#zesti and soder. yeah

[mangoisms]

once when I was out with friends I got a diet coke, and I hadn't even had a fourth of it before the waitress came back with a full cup of diet coke, no ice, and said "I'll just leave this here, cuz I know how you diet coke drinkers are" and I felt uncomfortably seen. so I think 100 percent that would happen to tim

NOOOO 😭😭😭😭 NO ICE TOO? that is CRAZY omg…. yeah. yeah that’s tim. if no energy drinks. diet coke‼️

[suzukiblu]

Excerpt from the next chapter of "think pink", a.k.a "Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it":

Kon flies into Gotham as surreptitiously as possible, meaning "as thoroughly concealed by the smog and cloud cover as possible", which given the amount of smog and cloud cover usually works out pretty well for him. Today's definitely no less cloudy than usual, and he's landing in the marina in no time. Well–specifically, he's landing in a subtle little out-of-the-way corner of the marina that Tim's previously pointed out to him where his neighbors probably won't notice either a Superboy or a Wonder Girl coming down.

Probably.

Eh, it's whatever. If they notice, Kon'll handle it. Not like he's not used to lying to Gothamites about what the fuck he's doing in their city and why they shouldn't flip the Batsignal over it, after all.

Not that said lies always keep the Batsignal from getting flipped, but still. It's been like fifty-fifty.

Well, sixty-forty . . . ?

Maybe seventy-thirty.

Kon waits 'til nobody's immediately around and super-speeds his ass across the dock to Tim's houseboat. There's an unnecessary amount of security on the thing because Tim is a paranoid little freak and a half and every single Bat alive is literally made of trust issues, but he already knows there's nothing that'll clock him on the deck. Well, nothing aggressive, anyway.

This ain't his first Bat-rodeo, and all that.

He punches in the code for the lock on the door, and the code for the other lock on the door, and the code that'll keep the needles covered in neurotoxin from spraying into his face when he opens said door. They wouldn't actually hurt him, obviously, but Tim would get annoyed if he wasted them.

He seriously wonders how the guy was ever under the impression that Bernard didn't know he was a superhero, but he guesses it's possible Tim assumed his boytoy thought he was, like, somebody's evil henchman or a merc or something.

Or just literally insane. Whichever.

And it is Gotham.

The door swings open, Kon very carefully steps on the correct floorboard, and then he slips inside and heads down into the bowels of the boat, or whatever the inside of a houseboat is called. It's a little cluttered down here but not quite a mess, and Kon's been here as many times as Tim's been willing to let him come but still not nearly often enough.

He has an odd, random thought of just staying, for once, and isn't quite sure where it came from. Which–well, he's staying for the weekend at least, right? Assuming the world doesn't try to end again, anyway.

So maybe not so random.

Sometimes Kon really does want to just hang in Gotham with Tim until Batman runs him out of town, but he never pushes it that far. He doesn't want to deal with that fallout or with Tim coming up to him to tell him he's being too much or too needy or just fucking weird or . . .

Yeah. Well.

Kon cracks into Tim's fridge and steals a can of Zesti. He's a little more of a Soder guy, at least lately, but it tastes better coming out of Tim's fridge anyway. It makes him feel kind of like a normal guy who just goes over to his normal buddies' places to do normal things–whatever those are–and has normal permission to just rifle through their normal food and take whatever.

Technically Kon has permission, in the sense that Tim's never rigged the Zesti to explode in his face, but he's never actually explicitly asked. He wasn't really sure if that was one of those things that normal people ask or one of those things that normal people just do, and now it's a little late to check, so . . .

Kon's life experience has been fucking weird and wildly varied and stupidly fragmented and generally speaking he just begs forgiveness rather than ever ask permission. He's a grown-ass clone, he can do that.

Okay, he's technically only physiologically a grown-ass clone but also he's arguably over a thousand years old, or maybe more like four or five, so whatever. Being a superclone is weird and confusing and his point stands.

Kon sips his stolen Zesti and wanders around the boat, idly avoiding assorted traps and tripwires. He doesn't go into the bedroom, although it's kinda tempting to just go wait in there, possibly without the company of any of his clothes.

He wants to talk to Tim at least a bit before they go full long weekend on this situation, though, and also like . . . meet Bernard as an actual person and not just a voice over the phone or that one random disgustingly cute couple-selfie that Tim had very dorkily and shyly and grudgingly shared in the group chat the last time Bart had actually won a bet against him.

