---- From chapter 41 ----

T: hmmm
T: I want to paint
T: cmere and take ur shirt off

----

Dinner had ended just over an hour ago, the rattle of the dishwasher falling silent as Alfred washed the fine China and silverware by hand before retiring for the night. They had never quite made it upstairs to change into nightclothes, instead halting in the living room to play cards. No one wanted to play Uno with Tim or blackjack with Dick, so they'd defaulted to poker, which none of them were very good at. Except for Roy, who was secretly very good at it.

Over the hour they had slowly dressed down, Dickie had removed various parts of his suit, his blazer laid over the back of the couch and his tie around his neck, sleeves folded up to show his forearms. Tim had undone his vest so that it fell open around his sides, revealing a dark red button-up with the first few buttons undone. He had rolled his slacks up to just below his knees, and his sleeves to above his ankles. He looked vaguely like the son of a rich diplomat after being strangled on a desert island post-shipwreck in a 2000 Adventure/Romance movie.

Eventually, they had made a game of it, the loser of a round removing an article of clothing until they were freed of confining ties, jackets, and left in button-ups and slacks.

Dressing for dinner wasn't something they did every evening, and Wally and Roy were close enough friends that their presence didn't warrant a lavish affair, but once a month routine demanded they put on their suits and headed down the stairs to the dimmed dining room. Jason would never admit it, but he actually enjoyed the ritual of dressing for dinner; unlike galas where appearance took presidency over comfort and entertainment, where they all had a carefully constructed part to play, dinner was a private family affair. It gave Dickie a chance to wear his newest suit and Jason a chance to freely admire Tim in his large rotation of vests without having to peer over the shoulders of snobbish socialites vying for his attention.

"I fold," Wally shook his head, laying his cards down flat on the table.

To his left, Barabara threw a few more of the loose coins they'd been playing with into the pot. Amongst the links and dirty coins sat Dick's expensive watch, a piece of paper allegedly containing the password to Roy's Instagram account, Bruce's favourite pen, which Jason nicked out of his office a few weeks ago, and a few crinkled hundred dollar bills.

"I raise," she said.

Jason looked at his cards, four of a kind. Next to him, Tim had managed to cheat his way into a straight flush, and who knew what Barabara had. Cass and Bruce had left for a short patrol right after dinner and were due back in another hour. Once Cass- who didn't know half the rules but managed to win every other game- was back, it was over for them all.

"I'm all in," he said, shoving his own stack of nickels and dimes towards the center of the table. On the couch, Konner coughed into his fist. He wasn't allowed to play with them, since he always used his x-ray vision to cheat and then told Tim what everyone else had, but he enjoyed loitering nearby making judgmental noises every few turns.

At his right, with his head resting on Jason's thigh and his cards open for everyone that side of the table to see, Tim was carefully adding spoonfuls of sugar straight into a pot of coffee resting on the ground, because he was a selfish asshole who didn't care if other people liked their coffee with or without a lethal dose of C12H22O11. Spoonful after spoonful. One. Two. Three. Four.

"Tim," Dick called gently.

Tim hummed noncommittally, carefully trying to balance another spoonful of sugar on the concave silverware without spilling any on the carpet and without sitting up to do it properly.

Jason transferred his cards to one hand, using the other to flick Tim's forehead. "It's your turn, idiot."

He glanced up, "What'd Jay do?"

"All in," Kon called from the couch, judgmentally flipping a page in the book he was reading.

Tim sniffled a laugh, using one hand to reach up and push his coins in the general direction of the middle wordlessly. Like dominos, Roy and Dick did the same.

Jason threw his cards down on the table, revealing that he did, in fact, have a losing hand. "Why do you all assume I'm a liar?!"

"You lied to me about being Robin II," Tim set his stack of cards on the table, face side up.

Dick gathered all the cards in a pile and slid them to Wally, "You lied to me about being dead."

"You lie to me on a daily basis," Roy shrugged, "If you washed the dishes, if there's blood on my face, if the-"

"Ok," Jason interrupted loudly, "I get it."

"You also spent like half your childhood as a thief," Wally said as he shuffled the cards with superspeed, dealing them out again.

"-and I saw you stealing silverware at the last gala," Barbara tacked on as she flipped her cards over to reorganize her new hand.

