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Tim Drake had been asked many difficult questions in his life.
Where were you between the hours of 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. during the Axis heist?
How many micro-explosives can a belt actually carry?
What happened to the intern who saw something they shouldn’t?
But none of them had made him feel quite as cornered as this.
“So, Tim—who’s the mystery man keeping you company these days?”
He blinked at the reporter.
Outside the gala hall, the air smelled like cheap champagne, designer perfume, and exhaust fumes. Inside, he could still hear the soft clinking of glasses and ambient jazz—the event was winding down, and the press were circling like vultures now that the formal speeches were done.
The reporter in question—Melissa Tamsen, Gotham Buzz—was holding out her mic like it was a scalpel, smiling sweetly and just a little too sharp.
Tim gave her his usual, professionally bored expression. “I wasn’t aware I had one.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve been flying solo for the last few WayneTech appearances. Everyone’s wondering if you’re hiding someone—maybe even from your family?”
He exhaled. His suit was too tight, his head ached, and he hadn’t had caffeine since 6 p.m. This was not his top-tier interview form. And most of all, he was not in the mood for relationship speculation from strangers who didn’t know him beyond manipulated headlines and public photos.
So, like an idiot, he opened his mouth and said, “I’m dating Jason.”
Melissa blinked. “Jason…?”
“Todd. Jason Todd.”
Dead. Silence.
A few feet away, one of the other reporters actually dropped his stylus. Tim could feel the shift in the air like a weather front: the sudden jolt of interest, the gleam of something juicy and unexpected.
Well. Shit.
He pasted on a smile. “We’ve been keeping it quiet. He’s not big on attention.”
Someone murmured, “Understandably.”
Tim nodded once, crisply. “Anyway—it's going great. No further questions.”
And then he turned on his heel and walked away before he could process what he'd just done.
It didn’t hit him until two hours later, curled on the couch in his penthouse with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a tablet blinking with ten missed notifications from Lucius Fox.
He blinked at his phone screen. His name was trending. So was #TimJason.
He opened one of the top links: a grainy video clip of him at the gala, deadpan voice crystal clear.
“I’m dating Jason. Todd. Jason Todd.”
He groaned into his hands.
Jason found out less than twelve hours later.
Tim knew because he got a text at 7:06 a.m.
[Jay]
💀?????????????
YOU SAID WHAT
ON CAMERA
I’M CACKLING
Tim squinted at the screen. Then buried his face in the pillow.
His phone buzzed again.
[Jay]
actually nevermind
leave it
let them believe it
i’m gonna start wearing your hoodies in public
He sent back:
[Tim]
please do not add fuel to the fire
also those are my hoodies
[Jay]
*our hoodies
“Why him?” Steph asked that afternoon, sipping a cold brew like she had every right to be part of this mess. She was on his living room floor, scrolling through social media and reading headlines aloud.
“‘Tim Drake Stuns Reporters With Secret Romance Reveal—Bad Boy Boyfriend Confirmed.’”
She looked up at him, all faux innocence. “Seriously. Why Jason?”
“I panicked,” Tim muttered, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“You’ve never panicked. You’ve weaponised silence. This was not silence.”
He scowled.
She kept scrolling. “The fan art is already unhinged.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“There’s one where you’re kissing on a rooftop and your suit is halfway off and he’s holding your face like—”
“Steph.”
She grinned. “I ship it.”
“You would.”
Bruce summoned him for a meeting the next morning.
“Do you need help drafting a statement?” the man asked, completely deadpan, like this was just another patrol route to optimise.
Tim blinked. “A statement for what?”
“For the… public announcement. That you and Jason are dating.”
“I’m not—we’re not—" Tim rubbed his eyes. “It was a joke.”
“Mm.” Bruce steepled his fingers. “You’re aware it’s being taken seriously?”
“Unfortunately.”
Bruce’s silence was judgment-shaped.
“I didn’t mean to make it a thing,” Tim muttered. “It was supposed to shut them up.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “And you chose Jason.”
Tim squinted at him. “You disapprove?”
“I’m just surprised you’d pick someone so unpredictable for a lie.” Pause. “And relieved you didn’t choose Damian.”
Tim choked. “Excuse me?!”
The real disaster arrived Friday night.
Jason showed up to the Wayne Foundation “Art for Outreach” fundraiser.
In a black-on-black suit. Hair actually combed. Smile sharp enough to cut glass.
And when the cameras started flashing, he walked straight up to Tim and said, loud enough to be recorded, “Don’t worry, babe. I clean up nice.”
Tim’s jaw dropped.
Jason slipped an arm casually around his shoulders and guided him toward the ballroom like this was something they’d always done.
And worse—Tim let him.
Because Jason’s hand was warm and steady and kind of nice, and the room was full of vultures, and what was one more layer of pretending when you’d already dug your own grave?