That stupid selfie was adorable. Kon had absolutely saved it and is not a weirdo who just randomly looks at it sometimes. There's a lot of stuff like that on his phone, alright, he's got a whole folder of "shit to look at when the world sucks". Most of it's Krypto being dumb and sweet or the team messing around and being silly together or stuff like that. The one disgustingly cute Tim and Bernard selfie is a mere footnote in that folder.

But it is in that folder.

Like . . . of course it is.

Kon thinks about pulling out his phone and looking at that picture again. He's aware it's a weird thought to be having right now, though, so he doesn't act on it. Kon operates on instinct a lot but he doesn't necessarily trust all his instincts, given his thoroughly fucked up socialization experience and random mind control triggers and the biological influence of a certain gene donor who shall not be named.

Kon hears a pair of accelerated heartbeats approach the boat and feels two people step onto and hurry across the deck above, one's footsteps significantly louder than the other's. He hears a lot of buttons get pushed. Then the door at the top of the stairs yanks open and he glances towards it. Either Tim or a very convincing evil doppelganger of Tim is standing framed in the doorway, looking very slightly flustered and just barely winded. Bernard is clustered up behind him and laughing, and much more winded himself.

Well, that's flattering.

"Hey there," Kon says, and grins up at them.

"We need to establish boundaries, hard no's, and safewords," Tim says immediately, absolute freak that he is. Kon is not even slightly surprised.

"God, you really do just look like that, huh," Bernard marvels, his eyebrows shooting up. He's even cuter when he's not being a cell phone pic, and especially cuter when Kon's being gay. Unsurprisingly, Kon figures. "I always assumed a whole lot of really skilled Photoshop was involved in you. Or at least a whole lot of real good makeup and real precise angles."

"He's annoyingly photogenic, actually, you don't even have to try to make him look good," Tim informs him resignedly. "So you can imagine how he looks when you do try."

"That's a terrifying thought, actually," Bernard says approvingly.

"Safewords, huh?" Kon says as he sets aside his mostly-empty Zesti, not even pretending not to be preening under the compliments. So he's easy; at least he's self-aware. "That sounds promising."

"You were talking about some guy putting you in a collar and keeping you as a pet," Tim says flatly. "We definitely need safewords, I might get carried away."

"Promises, promises," Kon hums, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets and sauntering towards the bottom of the stairs with a wolfish grin that he may or may not have learned from an actual wolf. Like, just speaking of certain beast-men that he's known and all. "I told you, I was feral then. You know I'll be a good boy for you, Rob."

"Ohhhhh we've sure gotten ourselves into something here, huh, babe," Bernard says with a delighted grin as Tim puts a hand over his face and just sort of . . . exhales in that one specific way that he does when it's all going to shit in a fight or on a mission and he just needs to steady himself for that one second before the doors blow in.

Kon likes that, he thinks.

He really likes that, actually.

[definitelynotaminion]

Hey I’d love to commission you for a 6$ (5$ + 1$ for mental health cleaning bonus option) fic. DC universe, Tim and Jason (no slash, platonic) focus where they’re sitting on a rooftop joking around until Tim makes a flippant joke about his life Jason almost killing him at titans tower and Jason taking a breath and telling Tim that he’s important and he’s glad he’s alive.

Also posted here, on ao3, under the title "Optimally Sentimental"! This was such a delight to work on, thank you for commissioning me and for being flexible!

-

It’s been months since Tim flinched around him.

Jason hasn’t been consciously keeping track, because literally counting physical ticks and bits of Robinly body language is a fast track to Bruce levels of paranoid insanity, but-- yeah. It’s been a good few months since Tim flinched around him, or tensed up when he entered a room, or subconsciously moved to place his back to a wall when Jason walked into a conversation.

It’s also been a few weeks since Jason stopped going out of his way to walk louder, announce his presence by shouting at one brother or another, or otherwise be as obvious as he could. He doesn’t want Tim to be scared around him, yeah, but while Tim was, he was going to be as least of a dick about it as possible.

But it’s been a while, and Jason is proud to report they’ve both let their guard down. This past little bit has been the best it ever has been between them.

They’re even taking missions together. Of their own free will, not because Bruce told them to. And enjoying it.

