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Tim doesn’t expect much anymore. Not on days like this.
There’s a part of him—buried deep, cold as old marble—that once did. Once hoped, once clung. But expectation is just disappointment waiting to happen, and Tim’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.
He wakes up at 5:17 AM. Not because he needs to. Just because his body doesn’t let him sleep in. He blinks against the dim glow of the Gotham skyline outside his window, rolls out of bed, and goes about the motions. Coffee. Email. Security sweep. More coffee. No texts.
Not even a “hey” from Steph.
He doesn’t let himself care.
It’s not like they owe him anything. Bruce is neck-deep in Wayne Enterprises negotiations. Dick’s with the Titans. Damian is probably pretending the concept of birthdays is beneath him. And Jason—Tim doesn’t know. He never knows with Jason.
Still, there’s a flicker in his chest, a traitorous thing that hoped someone—anyone—would remember.
He scrolls through his calendar. There it is. A neat little reminder from himself.
“T’s Birthday – don’t schedule anything.”
He huffs out a laugh. That version of Tim—organised, optimistic, still leaving himself room to breathe—feels miles away now.
By noon, he’s working. He’s not sure if he ever stopped. His monitor glows with city surveillance feeds and case files he’s not assigned to but still tracks, because someone has to. His burrito is still frozen. He hasn’t eaten.
It’s fine.
At 3:42 PM, he checks his messages again. Still nothing. The ache in his chest is dull, but persistent—like pressing on a bruise.
He sends Bruce a status update. No mention of the date. Just logistics. He almost types, “Hope things are going well.” He deletes it.
At 5:03 PM, there’s a knock at the door.
Tim startles.
No one knocks. His building has security. He’s not on any food delivery apps. No patrol tonight.
Cautious now, he taps into the apartment cameras and—
Stops.
Jason Todd. Standing at his door. Leather jacket. Paper bag in one hand, six-pack in the other. Looking tired but steady.
Tim hesitates.
He hasn’t seen Jason in almost two weeks. Not since that stakeout on the Narrows, where they barely talked and didn’t look at each other longer than necessary.
Why would Jason be—
He opens the door.
Jason raises an eyebrow. “Took you long enough.”
Tim stares. “What are you doing here?”
Jason holds up the bag. “Figured you’d be working through your birthday. Brought dinner.”
Silence.
Tim can’t breathe. Not fully.
“You—” he starts, but the words stick. “You remembered?”
Jason scoffs, pushing past him into the apartment like he belongs there. “Of course I remembered. What, you think I got brain damage twice?”
Tim doesn’t know what to say. He just stands there. Because someone remembered. Jason remembered.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Jason sets the bag down on Tim’s cluttered kitchen counter without asking.
“Chicken tikka masala,” he says, unpacking the containers with casual precision. “Extra naan. You still drown everything in garlic sauce?”
Tim nods numbly from the doorway.
Jason glances over, brow furrowing. “You okay?”
It’s such a simple question. Casual. But it lands harder than it should.
Tim closes the door and leans against it. “Everyone forgot.”
Jason looks up sharply.
Tim doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe because it’s Jason. Maybe because he’s tired of pretending it doesn’t matter.
“I didn’t remind anyone,” he adds quickly, too quickly. “It’s not like I posted it anywhere. I didn’t expect—”
Jason snorts. “Bullshit.”
Tim bristles. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t remind anyone because you wanted to see who would remember without being told,” Jason says, unwrapping silverware like it’s just another Tuesday. “That’s not a test, by the way. It’s basic emotional math. You get tired of being the only one who keeps track of everything, and one day you stop. Just to see if anyone’s watching.”
He says it with zero judgment. Just fact.
Tim stares.
“Been there,” Jason says more softly, avoiding his eyes. “A couple times.”
The silence between them stretches, but it isn’t empty. It’s full of static. Memory. A thousand things neither of them says aloud.
Jason finally gestures to the table. “Come eat before this gets cold.”
Tim doesn’t move. “Why’d you come?”
Jason blinks, confused. “Because it’s your birthday.”
“Yeah, but—” Tim huffs. “We’re not… close.”