“So this is how I die,” Tim muttered an hour later, in a corner of the ballroom where the noise blurred into background static.
Jason handed him a glass of something fizzy and nonalcoholic. “You’re welcome.”
Tim glared. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“I was trying to kill a story, not start one.”
Jason shrugged. “Could’ve picked anyone. You picked me.”
Tim opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. Jason grinned, slow and lazy.
He took a sip from his own glass and leaned just a little closer. “Guess we’re dating now, huh?”
Tim, somehow, had no answer to that.
Tim Drake was trending.
Not for a security breach, a tech scandal, or a vigilante-linked lawsuit this time—but for “romance.”
He hated it here.
The headlines were still going strong a week later:
WAYNE HEIR DATING “BAD BOY” BROTHER? INSIDERS REACT.
JASON TODD: FROM STREET KID TO TIM DRAKE’S SECRET BOYFRIEND.
Gotham had opinions.
And the internet had theories—graphs, fan art, fake timelines. One thread had over 60k likes and mapped every public appearance where Tim and Jason had been in the same frame since 2018.
“Look at the way Jason looks at him here 😭 you can't fake that.”
“This is the most goth couple shit ever.”
“It’s giving ‘we trauma bonded during a shootout and never stopped cuddling.’”
The worst part was: it wasn’t fake anymore.
Not exactly.
Jason kept showing up. To events. To meetings. To him. He texted Tim photos of ugly tabloids and wrote “power couple” underneath. He started calling Tim “babe” sarcastically at first—and then less sarcastically. He sat too close. Smiled too long.
And Tim let him.
At the next press event, a WayneTech launch at the Midtown conference centre, Tim barely had time to breathe before Jason materialised beside him again—black shirt rolled to the elbows, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, like he’d just happened to drop in.
“Hi,” Jason said.
Tim blinked. “You don’t work here.”
“Neither do you,” Jason replied, and took the visitor’s badge right off Tim’s desk. “Boyfriends get full access, right?”
Tim opened his mouth. Closed it. His assistant, Marcie, gave them both a thumbs-up as she passed.
“Jason,” Tim muttered, “please don’t commit crimes in front of my staff.”
“I haven’t stolen anything.”
“You just stole my badge.”
Jason tossed it back onto the table. “Semantics.”
It got worse when Lucius brought Jason up during a board call.
“I understand Mr. Todd will be present at the gala next Thursday,” Lucius said, looking unbothered. “Would you like us to coordinate seating arrangements for your partner?”
Tim short-circuited. “My—he’s not—I mean, we’re not—”
“Of course. I'll note him as your guest.”
Jason, sitting off-camera in Tim’s office with his boots on the windowsill, flashed a thumbs-up.
Tim shoved a folder at his face.
That night, Tim ended up on his penthouse couch with his laptop open and Jason’s head tipped back beside him, mouth slightly open as he snored softly through a nap he insisted he wasn’t taking.
Tim stared at him for a long moment.
He could feel the warmth where their knees touched.
Fake. It was fake.
Only—
Jason had started bringing him food after patrol.
And coffee. And backup. And silence. All the things Tim never asked for but secretly needed.
And when they were alone, when the press was gone, when no one was watching—Jason still stayed.
“This isn’t real,” Tim whispered aloud, like he needed to hear it to believe it.
Jason stirred, half-awake. “What’s not?”
Tim shook his head. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
But the guilt tasted like truth.
It started with a buzz.
Jason was in bed. Face-down. Half-dead. Not unusual.
The group chat was exploding, which usually meant someone got arrested (Dick), hospitalised (Tim), or went viral (also Tim).
He ignored it.
Until Roy texted.
[Roy]
Dude did you just soft-launch your relationship with a Wayne
on live TV
I’m screaming
Jason blinked at his screen. Rolled over. Opened Twitter.
He watched the clip.
Tim, perfectly calm, in his stupid perfect suit, saying:
“I’m dating Jason. Todd. Jason Todd.”
Jason howled.
He actually fell out of bed laughing. His ribs hurt. His neighbours pounded on the wall.
“My boyfriend,” Tim said, with all the energy of a man talking about taxes. “It’s going great,” he added, completely deadpan.
Jason was still giggling twenty minutes later when he typed out his message to Tim.
He didn’t expect a response.
Tim asked him not to add fuel to the fire. So naturally, he added jet fuel.
He showed up at the fundraiser for one reason only: chaos.
And okay, maybe because he wanted to see Tim twitch a little.
But the second he walked into the ballroom and Tim looked up at him—really looked at him, eyes widening, mouth parting, all quiet surprise—it hit him like a sucker punch.
He’s beautiful.
Which. Not a new thought. But a more dangerous one.
He played it cool. Said the line. “Don’t worry, babe. I clean up nice.”