Tim’s got that faint little flush to his cheeks that he gets when he’s been smiling too much, and he’s squinting his eyes the way he does when he laughs for real (and not the fake little Timothy Jackson heir laugh he perfected at so many galas), and he’s been snipping and sniping prissy little one shots Jason’s way without apologizing.

Peak Tim, in his natural element; a baby bird unafraid of getting shot down.

So when he does tense up, midway between a snark off on which soda brand is better-- “Zesti is the premier shit drink of choice, Jason, even Dick agrees,” which, whatever, if you’re basing an argument over Dick’s questionable tastes, you’ve already lost, and Soder Cola is the most American drink ever made, even Jason can admit that and he’s technically a terrorist-- Jason feels his entire chest go cold.

He thought they were past this.

“I can go.” He says, through suddenly numb lips. It’s cold but not that could, a cool sixty which is practically paradise for Gotham this time of year. It’s not even pissing down rain, though the sky is a gray brick of overcast.

The words float out between them, catching on the mist. The rooftop is damp from an earlier shower.

Tim’s not even looking at him. He’s fiddling around with his scope, hissing under his breath. Jason tries to figure out what he did-- a sweeping arm movement, a too sharp movement? He really hasn’t been watching himself around Tim like he should have been.

You don’t just forget that kind of trauma. God knows Jason hadn’t, when someone had beat the shit out of him in the dark, and he hadn’t even been shot or, fuck, had his throat slit by someone who was supposed to be a friend.

Jason starts to stand.

“What?” Tim looks up, a picture of confusion. “No, what are you being stupid about? The screw fell out of my new lens.” He curses under his breath, glove groping around the rubble of the rooftop. “I cannot believe I didn’t put it back together tightly enough last night.”

Jason’s mouth moves on instinct, the Robinly urge to rib his brother carrying through even when his thoughts are so tangled and confused.

“Did you rebuild that thing again?” He asks. “Damn, give it a few days to see how it functions, would you?”

“If I notice a problem, I’m not going to just wait and fill out a changelog of bugs, Jay.” Tim says absently, waving a hand without looking. His entire back is to Jason now. Jason, slowly and by degrees, relaxes. “Besides, it was an easy enough adjustment.”

Jay, not Jason. Rare enough that one of his brothers indulges in his preferred nickname. Jason himself hardly ever points out that he prefers it, so it’s not like he can blame them.

(Also in fairness, he’d once shot Bruce in the kneecap for pulling out ‘Jaylad’ in the middle of his Pit-induced madness.)

Jason gradually lowers himself back into his sitting position against the roof’s lip. They’re as comfortable as they can be on this kind of stakeout, the orange haze of poisoned daylight on the horizon indistinguishable from sunset. Soon, the ‘working day’ will be through, and they’ll be able to see what the Sionis family is actually doing. They’re supposed to be quiet and cowed with Black Mask back in Arkham, but you wouldn’t know it from the shipping activity on their side of the docks.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Jason scoffs. “You have a back-up kit?”

They all tended to carry replacement parts for their more fiddly gear. Tim, being the most Oracleish of their cohort-- and also the most tech-savvy-- had an entire soldering kit on him or Jason would eat his boot.

“Yes, of course.” Tim says, waspish. “But I don’t need it. I can find this screw.”

“This specific tiny screw.” Jason parrots, amused.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Yeah, okay.

Jason feels the tension fall completely out of his shoulders. Babyest bird is not feeling unsafe, right now; Tim doesn’t get this bitchy around people unless he trusts them.

Random civilians and corporate fuckwits, they get soft-spoken, laughing Timothy Drake. Anyone Tim’s not quite comfortable with-- people he has to impress, like the Justice League-- get the world’s most perfect and efficient Robin. Seriously, it’s terrifying. He wears his competency like a sword and doesn’t bother with a shield.

So, a snarky Tim-- a Tim who lashes out, without regard for if he’ll be hit back-- is a trusting Tim. A comfortable Tim.

“I’m just sayin.” Jason lets a grin surface on his face, in his voice. He wiggles his fingers. Then, actually being helpful: “Hey, maybe try a light?”

“Ugh. Good idea.” Tim flicks on a pen light with careless efficiency, apparently from part of his glove. What the hell.

The light catches on the moist pebbles and occasional shallow puddle, but it does its job; the glint from the tiny screw is enough to find it, and Tim swoops it up with a triumphant sound.

