Tim will admit to a bit of sympathy for the fool who came here looking to kidnap him. Jason Todd subdues him so quickly and easily, it’s hard to think of the idiot as any kind of potential threat. Sure, it’s annoying that he thought he could just waltz in here and abduct Tim, as if Tim weren’t smart enough to hire security, but…it’s like being mad at a dog for barking at the mirror.

It may get on your nerves, but the little guy’s too dumb to hold a grudge against.

By the time Tim finishes the second half of his sandwich, the whole matter is settled, and Jason Todd has returned to his guard position by the door, unruffled as always.

“Thank you for lunch,” Tim says to him and, caught in raptures over how damn good that meal was, only belatedly remembers to add, “And for dealing with the whole…kidnapping thing.”

Jason Todd shrugs it off. “It’s my job.”

“Protecting me is your job,” Tim corrects. “Making me lunch—”

“—is just protecting you from your own bad habits,” Jason Todd says, desert-dry. He’d been very unamused to discover, his first day on the job, that Tim usually only ate a granola bar for lunch. And sometimes breakfast. “Speaking of which, a little more concern when some asshole points a gun at you might not go amiss.”

“I didn’t see any reason for concern,” Tim says honestly. “I have you, after all.”

Jason Todd’s classic Bland Bodyguard™ expression flickers. Tim, being only human, can’t help but enjoy the way those broad shoulders shift in the equally classic Bland Bodyguard Suit™.

“I appreciate the faith,” Jason Todd says after the briefest pause, “but you’ve only known me a week.”

Ah, well, that’s…technically true. Tim has indeed only known Jason Todd for a week, since the man came on board as his newest bodyguard after Mike Takeda received an unexpected inheritance and quit.

“True,” Tim admits. “Still, I’ve got a good feeling about you. It’s hard to be worried with you in my corner.”

After all, Tim has known of Jason Todd since they were both kids—since he was watching Robin soar over Gotham every night. They’ve both grown up since then (and Jason Todd in particular has grown up very, very well), but even with him wearing a different cape these days, Tim doesn’t think anything will ever shake his faith in Jason Todd.

“…Thanks,” Jason Todd says.

“Again, thank you,” Tim says in return, then finally, reluctantly abandons his empty plate. “Now, I really need to get back to work. Join me in my office?”

“Of course, Mr. Drake,” Jason Todd says. He falls into step behind Tim without another word.

Jason Todd looms over Tim just like he did Tim’s would-be kidnapper, but the shiver that runs down Tim’s spine has nothing to do with nightmares. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He doesn’t know what’s motivated the Red Hood to take an undercover role as his bodyguard, of all things, but he intends to enjoy it while it lasts.

(And hopefully, with enough exposure, he might collect himself enough to get his inner twelve-year-old back under control. Really, at this rate, it’s only a matter of time before he calls ‘Pete Davis’ Jason Todd to his face, and then he’ll really have problems.)

“Would you have eaten if I hadn’t?”

A short but telling silence ensues. “I plead the fifth.”

Honestly. It’s a wonder this man lived to adulthood.

“You know, this is why you’re so skinny,” Jason says, conversationally, as he flips the second omelet in the pan.

“Nah, that’s the cocaine,” Tim says, equally conversational.

Jason pauses and half-turns, seeking eye contact. He doesn’t quite make it, not when Tim’s still clinging to him like a limpet, but the arms around his waist tighten in reassurance.

“Joking,” Tim says. “Obviously.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Jason mutters, but returns his attention to the frying pan without further discussion. It’s not like it should matter to him, anyway, if Tim Drake is doing lines behind his back. That’s none of his concern.

“The only thing I’m addicted to is work,” Tim promises, then pauses thoughtfully. “And maybe your cock.”

It surprises Jason into laughing, and Tim finally lets go of him to make his smug way over to the breakfast bar. Two glasses of orange juice are ready and waiting, and he helps himself to one without hesitation, downing half of it in one gulp.

Sitting there in an old, faded t-shirt and sweatpants, too-long bangs hanging in his face, both hands wrapped around a glass of juice…Tim Drake looks soft. Soft and sweet and harmless.

You’d never guess by looking at him that this man needed less than a decade to turn a failing conglomerate into Wayne Enterprises’ biggest competitor.

It’s suspicious. He’s suspicious.

But he gives Jason the brightest, happiest smile when he places a carefully plated omelet in front of him, and maybe those suspicions are a little too easy to forget. They sure as hell were last night, when Jason followed him up to his penthouse suite and pinned him to his bed without a second thought.

It’s not the first time Jason’s done that. It’s not even the tenth.

“This looks fantastic,” Tim says. Rudely, he doesn’t wait for Jason to sit down with his own omelet before digging in. The way his eyes immediately close in pleasure makes up for it a bit, though. “And tastes even better. Thanks, Pete.”