He felt Tim freeze beside him.
But Tim didn’t push him off.
Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t correct anyone.
He let it happen.
Jason looped an arm around his shoulders and leaned in like it meant nothing.
But it did.
It was supposed to be fake.
Jason was starting to think he’d never been faking it to begin with.
The first time Jason shows up without a formal invitation, he brings Thai food and a bruised shoulder.
“I figured,” he says, dropping the takeout onto Tim’s kitchen counter, “you’d forget to eat again.”
Tim’s halfway through an audit for a WayneTech contractor with suspicious offshore payments. He blinks at the bag. “How’d you get in?”
Jason holds up a key.
Tim frowns. “I never gave you—”
“You left it under the potted plant. Which, by the way, is a terrible hiding spot.”
“It’s not—” Tim exhales. “Okay. Fine.”
Jason grins and pulls out containers. “Besides. You’re my boyfriend now. Keys are, like, a rite of passage.”
Tim glares. “This isn’t funny.”
Jason holds up a spoon. “You’re right. It’s hilarious.”
The problem is—it doesn’t stop.
Not after that night. Not even when Tim stops asking questions.
Jason starts texting him casually.
[Jay]
patrol at 9. u want backup?
i picked up that coffee you like. the weird cinnamon one
tell your board to stop putting you in suits. you deserve better
He doesn’t stop showing up either.
For PR appearances. For patrol. For breakfast. Once, he drops off a copy of a rare out-of-print journal from one of Tim’s pet research projects—no comment, no note, just there on the coffee table one morning with Jason’s bootprints still fresh on the tile.
Tim keeps waiting for the joke to end.
It doesn’t.
“You walk like a bat in a boardroom,” Jason says flatly, watching Tim pace in front of the mirror.
Tim adjusts his cufflink. “I am a bat in a boardroom.”
“You’re supposed to be dating someone. You don’t even look at me.”
“I look at you constantly,” Tim mutters. “It’s exhausting.”
Jason smirks. “Not like someone you’d kiss.”
Tim pauses. Glances at him. “And how exactly should I be looking at you, then?”
Jason stands. Crosses the room slowly.
Tim watches him come closer and forgets how to breathe.
Jason stops a foot away. His voice drops. “Like I’m the best mistake you’ve ever made.”
Tim blinks. “That’s… oddly specific.”
Jason shrugs. “I watch movies.”
Tim forces a smile. “Well, good news. We’re not kissing.”
“Not yet,” Jason says, walking past him, “but if you keep staring like that, people are gonna start asking why.”
Tim doesn’t respond.
Mostly because he doesn’t have an answer.
They’re seated together at the Harbour Museum charity ball two weeks later. Jason’s not even technically on the guest list—but he shows up anyway. In a leather jacket over a dress shirt. Hair tousled, smile too bright.
Tim pretends he’s annoyed. Jason pretends he buys it.
They’re seated at a table with three Wayne Foundation execs and the Deputy Mayor.
At one point, Jason reaches across Tim’s plate and steals a truffle canapé without asking. Tim swats at his hand. Jason smirks. The Deputy Mayor blushes and says, “You two are adorable.”
Tim doesn’t correct her. He doesn’t say, This isn’t real.
He just looks at Jason.
And Jason looks back like it is.
Later, they sneak out onto the balcony to escape the press cameras, and Jason lights a cigarette, holding it lazily between two fingers. The glow catches the angles of his face in a way that makes Tim’s breath stall.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” Tim says automatically.
Jason holds the lit cigarette. “Didn’t say I was gonna smoke it.”
Tim rolls his eyes and leans on the railing. “Why are you still doing this?”
Jason raises a brow. “Doing what?”
“This.” Tim gestures vaguely. “The whole ‘fake boyfriend’ thing. It’s not like anyone’s forcing you.”
Jason leans across the balcony ledge with all the grace of a lazy cat. “I like being useful.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Jason doesn’t look at him. “I know.”
There’s a beat of silence so thick it might as well be its own weather system.
Then Jason says, softly: “Maybe it’s easier than being nothing.”
Tim turns his head—but Jason is already looking back inside, pretending it was a throwaway line.
But it sits heavy in Tim’s chest.
And he doesn’t sleep that night.
Tim stares at the ceiling of his bedroom and counts the cracks in the plaster.
It’s the third night this week he hasn’t been able to sleep. His eyes are heavy, but his brain is still doing laps around one moment:
“Maybe it’s easier than being nothing.”
Jason had said it like a joke. Like it didn’t matter.
But Tim knows that tone. He’s used it himself. It’s the sound of someone admitting they’re scared and hoping you don’t notice.
The thing is… Tim does notice.
He notices a lot when it comes to Jason.