“Ridiculous.” Jason snorts.

Tim pulls a face.

“I don’t want to hear it from you, Mr. My Peripheral Vision Doesn’t Matter as Much As My Aesthetics. At least I can see.”

“The hood had an HUD!” Jason protests, knee-jerk. “I don’t even wear it that much anymore.”

He gestures to his own domino, as bright a red as the bat on his chest.

“Mm, yeah, you definitely didn’t keep wearing it to be petty for, oh, six months.” A snarky little grin, edging into smirk territory.

Jason looks forward to a year from now, where he can not only move openly around Tim, but also smack him playfully. They aren’t there yet-- not like how he can slug Dick in the shoulder as hard as he wants-- but Jason can see it on the horizon.

Instead, he snorts.

“Oh, I know you’re not calling me petty.” He points out, amused.

Tim’s face stops briefly on suspicion before going directly to offended.

“I’m not petty!” He denies. “I’ve never done anything petty in my entire life, ever.”

“That’s a lie,” Jason laughs. “I saw you put decaf coffee into Dick’s stash.”

“That’s for his health.” Tim claims, boldly. “I’m doing him a favor.”

“Yeah, and the fact that you ferried the actual caffeinated coffee you stole into your stash has nothing to do with it.”

“I’m not going to waste it, Jason!” Tim puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense. “If I replace it wholescale, he’d notice, so I switch out a cup at a time.”

“Right.” Jason grins. “And the little fucker who’s stolen all the “R” shaped keys off every keyboard I’ve bought for my safehouses?”

Tim flushed bright red.

“You can’t prove that was me.” He says, immediately, which in their line of work is basically a confession. Also; he knows better than to challenge another detective like that!

Jason starts counting on his fingers.

“Well, it wasn’t me. That’s one Robin out.” And he ignores the pang that claiming that name will always bring him.

“Damian could have done it. He’s a bitch like that.”

Jason tips his head back and laughed.

“You’re more of a bitch. You’ve made bitchiness into an art form.” And he threw Damian under the bus without hesitation, goddamn.

“Dick was a Robin. Just saying.” Tim points out. Yeah, like saying water is fucking wet. Dick wasn’t a Robin, he was the Robin. He was Robin, full stop.

Jason just stares.

“Dick is the only one of us who never stole Robin.” He points out. “And in fact stealing the suit seems to be a right of passage, at this point.”

It doesn’t occur to him that he’s wandering into the biggest trigger between them-- what had been Jason’s biggest trigger, as the furious Red Hood-- until he’s already said it. Fortunately, Tim goes in another direction-- passing the buck down the line, as it were.

“Damian didn’t steal shit.” He huffs, still sour. “Dick gave him that suit right from under me. At least I had to break in and take it.”

He looks up then, apparently sensing the same thing Jason had.

“Oh, uh. I’d say sorry about that, by the way, but you... weren’t using it at the time.” Tim’s face twisted. “Oh, god. No, not that. I’m going to stick with the actual answer that Bruce was going off the fucking deep end at the time and Dick wouldn’t do it.”

Jason just stares.

Tim groans and covers his face with his hands. Jason starts laughing.

“Shut up.” Tim says, but it sounds more like a complaint. Jason laughs harder.

“I can’t hear you, I’m putting the screw back in.” Tim very loudly-- with exaggerating arm gestures-- begins fixing his scope, pointed out the warehouse across from them.

“That doesn’t occupy your ears, Baby Bird.”

“I can’t hear you!” Tim repeats, louder. “I can’t multitask, everyone knows that. Hang on, I’m almost done.”

By the time he sits back, triumphant with his success now that Jason is no longer laughing at his expense, the foot traffic has mostly died down. He points the newly-repaired lens to the beginning of the street.

“I think we’ve got enough for facial recognition.” Tim murmurs, mind back on the business, watching their marks walk up the long, long road in front of the warehouse.

Smile, assholes, you’re on camera.

“Never a good thing when they have this many new contacts.” Jason agrees, eyes tracking the unfamiliar faces who have no business in this part of town.

He brings his own piece up-- yes, designed after the Hood’s perfectly respectable HUD, alright-- to track even more information. Vitals, infrared, even what kind of heat they’re packing.

