---- From chapter 1 ----

T: Okay- I know u don't care, but I'm like, gay-panicking because Robin just rescued me from falling off a building and he's so attractive and oh my god he was so strong?? But like, he seemed different than usual??
J: You're right, I don't care.

----

Tim wasn't happy with his life. It wasn't surprising, not really, not with the atmosphere of his house, the loud disappointment in his parent's eyes when they looked at him and the quiet of shared dinners. He wasn't happy with his life, and he'd come to accept it with dull resignation and depravity.

Still, he didn't spend more time in Drake Manor than necessary. He slipped away as often as possible, to Wayne Manor or into the city. Wayne Manor was safer, but sometimes the volume of the love he was forced to breathe in there was just as choking. A sort of disorder, something he craved after in scraps but ran from when the quantity became something he couldn't consume in quick, manageable bites.

He didn't drink often. Actually, he hated the way alcohol tasted, but his body was getting too used to too little sleep and it was starting to become the only thing he could do to stop thinking. It was so, so easy to break into the safe in his parent's room and take the good scotch, to stuff the unopened bottle, his camera, and his laptop into his backpack, along with a set of spare clothes just in case this is the time he decides not to come back, and hitchhike into the city.

His hands catch the bottom rung of the fire escape when he jumps for it. It had taken a while to get good at it; when he first started doing this, he'd miss and scrape up his knees on the concrete. Now though, he does it on his first try and the rust rubs off on his hands as he pulls himself up.

The higher up he gets, taking the precarious steps one at a time, the more the absolute stench of the alleyway lets up, the smell of rotting trash and dead cat not penetrating the air this far up.  Honestly, it was probably better than the nicer parts of the city; it wasn't even winter yet but Gotham was always cold and wet and it was enough that the taste of artificial heat and radiators with broken fans was thick and foul on the air. The hot, disgusting air rose and fell, and the burnt fossil fuels sunk into everything; the ground, the houses, your skin. Gotham drowned in it, all but the tallest steeples and spires. This far in the city, though, it was overpowered by the sour smell of fear and whatever you could call the gag-inducing stench that rose up out of the harbour.

Tim was possibly the only person in the city not used to it, and he climbed and climbed until the fog broke, and he could gaze out at the skyline, lousy with the unnatural shapes of civilization.

He'd been working his way across the city, trying to get a picture of that skyline from every angle, trying to find the one that will make Gotham look like home.

He's twenty pictures and twelve ounces deep when he catches a blur of colour out of the corner of his eye. He stands up sharply but drunkenly, exposing himself to the cold of the night. It's so much later than he thought it was, so very, very dark. So very dangerous.

His heart beats in his chest, in his fingertips, as he scans the horizon for whatever sent off the alarm bells in his head.

A few buildings over, hidden in the shadows, Robin is crouching next to a gargoyle. Tim's hands go to his camera so fast he nearly drops it, only the strap around his neck saving it.

The angle is wrong, so Tim steps up onto the ledge of the roof he's been loitering on, aiming his camera at Robin carefully, willing him not to move. The teen superhero seems to be talking, he has one hand pressed against his ear. Probably a comm, Tim realizes, watching through the lens of his camera, zoomed in on Robin's face, as Robin scoffs and appears to shut off his comm.

Tim's almost got the perfect shot, but something is missing. He refuses to take the picture yet; knows he'll only get one chance. Robin leans back, and Tim edges closer, leaning over nothing but empty air.

Robin doesn't leave though, just pulls a cigarette from out of his utility belt and a silver lighter case. Tim isn't even shocked, too focused. He moves even closer, his sneakers scraping against the chipping concrete ledge. He winces at the sound, still refusing to take the picture yet. He's got a great angle for admiring Robin's strong jawline, though, and the highness of his cheekbones, has time to think fuck, he's hot so many times it becomes a mantra.