Jason tilts his head. “Aren’t we?”
Tim opens his mouth. Closes it. He doesn’t know the answer.
They’ve been circling each other for months. Silent rooftop conversations. Tense missions. A weirdly long hug after a hospital recovery. But they never defined it. Never dared.
Jason sees something in Tim’s expression, because he softens.
“I didn’t come for cake,” Jason says. “Didn’t come for closure either. I came because I knew no one else would. Because you always show up for everyone else, and I figured maybe—just once—someone should show up for you.”
Tim’s heart stutters.
Jason steps closer, holding out a to-go container like a peace offering. “Come eat, birthday boy.”
And this time, Tim follows.
They sit at the table in silence for a while. The food is good. Better than expected. It tastes even better when Tim realises he’s not eating alone.
Halfway through the meal, Jason glances at him.
“I brought something else too.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, wrapped box. It’s not neat—wrinkled paper, crooked tape—but it’s real.
Tim stares.
“I didn’t have time to get something fancy,” Jason says. “But I figured… You might like it.”
Tim opens it carefully.
Inside is a weathered, leatherbound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. First edition. It’s been read a hundred times, maybe more. Pages soft with age. A faint scribble inside the front cover: “J.T.”
Tim’s throat closes. “Jason… this is yours.”
Jason shrugs one shoulder. “Not anymore.”
Tim holds the book like it’s sacred. “Why would you give me this?”
Jason looks at him. Really looks at him.
“Because it’s about survival. About coming back from the dead and figuring out who you are without the people who were supposed to love you.” He pauses. “Felt like something you’d understand.”
Tim has no words.
And when Jason says, “Happy birthday, Tim,” it’s quiet. Honest. No teasing in sight.
Just truth.
Tim doesn’t cry. But something breaks open inside him.
It’s not the book. Not the food. Not even Jason’s arrival.
It’s the way Jason sees him.
Quietly. Clearly. Like he’s not a ghost in the room.
They’re sitting on Tim’s couch now, the remains of dinner stacked on the coffee table. The book rests in Tim’s lap like a tether. Jason leans back, arms sprawled across the cushions, legs stretched out.
Comfortable. At home.
Tim’s fingers skim the worn leather cover again.
“You really loved this book,” he murmurs. “Didn’t you?”
Jason hums. “Still do. But you need it more than I do now.”
Tim glances over. “Why?”
Jason turns to him, one arm shifting so their knees almost touch. “Because you deserve something that proves people survive. That they come back.”
He says it so simply.
Tim laughs under his breath. “You talk like I’m the one who died.”
Jason looks at him then, really looks. “You didn’t. But I think sometimes you feel like you did.”
The words hit too deep. Too fast.
Tim tries to swallow it down. “You didn’t have to come tonight.”
“I know I didn’t have to,” Jason says. “I wanted to.”
Tim blinks.
“And before you say anything else,” Jason continues, shifting to face him, “this wasn’t pity. I didn’t show up because I felt bad. I showed up because if one more year passed where no one remembered your birthday, I was going to lose my damn mind.”
There’s a roughness to his voice now. Not anger. Emotion.
“I watched you for weeks,” Jason says. “Running yourself into the ground. Managing the Batcomputer. Patrolling alone. Solving cases no one even thanked you for. And I kept thinking—if no one tells you you matter, maybe you’ll stop believing it.”
Tim’s breath catches.
Jason leans forward, just slightly. “So yeah. I brought food. I brought beer. I brought you a beat-up book because I didn’t know how else to say—you’re not invisible to me, Tim. You never were.”
Silence.
Tim is frozen.
Jason exhales. “Too much?”
“No,” Tim says, voice tight. “Not enough.”
Jason startles. “What?”
“You keep doing that,” Tim says. “Saying exactly what I needed to hear, like it’s no big deal. And I don’t know how to handle it.”
Jason smiles. Small. Vulnerable. “You don’t have to. Just… let me be here. That’s all I’m asking.”
Tim stares at him for a long, quiet moment.
Then, almost shyly, “You said this was Plan B.”
Jason nods. “Plan A was beer and distraction. Avoid the feelings. Maybe play some Mario Kart. Let you win.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “Let me?”