"Jason!" Dick scolded, "Alfreds been looking for those! He blamed me!"

"That's because you use his nice knives as darts-"

Roy wrapped his knuckles on the table, still listing things, "You lied to me about where our new silverware came from..."

"None of you are funny," Jason deadpanned. Tim was laughing, though, so Jason's irritation webbed until it washed away completely.

"Funny is all we have, Jay,," he pouted, sitting up at the table as the rest of them, his hair falling out of its small pony-tail. "We can't all be as smooth and hot as you and Dickie."

Jason grinned, "You've managed so far."

As Tim pouted and called out 'mean!' Dickie rolled his shoulders against the couch as he leaned against it, "I wasn't always this suave and confident, yanno."

"Bullshit," Tim said immediately. He'd known Dickie for years and he'd never seen the man flounder.

Jason nodded, thinking the same. Bruce had been counting on Dick almost his whole life. The terrifying depth of Bruce's faith weighed on all of them, the knowledge that he trusts you to disarm the bomb in time. Dodge the bullet. Save the day. You didn't go long before becoming suave and confident.

Wally threw his arm around Dickie's shoulders, laughing softly, "It's true! One time, when we were younger, he missed me so much he showed up at my school." Dickie groaned as soon as he realized what story Wally was telling.

Wally leaned across the table, his eyes shining in the way they did every time he talked about Dickie, "Only, he was too shy to tell me, so he just read Shakespeare in the cafeteria." Jason eyed Wally suspiciously, unable to conjure an image of Dickie being shy, aware of Tim doing the same next to him.

Wally relaxed against Dickie's side, lighting up the room with a bright laugh, "I spent the whole morning hearing rumours about this hot guy with a cool accent."

"Sounds fake but ok," Tim decided, shaking his head.

"True story," Roy confirmed immediately, poking Dickie in the ribs, "He called me to rant about how Wally had hugged him."

"Roy!" Dickie cried immediately, punching Roy in the shoulder, betrayed. As Roy recoiled in faux pain, Dickie buried his face in his hands. "I was a kid in love with my best friend! Give me a break!"

Konner immediately looked up, "Hey! Wally called me to rant about that too!"

Wally, immune to things like embarrassment, touched his chest where his heart was, "Awe, Dick! I was your best friend? You were my best friend!"

Dickie mimicked Wally's 'awww,' his face still a little pink as he shifted further into Wally's lap, so close Wally could probably deduce the exact shade of blue pigment that gave Dickie's eyeliner it's blueish hue. #246bce. Dickie was glowing with a middle-school crush grown into the shape of his older self and Wally going on oblivious to it in that strangle little idiosyncratic way of his while they whispered cheesy nothings to each other, still acting like newlyweds even though they'd been married for months. Jason rolled his eyes and watched as Roy and Barbara shared matching 'are you seeing this shit?' looks.

"I'm gonna have a bruise now," Roy complained loudly,

"You like it," Wally retaliated immediately, reaching out to push on Roy's shoulder.

There was a chorus of 'Woahhh' from the others in the room.

"That's enough for me," Barbara said, standing up. She grabbed her phone off the table, tucking it into the waistband of her skirt and picking her heels up with her other hand. "TMI, guys. Walk me home, Kon?"

"So you can grill me about when I'm gonna propose to M'gann or so you have an alibi if you beat the shit out of a mugger on the way?" He'd gotten more talkative over the years, thanks to Tims unrelenting influence and the fact that Bart never shut up.

"Yes."

Konner closed his book with a slight clap, "Alright, sounds good to me."

"Au revoir, y'all," Dickie called after them as Konner led Barbara to the front door.

Jason looked back over at Tim, only to find Tim halfway out of the room, heading for the staircase. Judging by the fact that Dickie had one hand fisted around the collar of Roy's shirt, dragging him down to look at something on his phone, they were spending the night in the manor.

Jason sighed as he stood up, grabbing his jacket and phone and leaving the three to whatever hijinks they were inclined to. He caught up to Tim easily, letting his hand slide around his waist as they conquered the staircase.

Tim paused at the top of the stairs, eyebrows scrunching up in thought like they always did when he was struggling to think or make sense of his feelings. He wanted something but didn't know how to say it. It was obvious in the way his eyes would get glassy for a few seconds and how his lips would part slightly at times like he was half tempted to voice his thoughts then decided they were almost too much for him.