He notices the way Jason always leaves a light on when he stays the night. The way he keeps his boots facing the door, like he’s never sure if he’s staying. The way he looks at Tim sometimes—like he’s trying not to hope for something.
And maybe the worst part is: Tim keeps letting him hope.
Because pretending is easier than explaining why it’s not pretend anymore.
Tim gets up and wanders the penthouse barefoot, the city glittering dimly through the windows.
He finds Jason’s hoodie on the couch. Tossed lazily, half-on, half-off the backrest. Like he lives here.
He doesn’t. Not really.
Tim picks it up anyway. Holds it in his hands.
He should end it. Tell Jason it’s gone on too long. That they’re making it worse. That people are starting to believe—and he’s starting to believe it too.
Instead, he pulls the hoodie over his head. It smells like engine oil and something warm and woodsy and infuriatingly safe.
He closes his eyes and leans against the arm of the couch.
He whispers to no one. “What if I don’t want it to be fake anymore?”
They’re sitting side by side on a damp concrete ledge, post-patrol, overlooking the old financial district. Rain slicks the pavement below. Jason’s helmet is off. Tim’s domino mask hangs around his wrist, forgotten.
Neither of them speaks for a long time.
The storm hums in the distance, rumbling across the skyline like something ancient waking up.
Tim likes rooftops. They’re liminal. Suspended between things. Not quite here, not quite there.
Like him.
Like… this.
After a while, Jason asks, “You okay?”
Tim nods, even though he isn’t sure what that means anymore.
Jason doesn’t press. Just stretches out his legs and leans back on his hands. The wind tugs at his hair. He looks unfairly good in the after-rain light, like a sketch someone inked too carefully.
“Why are you still doing this?” Tim asks, the question sharper than intended. “The boyfriend thing.”
Jason doesn’t answer right away.
Finally, he shrugs. “Because you haven’t told me to stop.”
That lands with more force than it should.
Tim doesn’t say anything. He watches the water stream off the side of the building.
He watches Jason not look at him.
It would be so easy to say it.
I don’t want you to stop.
But Tim’s chest locks up, throat closing like a trap.
He can’t do it.
So instead, he murmurs, “This is getting complicated.”
Jason huffs a quiet laugh. “You think?”
And that’s when Tim looks at him.
Really looks.
Close enough to see the scar on Jason’s jaw. Close enough to see the way his lashes catch raindrops. Close enough that if he just leaned in—
Jason stills.
His breath slows.
The tension shifts. It tightens.
Tim sways closer. Barely. Their knees brush. Jason tilts his head just slightly toward him, gaze dropping to Tim’s mouth.
And Tim—
Tim panics.
He pulls away like he’s been shocked.
“I should go,” he blurts.
Jason blinks. “You—yeah. Okay.”
Tim’s already on his feet, already turning, heart pounding.
“I’ll—I’ll see you later.”
Jason doesn’t follow.
And Tim doesn’t sleep.
Steph has known Tim Drake since he was fifteen and thought spreadsheets were a love language. So when he starts zoning out in meetings? Not normal. When he blushes reading text messages? Suspicious. When he actually—voluntarily—shares a couch with Jason Todd and lets their knees touch for longer than three seconds?
Something is deeply wrong. Or deeply right.
Either way, Steph is keeping a record.
“Okay,” she says during brunch at the manor (courtesy of Alfred), “so we’re all seeing it, right?”
Dick raises a brow over his coffee. “Seeing what?”
Steph points her fork at the opposite end of the table where Tim and Jason are not making eye contact. “That. The thing. The fake-not-fake thing.”
Damian scowls. “Drake is prone to delusional behaviour. Todd merely enables him.”
Dick grins. “So… you’re saying they’re in love.”
Damian gags into his eggs.
Later, Steph corners Dick outside the manor kitchen.
“He’s in love with him.”
Dick leans on the counter, arms crossed. “Yeah. I’m just not sure Tim knows it.”
Steph snorts. “Tim’s the most emotionally repressed person I’ve ever met, and I dated him. He knows. He’s just terrified.”
Dick hums. “And Jay?”
“Oh, he’s doomed. He probably fell first.”
Dick tilts his head. “Think they’ll figure it out?”
Steph grins. “Not without a little help.”
Tim doesn’t talk about it.
The rooftop. The almost.
He files it away like a corrupted video clip: unplayable, fragile, too risky to touch.
Jason, for his part, doesn’t bring it up.
He texts less. Doesn’t come over unannounced. Doesn’t call Tim “babe” at press events anymore. Just smiles politely and stands beside him like a stranger who once dreamed in sync.
Tim tells himself this is what he wanted.
And if it feels like grief—well. That’s his own fault.
“You’re being weird,” Steph says flatly.
Tim doesn’t look up from his keyboard. “I’m always weird.”
“No,” she says. “You’re being you with a crush weird.”