Jason grins. “Okay, try to let you.”
A beat.
“And Plan B?” Tim asks.
Jason hesitates. “Spoil you so hard you never forget someone showed up.”
Their eyes meet.
Something shifts in the air.
Jason looks away first, the tip of his ear turning pink. “Too cheesy?”
Tim doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans forward—slow, deliberate—and presses their foreheads together.
Jason freezes.
“I didn’t think anyone would show up today,” Tim whispers.
Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.
“But you did,” Tim continues. “You always do. Quietly. Consistently. I notice, Jason.”
Jason’s voice is a rasp. “Yeah?”
Tim pulls back just enough to meet his eyes. “Yeah.”
Jason’s lips part.
And that’s when Tim kisses him.
The kiss is soft. Measured.
Tim is the one who initiates it—but Jason’s the one who melts.
His breath hitches against Tim’s lips, hands twitching where they’re braced on the couch. He doesn’t push forward. Doesn’t pull away. He just—lets it happen.
And that, more than anything, breaks Tim’s heart a little.
He cups Jason’s jaw, thumb brushing the faint line of a scar there. “You okay?”
Jason exhales shakily. “Yeah. Just—processing.”
Tim waits. He’s good at waiting.
Finally, Jason says, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
“You sure it’s not just the birthday blues talking?”
Tim smiles faintly. “I think I’ve wanted to kiss you since you fixed my shoulder in the safehouse and grumbled about how ‘nobody listens to Red Hood’s field notes.’”
Jason groans. “That was not my most romantic moment.”
“It kind of was,” Tim admits. “You were the only one who noticed I was injured. Again.”
Jason's cheeks flush. “Okay, well. I notice a lot of things about you, Drake.”
“I know,” Tim says. “That’s why I trust you.”
Jason’s mouth parts slightly, eyes softening.
Tim leans in again, and this time the kiss deepens—slow but hungry. There’s heat now. Tension that’s been simmering under every unspoken moment finally bubbling over.
Jason tilts his head, lets Tim guide the rhythm. His hands come up, one curling loosely into the back of Tim’s sweatshirt, the other resting lightly on his knee.
When Tim pulls back, they’re both breathing harder.
“You wanna stop?” he asks.
Jason swallows. “No. Just—don’t rush.”
“I won’t,” Tim promises, brushing his thumb over Jason’s lower lip. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
Jason blinks. “I’ve had exactly zero healthy relationships. But I’ve spent enough time thinking about this one to know I want it.”
Tim stills. “You’ve thought about this?”
Jason nods slowly. “More than I probably should’ve.”
A beat. Then:
“Good,” Tim says, voice low. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He kisses him again, and Jason opens up under him—quiet and pliant, like no one’s ever kissed him just to make him feel safe.
Tim doesn’t push. He kisses Jason until the tension bleeds from his shoulders, until Jason’s breath goes warm and heavy against his cheek.
They shift, slow and hesitant, until Jason’s lying back and Tim is above him. Their legs tangle. The couch is too small, too narrow, too perfect. Jason’s jacket ends up on the floor. Tim’s fingers slip under his shirt, spreading warmth across scarred skin.
Jason trembles a little, and Tim stills.
“You want me to stop?” he murmurs.
Jason shakes his head, breathless. “No. Just—talk to me. Please.”
Tim lowers his mouth to Jason’s ear. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “You always have been. Even when you were hiding. Even when you didn’t want anyone to look.”
Jason exhales like the words hit something fragile in him.
Tim keeps going. “You don’t have to be strong right now. You don’t have to fight. You can just… be. I’ve got you.”
Jason lets out a sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a laugh.
When Tim presses gentle kisses down Jason’s throat, slow and reverent, Jason shudders. His fingers dig into Tim’s back, not to pull away—but to hold on.
They move together like a secret. Not hurried. Not frantic. Just right.
Jason lets Tim take his time. Lets himself be touched like he matters. Like someone sees every broken edge and wants them all anyway.
And when Tim finally guides him over that edge, Jason comes apart with a soft, breathless sound—head thrown back, lips parted, hands gripping Tim like he’s the only steady thing left in the world.