He hums happily when he takes another bite, and hearing the fake name doesn’t even bother Jason anymore.

Yeah. This undercover thing’s gone way, way off the rails. Even if it does turn out that Tim’s up to something as shady as it looks like from the outside, even if he has done something worth killing over…

“Anytime.”

…at this point, Jason’s not sure he can.

Mom tuts, which Tim was expecting, and sets down her curling iron.

"Ridiculous," she mutters. "I don't know why we're paying that school so much in tuition when they can't be bothered to teach you anything. It's a miracle you ever learned to read."

"It's because I'm smart," Tim informs her helpfully, and Mom smiles her special just-for-Tim smile.

"You are," she agrees. "And thank goodness for that. Now, would my smart boy do me a favor?"

Because Tim's smart, he already knows what she's going to ask. He rolls off the bed to his feet. "Curling iron?"

"Yes, please." Mom rolls her chair away from the vanity so he can crawl under it to unplug the curling iron. She plugged it in herself, but that was before she was all dressed up in her expensive dress. "Thank you, Timmy."

"You're welcome," he chirps, crawling back out.

Mom rolls back in front of the vanity, but Tim stays where he is, kneeling next to it so he can watch her put her makeup on. There are a lot of different bottles and brushes and powders involved, but Mom never hesitates. Tim doesn't know how she keeps it all straight.

He likes watching Mom get ready to go out. Sometimes--like tonight--she lets him pick out the jewelry she's gonna wear, and then she chooses her dress and hair and makeup all based on what he picked. Even when the colors don't match, it all fits together like a puzzle...a puzzle she pieces together in seconds after Tim's impulsive choice.

It's really cool.

Tonight, Tim picked pretty, dangly earrings with some kind of red stone (ruby, Mom said when he asked), so Mom picked a black dress. She said it would make the earrings pop, which he didn't get until he saw her wearing it.

Now, he watches her choose lipstick as red as the earrings and asks, "Does the lipstick make the earrings pop, too?"

Mom finishes smoothing it on before she smiles at him. "You tell me."

Tim studies her. The lipstick matches the earrings, but it doesn't draw attention to them the way the plain dress does. He already watched her do her eye stuff, and her eyes look bigger somehow, but they're not colorful like they were when they all went to the opera last week.

"No," he decides. "You went new...neutral?" He waits for her slight nod of confirmation, then continues, encouraged, "You went neutral with your eye stuff and red with your lipstick to make your lips pop."

"Very good," Mom says, smiling. She cups his cheek briefly before turning back to the vanity. "Clever boy."

Tim beams and watches in fascinated silence as she uses some kind of powder. Even though he's staring right at her, he can't tell what the powder actually does. All he knows is that when she's done, her face looks...different. Still pretty, but kinda sharper somehow.

Makeup is like magic, he decides. No matter how many times he watches her get ready, he can never figure it out.

"Can I try?" he asks impulsively.

"Try what?" Mom asks, a little distracted. The cap on one of her bottles is stuck and she's struggling to open it.

"Your makeup!" Tim takes the bottle from her and opens it by using the hem of his shirt to grip it better. Mom can't do that, her dress is all shiny and slippery. "You look pretty, I wanna try."

Mom pauses and then smiles.

"I don't have long before I have to leave," she warns him, "but I don't see why not. Do you want to pick out some lipstick?"

Tim absolutely does. He levers to his feet as, across the room, Dad finally stirs. He's been reading some stuff his assistant from Drake Industries brought by earlier, ignoring them both, but now he says, "Janet" in a weird tone.

"Jack?" Mom asks, even as she directs Tim's attention to the little circles on the bottom of her lipstick tubes that show what color they are. She has a lot of options.

"Janie, really," Dad says. He sounds unhappy, and Tim looks up from comparing two different shades of pink to find him frowning. "You can't mean to let our son--"

He stops mid-sentence and Tim bites back a wince. Dad's in trouble; Tim hasn't seen that look on Mom's face since he told her about his last nanny giving him whiskey to help him sleep when he woke up from bad dreams.

"My son," Mom says very deliberately, "is welcome to express himself however he likes."

Is trying makeup expressing himself? Tim just wants to see if it makes him as pretty as it does Mom.

Either way, that's not a good tone. Tim looks down and concentrates really hard on picking out a lipstick.

"Janet," Dad tries again, weakly. He obviously knows he's in Big Trouble, but for some reason he hasn't apologized yet. Tim tries to psychically tell him to cut his losses and back down, but his telepathy apparently still hasn't kicked in, because Dad says, "It's just that--"

"Do you know what you want to try, sweetheart?" Mom asks, completely ignoring Dad.

Tim looks between his parents, decides to let Dad dig his own grave, and hands Mom the red he settled on.