He finally lifts his head. “Excuse me?”
She points her spoon at him. “You’re overanalysing everything, you haven’t made a new sarcastic playlist in three days, and I saw you rewatching the gala clip where Jason put his hand on your lower back.”
Tim glares. “That’s not—”
“Dude.” She leans in. “You’re spiralling.”
“I’m managing.”
“You’re flailing.”
He turns back to his screen.
Steph softens, but just barely. “Did something happen?”
Tim exhales through his nose. “No. That’s the problem.”
The Batcave is quiet that night, which is dangerous.
Tim works on comms. Jason drops in to swap out ammo and leaves without saying more than, “Yo.”
It’s been like that all week.
Tim feels like there’s glass under his skin—fine and invisible, but cutting him open anyway.
Later, he walks into the garage to find Jason alone, leaning against the hood of the GTO, staring into nothing.
Tim pauses in the doorway. Watches him for a beat.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says.
Jason shrugs.
“I didn’t mean to…” Tim falters. “Whatever that moment was, I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
Jason finally turns to look at him.
“It wasn’t weird,” he says softly. “It just wasn’t anything.”
The words cut sharper than they should.
Tim forces a nod. “Right.”
Jason doesn’t correct himself.
Doesn’t move closer.
Doesn’t stay.
Tim stands in the dark long after he’s gone.
Jason wasn’t supposed to fall for Tim Drake.
He wasn’t supposed to do a lot of things, really. Like come back from the dead.
Like fall into step with the family again. Like look at the golden boy and see something achingly familiar.
But there he was. Gotham rain, rooftop silence, Tim’s shoulder warm next to his own.
Jason knew the moment it was happening before Tim did.
Knew the shift in his posture. The tilt of his head. The weight of his stare.
Tim leaned in. It’s slight. Barely a breath.
But Jason—idiot that he is—met him halfway.
Not a kiss.
Not even a promise.
Just potential.
Then Tim jerked back like he’d been burned.
Jason swallowed it. The moment. The sting.
“I should go,” Tim had muttered.
Jason didn't stop him.
Because if he did, if he said anything—he’d say too much.
He’d say:
“I didn’t want to fake it either.”
“I was never pretending.”
“I would’ve kissed you like it meant everything.”
But Tim was already walking away.
And Jason?
Jason let him go.
Because loving someone who doesn’t know how to be loved back is a lesson he’s learned before.
After that, Jason stays away.
He tells himself it’s for Tim’s sake. That maybe Tim needs space.
But it feels like he’s punishing himself.
Every missed text. Every silent gala. Every time he walks into a room and Tim looks up like he’s expecting something—and Jason gives him nothing.
Because he’s scared. Because if he says one wrong thing, it’ll all collapse.
Because he’s already built too many dreams on silence.
It starts, like most disasters in Tim’s life, with Stephanie Brown’s brightly coloured group chat text.
BATRATS UNITE
[Steph]
Mandatory bonding night. 7 p.m. Batcave rec room. Board games and lies. Attendance is not optional. I will drag you bodily.
And, of course:
[Steph]
Also, Tim bring your fake boyfriend 💕😘
By 7:10, everyone is present and deeply regretting it. Damian is sulking in a corner with his arms crossed. Cass is silently unbeatable at every game. Dick has made popcorn with "exactly three types of seasoning." Duke is trying to referee. Jason is leaning back on the couch with a smug smirk like he’s above it all.
And Tim?
Tim is vibrating with anxiety and secondhand embarrassment.
He’s sitting next to Jason. Not on Jason. Not leaning against Jason. Just next to him.
That should be safe.
It’s not.
Because Jason keeps resting his arm along the back of the couch.
And Tim keeps not leaning into it.
And everyone notices.
“Okay!” Steph chirps, slapping a stack of cards onto the coffee table. “We’re playing Couple Showdown. Everyone, shut up and pick a partner.”
Dick blinks. “This is literally just ‘The Newlywed Game.’”
“I’ve renamed it for Bat-related legal reasons.”
Duke snorts. “Who’s playing as couples?”
Steph grins. “Well, obviously Tim and Jason.”
" Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”
Tim glares. Jason smiles wider. “Gotta keep up appearances, babe.”
Steph tosses Tim a dry-erase board. “It’s for the mission,” she says sweetly.
Tim mutters something about needing new friends.
Steph reads aloud, dramatic as ever. “Who’s more likely to forget an anniversary?”
They both write “Tim.”
Jason flashes his board first. “Genius, emotionally repressed CEO? Zero chance he remembers what day it is.”
Tim sighs and flips his: ‘I live in a timeless void.’
Everyone groans. Point: them.
“Who’s the better driver?” They both write “Jason.”
Jason shrugs. “I learned on stolen motorcycles.”
Tim adds under his breath, “And nearly killed us merging onto I-42.”