After, they lie tangled together in quiet.
Tim strokes Jason’s hair where it curls against his temple. “Still okay?”
Jason hums, voice hoarse. “More than okay.”
Tim presses a kiss to his forehead. “Happy birthday to me.”
Jason laughs, quiet and real. “Yeah. You earned this one.”
7:16 AM. The Batfamily group chat. The morning after Tim’s birthday.
[Group Chat: 🦇🔪 Dysfunctional But Make It Tactical]
Jason:
I hope you all had a really restful night.
Dick:
…uh oh
Steph (Spoiler):
why do i feel like i’m about to be punched in the soul
Jason:
Because you ARE. All of you. Every single one of you.
Babs (Oracle):
Okay, wow. What did we do?
Jason:
YESTERDAY.
Tim’s birthday.
You forgot.
Damian (Robin):
Tt. That was yesterday?
Jason:
Yes, demon spawn.
The day you owe your life to because Tim didn’t give up on you.
The day you all forgot, except me, which is why I’m currently in his bed, and the rest of you are on my list.
Bruce (Batman):
…I was in meetings.
Jason:
I swear to god, Bruce.
If you say "Wayne Enterprises" one more time I’m going to mail you Tim’s psychological profile annotated with red ink and a pipe bomb.
Dick:
Okay. That feels excessive.
Jason:
Does it? Does it, Richard?
Steph:
Can confirm he’s using the “full name = murder imminent” tone.
Jason:
He worked through his birthday. Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t expect anything.
Didn’t ask for anything.
And NONE OF YOU THOUGHT TO CHECK THE DATE?
Babs:
…I genuinely forgot.
No excuse. That’s on me.
Jason:
You're lucky you're not within stabbing distance.
Damian:
…I will prepare a formal apology. With calligraphy.
Jason:
Good. I want guilt on parchment.
Bruce:
I’ll speak to him today. Make it right.
Jason:
You don’t get to make it right, Bruce.
You get to be better. All of you.
Dick:
He with you now?
Jason:
Yeah.
Sleeping.
Finally.
Steph:
You stayed over??
Jason:
He deserves someone who remembers. Who stays.
If that’s not gonna be any of you, I guess it’s me.
Babs:
Jason…
Thank you.
Jason:
Don’t thank me. Just show up next time.
Jason (edited):
Or I will set the Batcave on fire with all of you inside. 💖
Tim wakes up the next morning tangled in warm limbs and the soft weight of Jason’s arm slung over his waist.
It takes a moment for it to register that it’s real. That he isn’t dreaming. That someone stayed.
Jason mumbles something half-coherent and tucks his face into Tim’s shoulder like a sleep-heavy cat. Tim almost laughs.
Almost.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
He stretches for it carefully, trying not to disturb Jason.
Six new texts.
One from Dick:
“Hey, just realised we missed your birthday?? Please tell me this is a glitch in the Batcomputer calendar?”
One from Babs:
“Oh god. I forgot. I never forget. I am so sorry. How do I grovel?”
One from Bruce:
“We should talk. I… didn’t realise the date.”
Tim stares at the screen.
He doesn’t reply.
Jason stirs behind him. “They remember now?”
“Yeah,” Tim says, setting the phone face down. “They do.”
Jason props himself up on one elbow, eyes bleary. “You okay?”
Tim smiles faintly. “I think I am.”
Later that day, he finds himself back at the Manor—not because he wants to be, but because Bruce insisted.
The whole family is there, awkwardly gathered in the kitchen. Dick looks vaguely panicked. Babs has flowers. Damian is pretending to be above this entire scenario.
Bruce is the first to speak.
“Tim,” he says, hands folded in front of him. “I owe you an apology.”
Tim nods once. “Yeah. You do.”
Bruce actually flinches. “No excuse will make it better. I… forgot something important. That’s on me.”
“You all did,” Tim says. “And I’m not angry, exactly. I just—stopped reminding people. And no one noticed. That’s what hurt.”
Dick steps forward, guilt all over his face. “We suck. Seriously. I have no excuse either. I just… dropped the ball.”