Jason leaned down to kiss the top of his head, pulling away slowly. "I'm gonna go shower and change," he said, splitting away from Tim and heading in the direction of his room to give Tim time to work through what he wanted.

"Yeah, ok. Me too," Tim answered back faintly, and Jason heard his soft footsteps on the carpeted floor as he drifted towards his own room with the mutual understanding he would head to Jason's room after. They usually slept in Jason's room, whether or not Jason was there or at his apartment, and Tim had turned his own room into more of a chaotic office space, no longer fit for being lived in.

Jason showered slowly, the hot water making the cuts and scratches he was consistently adorned with on his back and arms sting, and sighing with fond resignment when he saw Tim and his whiteboard markers had vandalized the inside of his shower again.

He ran a hand over the Y-shaped scar on his abdomen and chest, the arms of the Y running from each shoulder joint to meet at his mid-chest and the stem of the Y running down the center of his chest. How cruel it was of the pit, to reattach his organs and heal him on the inside, but leave the scar.

He scanned the black, jerky marks of Tim's writing as he thumbed over the scar, his mind drifting away until he caught sight of one of the many quotes Tim had dawned the tiles with. Jammed between two different chemical equations and a poorly drawn version of Batman as a stickman, scribbled in Tim's messy scrawl; "Las heridas recibidas en la batalla otorgan honour, no lo quitan."

"The wounds received in battle bestow honour, they do not take it away," it said, more or less. Tim's Spanish had never been his most reliable skill.

Jason thought back to when Tim had first started learning the language, the way his eyes would narrow as he concentrated too hard on rolling his r's properly. Jason remembered vividly making fun of Tim and his ability to fly through Russian, Korean, and so on in a few months, but still fumbling with Spanish after years. Even Mandarin had been easy for him, with his natural talent for linguistics- though Jason secretly thought it had something to do with the fact that his father ensured their Chinese-American heritage was instilled into him as a child. Tim insisted he didn't remember much from his boarding school-ridden past, but Jason knew he'd had at least some lessons in Cantonese and the like.

Of course, over time Jason had gone from mocking him from the sidelines to instead doing so up close and personal, secretly basking in Tim's awe when he said something perfectly, only to refuse to translate whatever it was.

Admittedly, Tim was better at writing than he was. If pronunciation was his weak spot, it was the reverse for Jason. Catherine, the woman he had thought was his mother, even on her deathbed had taught him Spanish from a young age. It wasn't until later, when he found out about his biological heritage, that he realized she'd been trying to give him all the parts of his real mother she could. He lost it partly after she died, picking up English the same way he did crime- out of necessity- until Bruce took him in and reintroduced him to the familiar language, the both of them surprised at how quickly and easily he took to it, now that he was learning from someone who was also fluent, rather than the Spanish station on the radio and cheap picture books.

Jason's reminiscing was interrupted by his phone dinging, three times in quick succession. He checked it as he towelled off, no longer dwelling on his autopsy scar and instead focused on reading Tim's messages.

T: hmmm
T: I want to paint
T: cmere and take ur shirt off

Jason threw his towel over his shoulders and threw on a pair of pyjama pants that had at one point been Bruce's. He dug around in one of the drawers for a minute, pushing around Tim's scattered collection of hair elastics and liquid eyeliners until he found a carton of cigarettes he'd hidden a few weeks ago.

He pulled one out and left the box on the counter, placing it between his lips for safekeeping while he drifted back into his bedroom in search of a lighter.

The wind outside whistled dangerously, shaking the branches of trees and rattling the window persistently, trying to force its way into the dimly lit bedroom. Tim had his body stretched as tall as he could, grasping the bottom of the gothic arched windows. Jason watched him struggle until he finally got a good enough grip to pull the window shut with a heavy breath, and finally flick the latch closed. With the wind cut off, the dark curtains drifted slowly back to their place against the wall and dangling on the floor.

His heels lowed back to the floor, glaring childishly at the window then turned his glare to Jason instead, knowing that it was him who always opened the window for a sleepless nights smoke and never closed it again, leaving the room with a constant chill that rose goosebumps on his arms. Sometimes it would take him days to get around to closing it, piling more and more blankets onto the bed in the meantime.