“Who’s the little spoon?”
Jason opens his mouth—
Tim calmly writes: ‘Jason.’
The room freezes.
Jason turns. “You can’t just say that.”
“You said you were committed to the bit,” Tim replies, not looking up.
Jason stares at him.
Dick starts laughing.
Steph’s mouth drops open. “Wait. Is that true?”
Tim smirks. Jason sputters.
“Not the point,” he says, flustered.
“Sounds like it’s the point,” Duke murmurs.
Damian throws down his pen. “This is disgusting.”
Steph leans forward, delighted. “Okay, what’s Tim’s go-to stress habit?”
Jason doesn’t hesitate. “Internalise, overwork, fake emotional distance, then disappear into the server room for eighteen hours.”
Tim blinks. “…That’s oddly accurate.”
Jason lifts his eyebrows.
Steph gives them the point.
“What’s Jason’s weirdest guilty pleasure?”
Tim pauses, then writes: old cartoons and strawberry milk.
Jason gawks. “How did you—”
“You fell asleep watching Pinky and the Brain in my apartment, and I found six empty Nesquiks in the trash.”
Jason mutters, “Betrayed in my own house.”
By the third round, no one’s keeping score anymore.
They're just watching.
Watching the way Tim stops correcting Jason when he throws an arm around the back of the couch again. Watching the way Jason leans closer when Tim mumbles a too-quiet joke. Watching the way they glance at each other before every question, like they’re not sure where the act ends and the honesty begins.
And maybe—maybe—they don’t know anymore either.
When the game winds down, Steph flops dramatically across the floor.
“I can’t believe the fake couple is more convincing than half the real ones I know.”
Dick grins at Tim. “So, you spoon, huh?”
Tim doesn’t respond.
Jason’s ears are pink.
Cass passes them both a snack tray and pats Jason’s shoulder with solemn approval.
Later, after everyone disperses and the lights dim, Jason lingers behind to help Tim clean up the cards.
He doesn’t say anything until the room is nearly empty.
Then, softly, “You really think I’m the little spoon?”
Tim glances over. His expression is unreadable, but not unkind.
He shrugs. “I think you deserve to be held.”
Jason stares at him.
And Tim—Tim just looks away and starts gathering the dice.
Neither of them says it out loud.
But that night, when Jason crashes on Tim’s couch again, Tim tosses him a blanket and murmurs, “Stay.”
Jason does.
And when Tim falls asleep curled awkwardly at the other end of the couch, Jason doesn’t move.
Not even when his fingers brush Tim’s hand under the blanket, and Tim doesn’t pull away.
Dick stages the intervention.
Of course, it’s Dick.
It happens over dinner—Wayne Manor, Tuesday night. Too many candles. Too many siblings. Too many knowing glances.
Tim knows something’s off the second he sits down, and Steph offers him a seat next to Jason, then winks.
He doesn’t sit. He chooses the end of the table instead.
Jason clocks the distance. Says nothing.
Dick clears his throat. “Sooo… how are things with you two?”
Tim doesn’t look up. “Fine.”
Steph smirks. “Define ‘fine.’”
“Not your business.”
“You made it our business when you went public,” Damian mutters. “You should’ve committed to the bit. Or shut up.”
Jason’s jaw tics. “That’s enough.”
Bruce sighs. “This isn’t a trap. It’s a check-in.”
“It feels like a trap,” Tim mutters.
“You’ve both been tense,” Dick says gently. “And not in the fun, flirty way. In the repressed, slow-spiral, psychological-collapse way.”
Steph adds, “We’re worried. Also: you’re idiots.”
Jason stands up before anyone else can speak. “I’m not doing this.”
Tim follows him out five minutes later.
They meet in the hallway outside the library, tension following like a second shadow.
“You didn’t have to walk out,” Tim says.
Jason turns. “You didn’t have to let me.”
Tim flinches.
Jason shakes his head. “You know, for a detective, you’re really bad at seeing the obvious.”
Tim crosses his arms. “And what’s that?”
Jason steps closer. “That I wanted this to be real.”
The words land like a gut punch.
Tim says nothing.
Jason exhales, bitter. “Right. Of course, you don’t have anything to say.”
“I didn’t ask for this to happen,” Tim snaps.
“No, you just let it. Let me show up. Let me stay. Let me hope.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re right. It’s not. But neither is pretending to love someone in public and then backing away every time they get close.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You never mean to, Tim. That’s the problem.”
Jason walks past him and doesn’t look back.
That night, Tim rereads their entire message history.
The first “babe.” The first unsent draft where he almost said I miss you. The picture Jason sent of the gala tie he picked out just because it matched Tim’s suit.
He stares at the screen and thinks, You don’t fake a future with someone unless some part of you wants it.
And some part of him really, really did.