(If it's the red that most closely resembles the red in Robin's uniform...well, it's not like Mom has any way of knowing that.)

"Excellent choice!" Mom says. She stands up from the vanity and pats her chair. "Take a seat."

Tim does, excited. He's not usually allowed to sit at Mom's vanity.

Lipstick, he learns quickly, feels really weird. He has to sit super still while Mom puts it on him, and it makes his lips feel weirdly heavy, like there's something on them.

Which there is, actually, so...he doesn't know what he was expecting.

Mom hands him a tissue so he can "blot" his lips, just like he's seen her do a million times, and then steps aside so he can see his reflection in the mirror.

"Whoa," Tim says, leaning closer. He makes a few faces, pushing his lips together and out, transfixed by how bright and noticeable they are. It doesn't make him pretty like Mom, but he likes how it looks anyway. "Cool."

Behind him, Dad throws up his hands and leaves the room. He's angry, Tim can tell, but Mom is smiling down at him, so Tim's not worried.

"Do you want to pick eyeshadow next?" she asks.

"Yes, please!"

"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."

Batman frowns. "Red Robin."

"Batman," he returns, and Batman's frown deepens.

He's wearing the cowl now, having pulled it on as he walked--steeling himself for what he's decided he has to do. Shutting Bruce away so his paternal affection doesn't slow him down.

As usual, he's being a complete moron. World's Greatest Detective, Tim's ass.

"Red Robin," Batman says again, "your attachment to Red Hood--"

"--has nothing to do with this," Tim interrupts. "Jason didn't do it."

His pointed use of Jason's actual name goes unacknowledged; Batman sets his shoulders to loom and doubles down.

"The victim profile is clearly in line with Hood's usual targets," he says. "The victim's own victims were children, specifically children from Crime Alley, and his crimes against them were exactly the kind that Hood punishes the most severely. You can't deny that."

He's using the Batman growl and still looming over Tim...why, Tim's not exactly sure. It's not like he ever backed down from this kind of display even when he was a literal child facing down a Batman half-mad with grief. As an adult and a vigilante in his own right, who's been facing down the city's, world's, and occasionally galaxy's worst for nearly a decade...Batman is barely going to make him blink.

So he meets the eerie white lenses of the cowl straight on when he says, "No, I can't deny any of that. But Jason still didn't do it."

"You're being unrealistic," Batman says sharply. "Basing your conclusion on emotion instead of fact."

"No, that would be you," Tim corrects, just as sharp. "You're blinded by your issues with Jason's way of doing things. If you were actually thinking straight--"

"Hood makes a habit of targeting rapists, pedophiles, and anyone who breaks his so-called 'rules' in the territory he claims as his." Batman looms harder. "All three apply to the victim. What evidence do you have to support his innocence?"

"The fact that this isn't how Jason works."

Batman's face blanks out, scowl wiped away as he forcefully suppresses his reaction to Tim's words.

"Hood has never agreed with the no-kill rule," he says, "and despite our truce, he never committed to not using lethal force. It was only a matter of time before he crossed the line again, and this is precisely how he likes to 'punish' those he deems guilty."

Tim has to take a second to deliberately calm himself before he can trust his voice. His hands ache for how tightly he's fisted them.

"No," he says, once he's sure his voice won't shake with the anger trembling in his fists. "No, it isn't."

"Tim--"

"It's true that Jason isn't opposed to lethal force," he says over Batman. "It's also true that he particularly targets people who break his rules and/or prey on children. But not like this!"

If he were anyone but Batman, Tim would say Bruce falters.

"Explain."

Tim doesn't hesitate.

"Yes, Jason is willing to kill," he says. "Yes, he'll even make it hurt if the crime is bad enough. But his goal isn't to punish anyone--it's to protect people."

Batman's flat expression--what little Tim can see of it beyond the cowl, at least--says he doesn't appreciate the difference.

Tim tries again. "Jason doesn't kill because he enjoys it, he kills because he thinks it's the only way to stop the worst of the worst. That's why he goes after the people the system can't or won't contain."

Still, Batman is unmoved. Tim gets to the point.

"Our victim was tortured over the course of several hours," he says again. It was one of the first lines in his little presentation on the case, and should have immediately disqualified Jason as a potential perpetrator. "I estimate at least twelve hours passed between the infliction of the first wound and his death, which was the result of a combination of shock and blood loss."

"You said that already," Batman says, unamused.

"Yes, and you should've known that it ruled out Jason!" Tim snaps. "If Jason had done this, he might have, have kneecapped the guy first, or shot him in the gut, or something, because yes, he'd have wanted to make him hurt. But the death still would have been measured in minutes, because at the end of the day, Jason's main priority is to end suffering, not cause it."

For a long, tense moment, Batman stares at him. Tim's trembling with emotion--not just anger that Batman is doubting him, but fear at what Batman might do to Jason if Tim can't stop him.