Robin almost seems to be perching intentionally still, and he breathes out a puff of smoke around the cigarette between his teeth. Tim's camera gives the quietest of clicks as he takes the photo, and he edges backwards, intending to step back onto the roof, little fireworks of something he can't name going off in his chest.

He remembers he's drunk though, and this is Gotham, so of course, the roof isn't up to regulations, and honestly, Tim was such a naturally clumsy person even boarding school couldn't coach it out of him.

Tim wasn't happy with his life, but he falls off the ledge and has so many thoughts it's like someone reached into his head and pulled the leaver on a casino slot machine. He wishes he drank the rest of that scotch, wishes he'd flirted back with Dick a little bit more, got to call him Dickie just one time, spent so much more of his parent's money. Pissed off Jason more. Gotten to know Bruce, and Barbara, and Wally. All these people who had just entered his life; these heroes, people who gave off such strong waves of light and happiness and bravery that maybe, if he just stood close enough to them, one might clip him and he'd get to be more than he is.

His camera rises off his chest, falling slower than his body is, and it occurs to him that he's probably going to die, he's too high up not to, but God it was such a good picture.

Tim knows that they say that time freezes moments before your death, but when he feels like he's been falling a little too long he realizes the wind brushing across his face is no longer vertical. There's warmth against him, around him, blanketing him with the smell of nicotine and he opens his eyes to see himself in Robin's arms, held against his chest as if he weighed nothing at all.

Robin plants him back on the roof with a loud clack of their shoes on the concrete, and the second his feet are on solid ground again Tim realizes how nauseous he is. The feeling swells and overwhelms him, and his knees buckle under him until he's sliding down the rusted railing, breathing heavily.

Something about the way Robin is still standing tall, looming over him, sets Tim's competitive side on aflame and he clamps down on any panic out of pure spite. Tim doesn't stand up again, but he does shift against the wall into a more comfortable position, finding the scotch amongst his stuff and grabbing onto it like a lifeline.

It tastes like wax and fire in his mouth, burns like bleach, and he swallows it down. Robin is still standing there, tall, dangerous. Not dangerous to Tim, though. To his parents and their dirty money, maybe, but not to Tim.

And maybe it's because he's not dangerous, or maybe because Tim wants him to be, but Tim tips the frosted mouth of the bottle in his direction, "Wanna drink?"

"You just fell off the fucking roof and you're asking if I want a damn drink?"

Tim laughed at the tone- bewilderment, exasperation- in Jason's tone, and then chokes on the sound as he realizes holy shit; Jason.

"Well do you?" He says loudly, louder than he meant to, not quite sure how to fit words that aren't "fuck you" or "fuck off" in his mouth and direct them at Jason.

Jason, who is Robin.

Robin- Jason- takes too long to accept the bottle, so Tim takes another hazardous sip, overflowing his mouth and dripping it down his neck, to his collar bones, under his expensive, tailored shirt. Robin rolls his eyes- or at least Tim thinks he does; Jason would- and kneels. He wipes away the bitter liquid with the pad of his thumb, the cold weight of his gloves sending sparks and shivers down Tim's spine.

Jason would say, "You're a fucking piece of shit."

Robin says, "You should be more careful." They have the same voice, the same face, but they're so, so different, and maybe if Tim was sober he could handle this but he's not and he can't.

He's not quite sober enough to realize this makes perfect sense- he knew Bruce was Batman and usually Dickie was Robin, has known for years, since he was nine for fuck's sake- but he's a little too drunk to really feel of the fire of emotions burning up his chest, though, the alcohol throwing a wet rag over the flames and muffling them.

Instead of "oh my god" or "what the fuck" he says, more slurs than syllables, "You'd look good with a lip ring," because Jason has a lip piercing, and seeing him without it is giving Tim a little bit of a crisis.

"What do you know about piercings?" Robin remembers to say, remembers what Jason knows isn't what Robin knows.