[Three Weeks Ago]
Jason doesn’t notice it happen all at once.
It’s small things, first.
Tim leaving an extra coffee pod in the machine. Jason memorising the sound of Tim’s footsteps. Tim letting Jason into the penthouse without the alarm code, just a quiet “Hey.”
Then one night, Jason brings dinner, and Tim actually stops working to sit and eat with him.
Not in silence. Not as teammates.
Like something else.
Something softer.
Jason tells a dumb story about Roy’s toaster exploding. Tim laughs until he snorts.
Jason forgets, for a second, that they’re pretending.
That night, he dreams about brushing Tim’s hair out of his eyes.
Wakes up wrecked.
Doesn’t say a word.
[Two Weeks Ago]
Tim watches Jason sleep on his couch one night after patrol.
Boots kicked off. Hoodie pushed up. Breathing softly.
He’s never seen Jason this still.
Tim sits on the floor beside him and doesn’t move for twenty minutes. He pretends it’s about proximity. Pretends he’s measuring the safety of a situation.
But it’s not about safety.
It’s about the way Jason relaxes around him. It’s about how Tim wants to memorise the shape of that quiet.
When Jason wakes up and catches him staring, Tim just says, “You drool.”
Jason laughs. “Liar.”
Neither of them mentions how close Tim was sitting.
Or how long he stayed.
[One Week Ago]
Jason gets asked at a press line if he and Tim are “in love.”
He says “Sure,” with a smirk. Keeps walking.
But in the elevator afterwards, when it’s just them?
Tim turns to him and says, “You didn’t have to answer that.”
Jason looks at him. Really looks.
“You didn’t stop me.”
Tim doesn’t respond.
Jason thinks, He’s going to kiss me someday. And when he does, it’s going to ruin me.
[Two Days Ago]
There’s a photo.
One the press never published.
Jason standing behind him during the museum gala, hands on his shoulders, head tipped forward like he’s whispering something private. Tim’s smiling. Soft. Unguarded.
He didn’t know someone had captured it.
He stares at it for a long time.
Then he saves it.
Not for work. Not for PR.
Just… for himself.
Jason ghosts him.
Not immediately after the dinner—but over time, in a way Tim doesn’t know how to stop.
The texts get shorter. The conversations fizzle. The calls go unanswered.
And then: nothing.
No red helmet in the field. No sarcastic “morning, babe” over comms. No coffee cups left on his desk without explanation.
Just silence.
And in that silence, Tim feels himself coming undone.
“I’m fine,” he tells Bruce after a late-night patrol. “Just tired.”
“You’ve been tired for weeks,” Bruce says.
Tim shrugs. “I’m managing.”
“You haven’t spoken to Jason,” Bruce says, not a question.
Tim flinches. “It’s complicated.”
Bruce is quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Do you miss him?”
Tim feels the words slam into his ribs.
He wants to lie. Wants to say “No,” or “I don’t know,” or “It was fake.”
But all that comes out is—
“It didn’t feel fake.”
And once it’s out, he can’t take it back.
Tim doesn’t cry.
Not really.
But that night, alone in the penthouse, he stares at the hoodie Jason left behind weeks ago and lets himself fall apart in pieces. Quiet ones. Cracks that form slowly and split without warning.
He rereads Jason’s last message, sent days ago.
[Jay]
glad you survived patrol
sleep, Tim.
He replies.
[Tim]
miss you.
There’s no answer.
Until the next morning.
[Jay]
Gotham Motors, back garage.
Come alone.
The garage is cold and smells like oil and rust.
Jason doesn’t look surprised to see him. Just tired.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Tim answers.
Silence.
Jason kicks at a bolt on the ground. “Didn’t think you’d show.”
Tim swallows. “Didn’t think you’d want me to.”
Jason finally looks up.
“I always want you to.”
It’s the crack in the dam.
Tim takes a breath and finally says the words he’s been terrified to say.
“I never meant to hurt you. I just— I didn’t know what I wanted. But now I do.”
Jason’s voice is low. “What’s that?”
Tim steps forward.
“You.”
They don’t kiss, not yet.
But they stand close enough that it doesn’t matter.
Jason leans his forehead against Tim’s.
“Then let’s stop pretending.”
Tim exhales like he can finally breathe.
“I’m staging a coup,” Steph announces, walking into Dick’s apartment with three coffees and a clipboard.
Dick raises an eyebrow. “Against who?”
“Against Tim’s bullshit.”
She slams the clipboard down on the table.
On it is written:
OPERATION: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, TIM
Objective: Reunite Dumbasses.
Timeline: Immediate.
Risks: Emotional outbursts, Jason’s sarcasm, possible civilian casualties.
Dick sips his coffee. “I’m listening.”
Step One is surveillance.