For all of Bruce's talk about Jason crossing lines...when it comes to Jason, Bruce tends to cross plenty himself.

Finally, Batman (and he is still so very Batman) says, "I wish I could believe that, but I can't."

"Then believe in me," Tim says, seizing the opening at once. "Just give me a day or two, okay? I'll find the real killer and prove that Jason didn't do this."

After either a few seconds or a lifetime, Batman finally--finally--backs down.

"You have a week," he says, and turns away. "And if you're wrong..."

Tim isn't about to humor that ominous trailing off. "I'm not. You'll see."

"I hope so," Bruce says quietly.

It makes Tim want to punch him, a reaction he's sure Jason's eliciting on purpose--after all, he's been doing the same thing with his own Valley girl impersonation.

...It's possible he and Jason aren't taking this mission as seriously as they should be.

Oh well.

In retaliation for the pinch, Tim fakes a stumble over a crack in the sidewalk and drives his elbow into Jason's gut, earning a faint oof he wants to smile over.

Instead, he puts his hands to his face in exaggerated dismay.

"Oh, I'm so clumsy," he says mournfully. "It's so embarrassing..."

Jason brushes his hair (or rather, his wig) out of his face and twists his ear painfully in the process; Tim applies his stiletto heel to the toe of Jason's left shoe.

"You're not clumsy, baby, it's just those shoes," Jason says, voice a little tight--with pain or annoyance? Tim can't tell. "You want me to go get the car?"

"No, no," Tim says, "it's such a nice night--just look at those stars!"

He tips his head back and gazes dreamily at the sky which, being in Gotham, shows not a single star.

"They're so beautiful," he says happily.

"Not as beautiful as you," Jason says, with such smarmy passion that Tim barely remembers to hide the laugh he can't help behind a cough.

"Oh, pookie bear," he says--

--and finally, Jason breaks.

He lets go of Tim's waist to brace his hands against his knees as he cackles, choking out "fucking hell" and "pookie" as he struggles to catch his breath.

Tim just smiles and enjoys the victory.

"Okay," Jason says once he catches his breath, "holy shit, you win. How the fuck did you say that with a straight face?"

"Practice," Tim says dryly. "You play the tough guy too often. You should branch out more, broaden your range. Then you won't be so easy to shake."

Jason gives him a flat look and, straightening to his full height, spreads his arms in a silent invitation to look at him. Admittedly, Jason's height and bulk do make him less than ideal for the kinds of covers Tim prefers.

Tim was bullshitting anyway--Jason might default to tough guy, but he's entirely capable of more versatile covers. And he really wasn't that easy to shake; Tim was kind of expecting to break him when he showed up in a dress, stilettos, and wig without warning. Instead, he lasted all through dinner and a ways into their walk.

"Okay, you lasted a lot longer than I expected," he admits.

Jason smirks. "Admit it, I almost got you at dinner."

It's true that Tim came extremely close to breaking when Jason spoke over and ordered for him at the restaurant. Tim actually didn't get to say a single word to their waitress--not even thank you.

"You almost got a plate dumped in your lap," he corrects. Now that they've given up the covers, he shrugs out of Jason's jacket and hands it back. "I could see Ashley thinking about it every time you cut me off."

"Yeah, that was a close one," Jason agrees. "I doubled my usual tip in thanks for her restraint."

Tim nods in approval. "But yeah, admittedly I was not expecting you to go the--"

"Hello?" Dick's voice breaks in, thick with annoyance and a little too loud over the comms. "Did you guys forget that you have a job to do? This does not sound like an undercover conversation!"

Tim and Jason trade eyerolls.

"Good catch, Dickiebird," Jason says. "We are not in fact undercover."

"Excuse me?"

"Dick," Tim says with extreme patience, "Damian is a trained vigilante. He absolutely does not need us as backup on his first date."

Dick gasps in offense. "We agreed--"

"No, we agreed," Jason corrects.

"Yeah, we agreed your mother-henning was out of control," Tim says. "We tipped off Damian last night so he could change his reservation."

"And got Babs to find something to distract you with so you couldn't come follow him yourself," Jason adds.

Dick splutters.

"Take a deep breath," Tim suggests.

"Chill the fuck out," is Jason's less gentle contribution. "Anyway, we're done for the night. You should call it, too--maybe work on remembering the kid is sixteen and not six."

"Harsh but fair," Tim agrees thoughtfully. "Night, Dick!"

Dick is still spluttering when Tim pulls out his comm.

"How much do I owe you for dinner?" he asks Jason.

Jason shrugs and slings his jacket over one shoulder. "Buy me ice cream, we'll call it even."

"Deal," Tim says.

Because he, unlike Damian, is no longer a teenager, he doesn't ask if going for ice cream constitutes a real date.

He can't stop himself from wondering, though.