In the back of his head, Tim knows Robin is just humouring him, waiting for him to either sober up or come down from whatever emotionally numb hysteria he's stuck in. Despite having done it thousands of times over the last two months since he and Jason met and fell in hate at first sight, sticking his tongue out and showing off the little black piercing in the middle of his tongue makes him feel childish. He wishes that Robin wasn't wearing a mask, just so he could see if Robin's eyes focus on the stretch of his lips the way he so badly wants Jason to. He'd gotten it spontaneously on one of his city-outings, and had to pay an extra hundred dollars to get the guy to do it without parental permission. His parents had almost kicked him out when they'd noticed.

He wondered what they'd do if they found out he had his nipples done too, little steel barbells that anyone who looked would be able to see through his t-shirt. He wondered what Jason would do.

His body shudders without his permission, and he knows it's from the directions his thoughts have taken, but he still blames the cold. He rubs his hands up and down his arms like he can start his body on fire if he just rubs hard enough.

Robin's still kneeling around him, so close they almost touch. He leans back, just a little bit, and Tim almost reaches out after him. He unclips his cape from his shoulders silently, a schooled expression on his face. Tim wished he could take that stupid mask in his hands and tear it off. He reaches up to do so, but Robin moves and throws the cape around his shoulders, clasping it around his neck, and his hands fall past the sides of Robin's face and onto his shoulders.

He tries to say "You're fucking kidding me," because Robin's cape is around his shoulders, and Tim didn't realize he really was cold until then, but for once in his life, it's so quiet in Tim's head that he can hear the outside world. There's the distant sound of cars on the freeway, the drivers trying to justify not escaping the city while they can to themselves. Ghosts. The distant roll of thunder, a brewing storm. A couple who left one of the windows in their apartment a few blocks away fighting loudly. The pumping of factories, all heat and metal. Gunshots.

Gunshots.

Jason's- Robin's- head snaps up, scanning the dark, dark horizon for a window alight with muzzle flashes. He must see something, or maybe he doesn't, but he looks back to Tim either way.

"I-" he starts, and he almost sounds like he doesn't want to go. Almost like he wants to stay.

"-Have to go, I know," Tim finishes for him, not sure why he wants the other to stay. To want to stay.

Robin stands up, slowly, and Tim's hands don't leave his shoulders so soon they're both standing so very close to one another. His camera is squished between their chests, the picture that Tim almost died for. Squished between them.

Tim knows his eyes flick down to Jason's piercingless lips, knows Robin sees it.

Robin takes a step away, then two, then he's bracing one foot on the railing and aiming his grappling gun at the nearest skyscraper.

"Aren't you gonna take your cape?" He says it selfishly, just to hear Jason talk to him in that soft, unreachable voice one more time. So selfishly. Gunshots. People could be dying. All Tim can think about is how rough Robin caught him, how soft he touched him.

"Tell you what," he starts.

Jason always finishes with "how about you go drown yourself and I watch?" and Tim always replies, "I'll go gladly into the depths of hell if it means I don't have to look at you for another second."

Robin says, "Don't let Batman see that photo and you can keep it," and Tim doesn't get a chance to reply at all before he disappears off the edge of the building.

Because Tim isn't Lois Lane, he doesn't run to the edge to make sure he's ok, just trusts in the metal wires and steel clasps of the grapple gun. Puts all his faith in that little piece of machinery. His hands fist around the cloth over his heart, thudding so loudly in his chest, and in the edges of the cape.

It's all he can do to wait long enough that it would seem suspicious, won't look like he knows. He starves the urge to text Jason, starves it until he knows it's weak enough that he won't accidentally send "come back." Then he pulls out his phone, and types with warm, shaking fingers.

T: Okay- I know u don't care, but I'm like, gay-panicking because Robin just rescued me from falling off a building and he's so attractive and oh my god he was so strong?? But like, he seemed different than usual??

Thirty seconds later, Jason texts back, and Tim cries and laughs a little at the same time.

J: You're right, I don't care.

"Not dangerous," he scoffs to himself, silently, almost more drunk off the feeling than the alcohol. Dangerous as fuck more like.