“Here, look at this.” He offers the binoculars to Tim, who reaches out automatically. Just before they settle in his palm, Jason thinks better of it. He dangles them a foot above Tim’s reach-- not hard, since Tim is almost all the way on the ground looking through his scope, and pretty short anyway.

“Jason.” He complains, not looking away from his lens.

“Since, you know, I’m not using them.”

Tim blanches. Then flushes, hard. He brings a gauntlet up to cover his face again. Low, muffled, his voice sounds out:

“I’m never going to live this down. You should have killed me at Titan Tower.”

It’s like cold water over Jason’s entire body. The arm holding the binoculars falls limp at his side.

“Fuck that.” Jason snarls, and he shouldn’t-- he can’t-- be this angry around Tim, but the smaller Robin doesn’t flinch or even rear back. He just blinks in surprise. Fuck.

“Jason.” Tim says, humor falling all the way away, but Jason-- can’t. He takes a deep breath and turns away.

“Don’t say that kind of shit.” He finally manages, wrestling with the full body horror and memory of Tim’s bones breaking, the glee he felt. Sick, vicious glee.

“Jason. I know that.” Stilted, but not afraid. This, too, is an honest Tim-- the Tim that doesn’t have the right words to say, but doesn’t pause to find perfect ones, afraid of messing up. A trusting Tim.

Jason takes another deep breath and lets him finish.

“I know you weren’t in your right mind. I don’t... hold it against you. Anymore.” Tim manages. And, fuck, is babyest bird seriously trying to fucking apologize? To Jason?

“Are you really trying to apologize for me almost beating you to death?” He asks, flatly. “Just checking. Because that’s insane, Tim.”

Tim bites his lip. Ah, not good. Almost a flinch, but a social one.

“I’m apologizing for bringing it up.” His hands absently hits record on the scope, giving more attention to Jason. “I know you’re... Damn, Jay, I know it fucks with you, alright? Having to remember it.”

“You have to remember it!” Jason says, throwing up both hands-- which, fuck. But Tim doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as lean away from the wild limbs.

“I’ve had worse.” Tim points out, almost-- fuck, distracted, almost as an aside, as a faint beep comes from the scope and he looks down at it. “Honestly...it was a long time ago, Jay. We’re good.”

“We’re good.” Jason repeats in disbelief, remembering the sharp crack of bone. His voice is hoarse.

The worst part is, he wants it to be true. He wants them to be good, wants that easy camaraderie years into the future. Wants to have so many good times between them that they can barely remember the bad.

Then he twinges onto the other half of that sentiment, and wants to shake Tim.

“Wait, you’ve had worse? From me?”

He knew that to be true, of course. Even in the depths of his rage, finding out the little Robin whose throat he casually slit hadn’t been wearing a gorget--because he was allergic to the material and Bruce hadn’t yet synthesized a replacement-- had almost made him physically ill. He’d still been deluding himself, at the time, that he was perfectly in control. That he had chosen every act of violence, that he was being purposeful.

That fuck-up had been one of his first wake up calls that he really, really wasn’t. Even if it was a ‘reasonable’ assumption, he still should have fucking checked. Detectives do their homework, and so what if Dick had worn a gorget, for most of his time out, and so had Jason.

He knew the Robin suit was deceptively well-armored; it only looked like you were defenseless. Shit, even the bare legs were a taunt and a trap; Bruce damn well taught them to defend hits there, and any that got through were still safer than cuts or shots to the torso or head.

So he’d nearly killed Tim with what should have been, if not a love tap, then a mere threat to Bruce and not a serious attempt on Tim’s life. He’d excused the purposeful attempts, of course. At the time, it was only the accidents that bothered Jason-- the perceived lack of control.

He’d shot Tim. He’d snuck into a place where he was supposed to be safe, his home away from home-- and yes, Jason had been bitter at the time that Bruce never allowed him a team, fearful it would turn his second Robin’s head as it did the first’s-- and beat the shit out of him.

And yet something about the way Tim said that he’d had worse...

“From me, right? The other times?” Jason demands. “What do you mean, you’ve had worse?”

Tim makes a caught little sound in his throat, visibly unhappy. His eyes cut to the side.

“Do we have to do this?” He asks plaintively. “It’s not important.”

Not important.

For the first time since conquering the Pit madness, Jason’s vision hazes over a different color. Fear grips him by the throat, almost choking out the anger, but only for a second, because it’s not green that takes him.

He sees red.