Jason replied to his glare with a wink and lifted up the bottom corner of the mattress to retrieve a hidden lighter, lighting the cigarette and inhaling heavily on his second smoke of the day. After leaving the apartment in the morning, he hadn't had the chance to smoke again.

He thought about opening the window again, just to piss Tim off, but decided against it, since it was cold anyway.

He'd only managed his second inhale when Tim snatched the cigarette out of his hand.

"Give me that-" he said. If it were unlit he would have tucked it behind his ear, but as it was he placed it between his own lips "and go lay down." He pushed and nudged Jason until he relented, collapsing face-down on the bed, throwing his towel to the side.

He heard Tim shuffling around, throwing his box of paints up on the bed next to Jason's head, before finally settling with his legs straddling Jason's hips. He reached up to grab the ashtray off the bedside table, balancing it between Jason's shoulder blades. Jason craned his head back to watch as Tim retrieved a brush and his first colour- a dark, navy blue- before Tim pushed his head down.

"Don't make me blindfold you," he threatened. He never did like showing people the process of his art, on the rare occasion he created something.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, princess," Jason retaliated, "you know where it is."

Tim, never one to back down from a challenge when it was issued from someone who irritated him, slid off the bed and retrieved a box from underneath it, grabbing a well-worn but silky blindfold and shoving the box back where it came from.

He returned to his previous position, but reached forward and grabbed Jason's hair, pulling his head back so he could slide the blindfold over his eyes. He adjusted it so it wouldn't fall off but wasn't too tight, and moments later Jason felt the first cold brush of paint on his back.

Tim painted in silence. Usually, he would talk- nonsensical ramblings about how much he hated capitalism and Freud, or retell the entire plot of whatever show he was in the middle of- or listen to music, but this time he was silent. Probably to unnerve Jason and take full advantage of his sightless state.

Jason rolled his eyes under the blindfold, relaxing under Tim's weight into the comfortable mattress, nearly falling asleep at one point before he felt a sharp, brief burning on his back.

He hissed through clenched teeth as Tim brushed the cigarette ash, now cooled, away unapologetically, "Watch it, will you," he grunted.

Moments later he felt the sting again, followed by Tim's brief and quiet laughter.

"And you call me a sadist," he accused, making a mental note to remember this next time he had Tim in a vulnerable position.

Again, Tim didn't respond. Jason huffed, shifting into a more comfortable position carefully, resettling when he again felt the brush on his back.

Finally, he felt Tim loosening the blindfold and pulling it off, blinking as his sight returned to him. It was darker; nearly three hours had passed. His limbs were loose as Tim cleared the mattress off, setting the ashtray on the floor for now and shoving all his paints back in their box.

Jason blinked as Tim shoved one of his professional-grade cameras in his face, leaning backwards so he could make out the image; him, the white bedsheets spread out around him, contrasting his tanned skin, Tim's paintbrush and a few bottles of dark blue and yellows scattered around him. On his back, Starry Night, the ashtray incorporated into the picture as the center of a star.

"Very good," he mumbled, pressing a kiss to the side of Tim's head as he pulled him down into the sheets. Weary of any of the paint rubbing off onto the bed, he stuck to sleeping on his stomach, the blankets kicked down to the foot of the bed, he trusted the manor's old heating system and Tim pulled to his side, fingers smudgy with dried paint would keep him warm through the night.

Tim's fingers traced the ridges of his ribs absentmindedly, the touch gradually getting slower and softer until it stopped altogether, Jason knowing that meant Tim's body had finally given in to his exhaustion and he'd fallen asleep. Jason blinked heavily, his own consciousness fading, using his last few waking moments to reach out and throw his arm over Tim, ensuring they wouldn't drift apart throughout the night.

At the age of eight, Timothy Drake believed his ability to turn back to the cartoon channel just as the commercials were ending was magic. Jason knew this, and about ten thousand other little things about Tim. He knew that Tim drank coffee for the taste because it didn't actually affect him, that he tended to forget about things until the last moment, and that he had an immediate taking to Barbara because she reminded him of Scully from The X-Files. He knew Tim knew things about him too- like that his hair was naturally red and that he's killed a final total of eighty-three people- and above all else, he knew the one thing that mattered; he loved Tim, and Tim loved him.