with the mafia lead to more contracts and then bam! Prison for life.” Tim makes a non-committal noise, wondering if Jason remembers that he has no idea whatsoever who Two-Face is.

Jason must've noticed something in his face, because his eyes flicker up and away. He wraps his tongue around the fork and sucks it clean, the motion somewhat pensive.

“Bottom line is-” he pauses, licking his teeth; then seems to give much too stress to the following pronoun - “ I grew up eating this stuff.”  He angrily scraps some sauce from the bottom of the container – fuck, is it finished already? - but then his eyes go a bit wistful. “We didn't always have enough money. But mum always insisted I eat much, and that I eat well. Not that you'd hear me complain. She used to be the best cook outta the whole block. And for a while there, I thought that if I ate big I'd grow big and strong and be able to take care of her the way she took care of... me.”

His voice grows faint on the last word, and he has to force himself back on track with visible effort.

“As for being Italian... well. Maybe? I don't know the numbers, but the old man was at least part Italian and part Greek, and his Grandfather was Jew. There was from Irish blood from mom's side. Plus, I think she'd got some Arabic blood. Funny story, once I asked the Demon brat if he thought we might have a common grand-grand-something, and he sorta went ballistic. You should've heard the pitch his voice reached. I thought he was gonna shatter all the glass in the house.”

Tim makes another wondering noise, and Jason waves his fork once more, this time dismissively.

“Long story. One you'd rather not remember, I bet.”

“Is this Demon brat someone I don't like?” Tim asks, chasing with his tongue a runaway drop of sauce that's trailing down the inside of his wrist.

“Is the sky blue, Baby B?” is Jason's reply. To which Tim, being Tim, answers:

“Most of the time, though the exact hue changes with the time and the condition of the weather, shifting between basically all the colours of the spectrum.”

The eyeroll he was expecting, the fork aimed at his forehead he evades with his ninja reflexes, but the cap of the Parmesan container gets him square in the nose, splattering sauce across his cheeks and eyebrows.

For someone seemingly so inclined to be a lone wolf, Tim had a startling knack for insinuating himself into other people's lives, to the point that it would take a heavy dose of novocaine to numb yourself for the removal, and probably an uncountable amount of time in therapy trying to determine when you'd managed to develop a Tim-sized hole that couldn't be filled by anything other than the real thing.

Jason gives up, yet again, on figuring out when Tim's unannounced visits simply became his new roommate coming home, and groans in unison with his stomach’s happy growl as Tim sets a cooking pan of baked mostaccioli on a trivet in the middle of the table. One thing he is certain of is that he's never eaten better than when Tim started making real meals.

Tim is halfway to forking a massive bite of pasta into his mouth when he looks up at Jason's silly grin. Eyes narrowing, he mutters, “What are you looking so pleased with?” before shoving the waiting food in his mouth.

“I love you.” Jason finds it funny that Tim's only reaction is to snort and keep eating, obviously well aware he's referring to the pasta and not Tim.

The other interpretation is, well, that'll be a conversation down the line most likely, but Jason is pretty sure they're not quite there just yet.

“Just eat,” Tim instructs with a bland tone, muffled through his mouthful of carbs and sauce. Another entertaining discovery for Jason: Tim's lack of manners in a private setting. “We don't have a lot of time to get ready.” They're going to yet another Wayne gala tonight; this time it's to support the African children’s AIDS effort, so Jason isn't going to bitch about it because it's a good cause.

Jason volunteers to wash the dishes once they've both plowed through heaping second helpings (leftovers are a rarity of unicorn-proportions in their fridge), though they both know it's less volunteer, more obligation. Unspoken Rule #4 of the Todd-Drake household: He who ate but did not cook, must therefore wash. Before Tim, dishes piled up and Jason didn't care, he washed only what he needed and sometimes not even then. But Tim is particular about certain things, hence the induction of Unspoken Rule #4.5: Wash dishes the day they're used or suffer the wrath of Tim’s overwhelming cold shoulder.  Jason was shunned for a solid three days when he tried to defy that rule.  Never again.

With the dishes clean (and also put away with passive aggressive protest in the form of forceful clanging), Jason makes his way into the shared bathroom, reaching around Tim for his toothbrush, then stepping back out of the way to observe Tim prep.