Teeth grit, fists clenched so hard he fears he’ll drawl blood, Jason has to fucking count to calm himself down enough to speak. He will not shout at Tim. He will not swing at Tim.

He wants to throttle him, though. Urrgh.

“Jason?” Tim asks, quietly. Concerned. Not afraid. Not scared. Not timid. Leaning towards him, even. As though convinced he’s in no danger at all.

For the first time, Jason wonders if all their so-called progress is just Tim’s distinct lack of self preservation.

Maybe his little brother is too stupid to be afraid.

No, that’s not fair. Tim’s a genius.

He’s just also an idiot.

Jason, in a fit of masochism, had read the kid’s medical file. He’d needed to know every bit of damage he’d done that he could never undo. Since then, he’s familiarized the files of all birds and bird-related bats. Having a working knowledge of what everyone’s got going on-- like, say, allergies to gorget material or their blood types-- is mission goddamn essential in Gotham.

He’s never seen anything about the kid being hurt worse. Which means, of course, not only did the kid not think it was worth mentioning, he went out of his way to hide it. Jason thinks of Tim’s clipped little reports, the bare bones essentials accounting of his own fights with Ra’s Al Ghul, and comes to a conclusion he doesn’t think he likes.

“You--” Jason clears his throat, modulates his tone. He wants to grab Tim by the shoulders, but he can’t. He won’t. Instead he looks across the rooftop and to hell with whatever mission they’ve got going on.

“You listen to me, because I’m only going to say this once.” He manages to keep the growl out, but his voice is deep. Serious. It’s also a boldfaced goddamn lie; he’ll say this as many times as he needs to.

Tim leans in, eyes shocked wide and young beneath his domino. But not scared; still not scared. Good. Jason exhales slowly, maintains that eye contact.

“It was so, so fucked up-- all the things I did to you. I regret them. I’m sorry. But not because I was out of control, and mad with rage. That’s not the part that bothers me.”

Well, not the majority of it.

“Then... what?” Tim’s voice was small. Quiet. But curious and unafraid.

“You, Baby Bird. I could have killed you. I did, in fact, hurt you. That’s the horrible part. You could have died.”

“But, I’m just...” Tim snaps his mouth shut tightly, looking away. He looks haunted, like he’d said exactly what he didn’t mean to. And yep, that’s it for Jason, because fuck all of this.

He’s up and moving before he can even think not to walk like the juggernaut he is, but maybe it is soon enough, close enough to that future, because Tim just watches him with big blinking eyes, waiting to see what he’ll do.

He trusts Jason not to hurt him.

Fuck, but that’s good, so Jason doesn’t hesitate as he yanks his brother into a fierce hug. Better than wringing his scrawny neck, anyway, though it’s not off the table.

Jason wants to shake him.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re...” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jason forces his voice out around a tight throat. “You’re my brother and I love you. Shit. Your life matters. You matter. I’m so fucking glad you’re alive.”

Tim starts shaking in his arms, but Jason just holds him tighter. It occurs to him that perhaps, somehow, with the shitty way he’s grown up-- shittier, in its own way, than Jason’s own miserable adolescence-- that maybe nobody’s told him this before.

That some of this cavalier disregard for his own importance in their lives-- right from the beginning, when he, an untrained little kid, put on the suit and risked his life because Bruce needed him-- came from having never been told.

Well, Jason would tell him. Jason would tell him a thousand fucking times, if he had to.

He’d show him, too.

It was lucky they were recording the stakeout, because Jason couldn’t be fucked to care about anything for the rest of the night. Oh, they stayed up on that rooftop-- they didn’t leave until dawn, in fact-- but they talked about things more important than the mobsters at the docks.

And two months later, when Jason Todd had been publicly, ‘miraculously returned from his own staged death that was actually a kidnapping’, when he found a copy of his death certificate marked RESCINDED, left out on the kitchen table,Jason knew exactly who to blame for what he saw.

He threw his head back and laughed.

JASON PETE TODD was spelled loudly and in bold on the documents, but it wasn’t a typo. Oh, no.

Tim had stolen the R from his middle name.

-

This fic has been converted for free using AOYeet!

[mangoisms]

I know if diet coke was real in dc tim drake would be a diet coke addict, I know it in my heart

😭😭😭😭 HE WOULD!!! he would be one of those people help 😭 or coke zero??