Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tuesday

Tim bugs Jason’s apartment on a Tuesday.

It’s purely tactical. Data-collection. Surveillance. Not personal.

Except it kind of is.

Jason’s been cagey lately. Slippery. Not in a suspicious way—just... off. And Tim’s pattern analysis on the arson cases in the Narrows points to Red Hood’s safehouse as a central node.

So he plants six directional audio mics. Clean. Hidden. Professional.

Totally impersonal.

He tells himself that twice.

He doesn’t count on Jason finding them all that night.

Wednesday

Jason holds the tiny black transmitter between his fingers like it might bite.

He knew it was coming, eventually. This is how Tim works—efficient, calculating, always five steps ahead and emotionally distant enough to not care whose privacy he violates.

Except… that’s not really true anymore, is it?

Jason sighs, pulls out his laptop, and starts tracing the signal. And maybe he hacks Tim’s phone.

And maybe he does it because it’s funny.

And maybe because he wants to see if there’s anything in there—anything at all—that suggests Tim was thinking about him. (There is. A ridiculous amount of encrypted notes labelled "Hood surveillance, hypothesis 3A: avoidance = guilt?" And a playlist titled "Red" that includes at least three songs Jason’s mentioned liking.)

So Jason decides, naturally, to make this war personal.

And maybe a little flirty.

Not that Tim will notice. He never does.

Thursday

Tim wakes up to “Careless Whisper” on loop.

He checks his phone.

The playlist is titled: Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm: A Dedication to Your Surveillance Fetish.

His notes app is full of limericks.

“There once was a bird full of spite / Who snooped like a creep in the night…”

He snorts, despite himself. It’s kind of… impressive.

Jason’s smart. Funnier than people give him credit for. Creative.

Tim blinks at the thought.

Curses softly. Then starts planning.

Friday

Jason opens his fridge.

All the labels are gone.

Replaced with custom stickers quoting Shakespeare.

His milk: “A plague upon both your cows.”
His eggs: “To shell, or not to shell.”
His leftover chilli: “Hell is empty, and all the beans are here.”

He laughs. Actually laughs out loud, alone in his kitchen.

He shakes his head and mutters, “Of course he’s a theatre nerd.”

His phone buzzes with a new message from Tim.

“Your turn.”

Saturday

Tim’s Red Robin suit is… off.

Too tight. Uncomfortably so. He nearly dislocates a shoulder during a grapple and swears a string of things that would make Alfred faint.

Jason smirks at him later in the Cave. “What’s wrong, Red? Outgrew your feathers?”

Tim glares at Jason's knowing expression. “You altered my suit.”

Jason leans in a little, almost too close to Tim. Tim doesn't think he minds the closeness. “I tailored your suit. For maximum flex display. You’re welcome.”

Tim’s brain glitches. “I—what—no. No, thank you.”

His voice cracks. Jason is definitely smirking.

Tim flees. Jason grins to himself and taps a note into his phone:

Teasing = minor blush. Progress.

Sunday

Jason’s helmet starts talking.

Tim’s voice, crisp and snarky. “Wow, Red Hood. So scary. So mysterious. So 90s.”

Jason rips it off his head. The playback continues from the busted comms system. He throws it. Hits the wall.

Laughter echoes from the speakers. But it's Tim's laugh, and it's for Jason. So, can he really be mad at this prank? When it makes him smile and almost laugh alongside Tim? When it's something he and Tim share, just the two of them, this game of cat and mouse? Where they interchange who is the cat and who is the mouse? When it's just the two of them, taking turns having fun messing around with each other, under the guise of simple pranks, when, truly, these interactions mean more than just a game?

At least, for Jason it isn't simply a game. 

He sighs and texts Tim.

Jason: You break it, you buy it. That helmet’s a vintage piece of trauma.

Tim: I’ll add it to your tab. You owe me for bugging your toaster.

Jason smiles at the screen longer than he means to.

Monday

At 3:47 a.m., Tim’s whole penthouse erupts in Gordon Ramsay screaming: “YOU PUT WHAT IN THE RISOTTO YOU ABSOLUTE DONKEY—”

Tim stumbles out of bed, trips over a speaker, and nearly dies.

Jason’s text arrives seconds later.

Jason: You looked tired. Thought I’d help.”

Tim: With explosive rage??”

Jason: ;)

Tuesday

A pizza arrives at Jason’s safehouse. Toppings: pineapple and anchovy paste.

There’s a glitter bomb in the crust. He isn't even sure how that could be possible, but he's sure if anyone could make the impossible possible, it would be Tim Drake.

Jason opens it carefully—and still ends up covered in shimmer. 

He stands motionless. Glitter in his lashes. His hair.

He takes a deep breath and says aloud, “I’m in love with a sociopath.”

Wednesday

Tim finds a Polaroid of himself at age nine in a bee costume stuck inside his utility belt. One he barely remembers being taken.

He stares at it for a full minute.

Then he smiles.

“I’m going to marry him or kill him,” he mutters.

Damian walks by, raises an eyebrow, and says, “Same.”

Thursday

Jason finds the Batcomputer refusing to accept any password except “TimIsMyFavourite”

He types it in. It works.

He stares at the screen. Then, slowly, a smile creeps across his face.

He texts Tim.

Jason: So we’re saying it now?”

Tim leaves him on read.

Friday

They’re called into the Cave.

Bruce looks exhausted. Alfred is polishing silverware very aggressively.

“There were ants in the weapons vault,” Bruce says tightly. “And glitter in the Batmobile’s air intake.”

Tim clears his throat. “Unrelated incidents.”

Jason snorts.

Bruce raises a hand. “This ends now. You are both professionals. You are not twelve.”

Jason mutters, “Mentally, he kind of is.”

Tim flips him off. Jason winks and grins at the red taking hold of Tim's ears.

Bruce pinches his nose. “You’re grounded.”

They stare.

“You can’t ground grown men,” Tim says.

“You’re Waynes,” Bruce replies. “Watch me.”

Saturday

The ceasefire holds.

For about six hours.

Tim comes home to a handmade envelope with no return address. Inside is a card:

“If I didn’t like you, I’d have stabbed you by now. —J”

He rereads it three times.

Then opens his phone and writes a new note.

Sunday

Tim catches Jason after patrol.

"Hey," he says.

Jason turns, half-expecting another glitter bomb. Instead, Tim holds something out.

A thumb drive.

Jason raises a brow. “More spy toys?”

Tim shakes his head. “No. It’s a playlist. For you.”

Jason takes it slowly.

“It’s mostly angry alt-rock and... a surprising amount of Taylor Swift,” Tim adds sheepishly.

Jason smirks. “So you’re saying I’m your Anti-Hero?”

Tim groans. “Don’t ruin this.”

He hesitates. Then: “I like you. In case that wasn’t... super obvious.”

Jason laughs. Then steps close. Really close.

“I’ve been throwing glitter at you for two weeks,” he says. “If that’s not a declaration of love, I don’t know what is.”

Tim grins.

And then Jason kisses him.

Just once.

Just enough.

Three days later, Cass finds a note on the fridge:

“We’re not at war anymore. We’re dating. Please don’t tell Bruce.”

She shows it to Babs, who cackles.

Damian reads it, sighs, and mutters, “Finally.”

Alfred smiles fondly and sets out two extra coffee mugs.

And Bruce?

Bruce finds a glittery heart-shaped sticker on the Batcomputer.

He says nothing.

But he changes all his passwords.