Jason can't deny that half the reason he even goes to these functions is so he can see Tim get ready. It's not that Tim looks particularly fantastic in a suit (99% of the human population looks significantly better when fancy clothes are involved, and Tim is no exception to the rule), nor does Jason have any sort of fetish where a three-piece is concerned; but watching Tim's methodical way of preparing himself has the equivalent calming effect of counting backwards from 100 when you're angry. And Jason is often angry, sometimes for reasons he can't even explain.

It's gotten better since Tim came around, though.

Jason slows the brush on a stroke over his molars to focus on the way Tim applies a minimal amount of aftershave with sweeping caresses across his chin and jawline.

99...

Jason took too long washing today, because he's missed out on watching Tim shave away the five o’clock shadow he'd been sporting earlier. It's probably for the best though, Jason acknowledges. Something about seeing Tim drag sharp objects across his skin, the tilt of his head and the way Tim's mouth parts open just-so as he watches his own careful movements in the mirror, always tends to get Jason a bit hot and bothered, and that almost always leads to them being late for just about everything.

Tim knows this, and Jason can see they're both thinking the same thing when their eyes meet briefly in the reflection and hold. Jason's lips quirk awkwardly around the toothbrush shaft and Tim rolls his eyes, because yes, Tim will always fall into Jason's pace, enjoys it even, and it's clear that he purposely shaved before Jason was done in the kitchen to avoid that exact thing.

The eye contact breaks and Jason's brushing continues. He shifts forward, and Tim moves away from the counter to allow Jason to spit the mouthful of foam into the sink and rinse. Jason gazes at his own face now, feels the coarse bite of two days’ worth of stubble against the back of his hand as he rubs away water, and considers whether he's feeling patient enough to get rid of it all.

“Keep it.” Jason glances over at Tim, who is giving him the same appraising look he'd been giving himself.

“Yeah?” Jason looks back toward the mirror and watches Tim's hand stretch out to scratch blunt fingers over Jason's cheek, nails catching slightly on short hairs, before coming to rest a palm along the side of his neck.

“Yeah. Rugged suits you.” Tim draws back and begins to rummage in the drawer to unearth a few hair products, only used for special occasions.

Jason props a hip against the countertop and smirks at Tim, eyes still following every move the younger man makes. “You saying I'm unrefined?”

Tim slides his fingers together, spreading a small scoop of pomade evenly before massaging it meticulously into his roots.

82...

“Well, I'm not denying that you have a bit of a mountain man vibe going sometimes.”

Jason's smirk strengthens and he leans into Tim's space to murmur, “I think you just like how it feels when I-”

“Don't even start,” Tim interrupts the oncoming lewd comment, and it isn't lost on Jason the way Tim subtly bites his lip and shifts his legs. Jason thinks he might enjoy having that near-immediate effect on Tim a little too much. Not that Tim has ever complained, so it's usually a win-win for all parties involved.

Jason raises his arms in mock surrender, prepares to retort, then is brought up short when Tim smooths both his hands back through his hair. The motion is graceful and enthralling, and manages to coif the perfect fall of dark strands back over the crown of Tim's head.

67...

Tim blinks at himself, now the veritable image of an aristocrat, then turns to Jason with an expectant gaze. Unable to help himself, Jason reaches over to unfurl a small section of wispy hairs along the upper left side of Tim's hairline and Tim jerks away with a frown. “Hey, what was that for?” He goes to move it back into place but stops when Jason catches his wrist.

“It looks better that way.” And it does. The change isn't nearly enough to be called disheveled, but it gives Tim a more boyish, friendly quality that wasn't present with the previous look. “We can't have you looking too flawless. People will think you're a robot.”

Tim eyes him with suspicion for a moment before humming and dropping his arm, Jason's fingers slipping away from their grip now that the imminent destruction of his styling efforts is no longer a threat. Tim turns away to the door, but pauses with one hand on the doorframe to shoot a devastating grin Jason's way.

“Flawless, huh?”

Jason is personally very grateful Tim opts to walk out before he can reply, because he's highly embarrassed by his inability to stop the flush that lights up his ears.