They tail Tim for two days. He doesn’t notice. (Damian notices. He says nothing.)
Step Two is bait.
Dick invites Jason to an “emergency family check-in.” Steph invites Tim to the same thing. Separately.
Alfred provides snacks and plausible deniability.
Step Three is lock them in the Batcave until someone confesses.
Unfortunately, Tim bails last minute.
Jason shows up, realises the trap, and rolls his eyes so hard he nearly falls over.
“I knew you guys were behind this,” he says.
“We’re trying to help,” Dick insists.
“I don’t need help,” Jason says.
Steph gestures wildly. “You’re in love with a cryptid! Of course you need help!”
Jason smirks. “I know I’m in love.”
He leaves before they can interrogate him further.
But not before saying, “He’ll figure it out. Or I’ll make him.”
The next day, Tim’s gone from the penthouse.
Gone from the cave.
Gone from his usual routines.
And then he texts them.
[Tim]
don’t wait up.
Steph smiles. “He’s making his move.”
Dick high-fives her.
Damian grimaces. “Disgusting.”
It starts quietly.
No press statement. No coordinated debut. Just a soft post, early on a Sunday morning, when the world isn’t looking.
Tim uploads a photo to his socials: Jason curled on his couch in an oversized hoodie, eating leftover Chinese food and scowling at the news.
The caption just says: this is the love of my life complaining about taxes at 9:14 a.m.
He doesn’t check the comments. He puts his phone face down.
And Jason, looking up from his lo mein, says without missing a beat, “You didn’t even tag me, babe. Rude.”
Tim laughs. “I’m protecting your dignity.”
Jason smirks. “I lost that the day I let you steal the last dumpling.”
The media doesn’t lose its mind this time.
It combusts slowly, with awe.
#TimJason trends again, but this time, there’s no denial to chase.
Just confirmation.
Paparazzi catch them walking home from a WayneTech event, Tim in pressed slacks and Jason in a T-shirt that says I Survived the Lazarus Pit and All I Got Was This Attitude.
They’re holding hands.
They don’t let go when the cameras flash.
At the next Batfam dinner, Dick raises a glass.
“To no longer pretending,” he says.
Steph whoops. “To healing through sarcasm and long-repressed gay panic!”
Damian groans into his rice. “You are all repulsive.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow at the two of them, seated side by side.
Tim says, “I know what you’re thinking.”
Bruce says, “You’re still the most functional couple in this family.”
Jason chokes on his drink.
They fall into a rhythm after that.
Not just in public. In private.
Tim gets used to Jason’s music echoing from the bathroom in the mornings. Jason gets used to finding annotated memos on his fridge: Don’t forget to eat. I mean it.
They fight. They recover. They try.
They stop asking if it’s real and start building something that is.
One night, curled together on the couch, Jason taps Tim’s fingers gently and says, “You know… I almost kissed you on that rooftop.”
Tim tilts his head. “I know.”
Jason chuckles. “You flinched so hard, I thought I broke you.”
“You didn’t,” Tim says quietly.
“I wanted to," Jason says. "Kiss you, I mean."
“You still do.”
Jason glances at him.
Tim’s smiling.
Not fake. Not for press. Not rehearsed.
Just his.
Later, Tim tugs Jason down into bed, tracing circles on his shoulder where a scar once burned hot.
Jason’s breath catches.
“Still scares the shit out of me, you know,” he says softly. “That it was fake. That you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t,” Tim says. “I already did once. I’m not making that mistake again.”
Jason swallows. “Say it, then.”
Tim leans in.
Eyes steady.
Voice sure.
“I love you.”
Jason closes his eyes like it’s the first time anyone’s ever said it like that.
Because maybe it is.
Tim and Jason are invited to a Wayne Foundation gala.
This time, they show up together—no fake smiles, no distance. Jason wears a pressed suit. Tim wears black-on-black and doesn’t let go of his hand all night.
At one point, a reporter corners them and says, “You two were supposedly fake-dating, right? What changed?”
Jason glances at Tim.
Tim answers, “We stopped pretending.”
“And started choosing each other.” Jason adds.
The headline the next day reads:
THEY MEANT IT THE WHOLE TIME: TIM DRAKE AND JASON TODD CONFIRM RELATIONSHIP, DESTROY THE INTERNET
Steph sends them a group text.
[Steph]
I AM CRYING
I SHIPPED YOU IDIOTS BEFORE YOU SHIPPED YOURSELVES
TELL ME YOUR WEDDING COLORS
[Dick]
Does this mean we can double-date now?
[Damian]
I am going to drink bleach.
[Jason]
we’ll save you a seat
That night, curled together in bed, Tim murmurs, “Do you think it ever would’ve happened without the lie?”
Jason hums. “Maybe not.”
“But now?”
Jason presses a kiss to his forehead.
“No further questions.”