“I’ll accept grovelling,” Tim says dryly.
Steph throws her arms around him. “We’re the worst. You’re allowed to be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Tim says softly. “Not anymore.”
Jason appears at the doorway behind him, arms crossed, calm as anything.
Dick does a double-take. “Wait. You were with him last night?”
Jason smirks. “Someone had to show up.”
The silence is immediate.
Then Damian huffs. “You spent the night with Todd?”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
Jason leans casually against the doorframe. “I even brought food.”
“Wait,” Steph interrupts, eyes narrowing. “Is that why you were smiling on the way in here? Tim. You never smile at 10 AM.”
“I do when someone remembers my birthday,” Tim replies, stepping closer to Jason. Their shoulders brush.
Babs smiles slowly. “Huh. Well, I guess we know who gets the ‘Best Brother’ mug this year.”
Jason snorts. “Pass. I’m allergic to ceramic clichés.”
Bruce clears his throat. “You’re happy?” he asks, voice lower now.
Tim meets his eyes. “I am.”
And for the first time in a long time, he means it.
Later, as they leave, Jason nudges Tim’s shoulder. “You sure you’re good?”
Tim nods. “You remembered. That made it matter.”
Jason grins. “Yeah, well. Don’t expect me to stop spoiling you now.”
Tim smirks. “That a promise?”
Jason leans in. “You bet your ass.”
The first thing Tim notices is the quiet.
No distant Batcomms. No buzzing WayneTech alerts. Just the warm hush of Jason’s apartment and the weight of a slow morning.
They’re on the couch again—Jason curled up against him with a blanket wrapped around both their shoulders. The TV plays some half-watched black-and-white movie neither of them bothered to name.
Jason’s head rests on Tim’s chest.
It feels like peace.
“You always been a cuddler?” Tim murmurs, brushing his fingers through Jason’s hair.
Jason grunts. “Don’t out me like this.”
“I’m just saying,” Tim says. “You slept like a barnacle last night.”
Jason lifts his head slightly. “Barnacle? Rude.”
Tim smiles. “You literally wrapped your leg around me like a seatbelt.”
Jason doesn’t argue. Just sinks back down. “Not my fault you’re warm.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a quieter, almost shy voice:
“Thanks for letting me stay.”
Tim’s heart aches.
“You didn’t just stay,” he says. “You showed up. When no one else did.”
Jason shifts, looking up at him. “I meant what I said, you know. I notice things. About you.”
Tim’s throat tightens. “Like what?”
Jason shrugs, playing it off—but his voice is soft. “You keep a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans in the third drawer down, hidden under your spare chargers. You never sleep without one foot sticking out of the blanket. You chew your bottom lip when you’re trying not to say something. And…”
He pauses.
Tim waits.
Jason’s gaze holds his. “You always act like remembering you is optional. Like you’re extra. But you’re not. You’re the whole damn reason half of us are still alive.”
Tim can’t speak.
Jason leans in and presses a kiss to his jaw. “So yeah. I remembered. And I’ll remember every year. Because you’re not forgettable, Tim. You never were.”
Tim closes his eyes, overwhelmed. “You always say exactly what I need.”
Jason smirks against his skin. “That’s because I listen. Someone has to.”
Tim chuckles. “You’re dangerous when you get like this.”
Jason raises a brow. “Like what?”
“Sweet. Present. Stable.”
“Guess you bring it out in me,” Jason murmurs.
They stay like that for a long time—Tim holding him, Jason tucked in like he belongs there.
And maybe he does.
Later, when Tim finally checks his phone again, he scrolls past a hundred belated birthday messages and guilt-laden memes. He doesn’t open any of them.
But he does save one.
Jason’s message, sent at midnight the night before:
“Happy birthday, Replacement. You don’t have to be alone tonight. Open your door.”
Tim smiles to himself and replies:
“Next year, don’t even knock. Just come in.”
A second later, Jason texts back:
“Deal. But I’m bringing better beer.”
Tim leans back, closes his eyes, and breathes in slow.
He may have been forgotten for a moment.
But Jason?
Jason was right on time.