53…

Jason haphazardly applies a couple dabs of cologne to his neck, before heading after Tim toward the bedroom. The scent is low key, a hint of heady tobacco in it that Tim has mentioned on multiple occasions gives Jason the impression of sophistication without seeming like he's trying too hard. Jason wonders if maybe they're not both just fondly bias towards it because it's the scent he was wearing the first time they slept together.  It's the sense memory that always comes to Jason, at least.

His eyes fixate on the sudden sight of Tim in tight black briefs, the vision only able to eclipse his stare for a moment before Tim covers the enticing offering with crisp black slacks. Jason scowls inwardly at the tease. Tim has been timing Jason's favorite moments just right all night; he'd clearly come prepared with a game plan to prevent Jason from sidetracking either of them while they got ready.

Jason wants to complain, and maybe apply a little good fun payback, but time seems to slow when Tim lifts his white dress shirt, and Jason soaks the picture in like he’ll never see it again. Tim is smaller than him, no question, but when the shirt swings around his body and settles onto his shoulders, Jason can't help but see Tim's back as broad. The short, concise jerk Tim makes to bring the cuffs of the sleeves to his wrists tightens the fabric over the man for a single moment that makes it appear Tim will rip the cloth in half. The way he can see the tense of hidden muscle, of biceps straining through when Tim's arms raise to start buttoning, it forces Jason to recall how Tim is strong, stronger than most, that Tim is a man who can throw his weight around to great effect when he so desires. When Tim leans to the side to tuck the hem into his waistband, the motion demands that Jason remember how it feels to run his hands along taut abdominals, to grip at sweat-slick skin, pulling it against his own amidst the sting of salt running into his eyes from exertion and what feels like the pounding of someone else's pulse inside his chest, syncing to his own.

45...31…

A quick swing of an arm and a faceful of fabric bring the world’s momentum back into focus, and Jason reacts just quickly enough to catch the pants that Tim has thrown at him before they hit the ground.  “Start getting dressed, you peeping Tom.”

Jason scoffs, but does as told, though not without rebuttal.  “First off, Tom is the name of a very stupid cat, so congrats to your parents on just missing out screwing you with that namesake.” Jason’s teeth show behind his lips when Tim lets out a surprised burst of laughter.  Straightening and reaching for his own button-up, Jason continues, “And peeping requires that I hide the fact I’m watching you.  Which I would never do.” His smile transforms to a heavy leer, as he adds, “You like it when I watch.”

Jason doesn’t get to pay attention to the reaction to his taunt because Tim has his collar popped up and Jason’s leer snaps straight to it when deceptively agile fingers slide a bow tie around Tim’s nape.  Watching long-fingered hands wind the silky fabric into a perfect knot and bow is practically a battle in self-control for Jason, and his own suddenly thick fingers fumble over his buttons.  Over and under, around, Jason can’t look away from Tim weaving him into a trance, knowing quite intimately what those talented fingertips are more than capable of.

19…

“You better hurry up, or I’m leaving you behind.” Tim already has his cummerbund hooked in place and tux jacket draped over his arm, while Jason is still in a muddled haze of memories and vivid imagination.  The spell is broken when Tim leaves his line of sight, and he curses low to himself, hastening to finish dressing.

He yanks on the rest of his monkey suit, irritated when the bow tie angles itself to the left, but too impatient to be bothered fixing it.  With one final once over in the mirror, he approves of himself and walks out the door to find Tim waiting for him in the apartment entryway, dressed and styled to perfection.  The smile he gets when Tim sees him is worth every moment of stumbling through awkward social conversations and gossip for the rest of the night.

“You always do clean up good.”

8…

Tim gestures for Jason to come closer.  “Let me…” Jason tips his chin up habitually as Tim’s hands take control of his bow tie and readjust it to sit perfectly in the center of his neckline.  Tim smiles to himself and pats Jason’s chest.  “Better.”  Looking up, he asks, “Ready?”  

Jason just needs one more thing.

Tim makes a happy noise when Jason dips down and presses their lips together in a firm, warm kiss, and his fingers curl into Jason’s jacket lapels to keep him bent for a few moments longer.  When they pull apart, Jason watches Tim lick his lips, the young man’s eyes fluttering just enough that it looks like a picture of someone savoring a particularly delicious meal.  Tim finally refocuses and Jason matches his grin.

“Ready.”