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violetsmoak · 5 years

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Philtatos [6/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47723155

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: Mature (for like one thing this chapter)

Beta Reader: None at the moment, but if anyone’s interested, message me through Tumblr.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #art #jealousy #reincarnation #secrets #undying love

Author's Note(s): Chapters are all still unbeta'ed, but I'm hoping that will soon be fixed :)

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Tim leaves the Cave and collects his bike and gear, preoccupied with conflicting thoughts.

On the one hand, he wants Jason spared as much discomfort as possible, but on the other, the possibility of him never waking up again makes his heart clench. Temporary or not, it’s still killing Jason, and there’s a reason why everyone is so reluctant to do that.

The fallout from his death the first time still haunts them all today. Still influences the Mission.

And either way, whether we use Diana’s cure or not, it all comes back to finding Eros’ arrows, right?

And speaking of Eros…

Tim returns to the Nest and the sight of the Olympian sprawled against his cot, completely naked and his own hand busily moving up and down his very erect dick.

“Oh my god what the hell,” Tim chokes, whirling around to avoid the sight.

“Fuck,” is the reply he gets, breathless and more irritated than anything else. “You…had to walk in now? Come back in…like…ten minutes.”

“I’m not leaving my own—” The distracting sound of heavy panting and the wet slide of skin on skin interrupt him. “I’m standing right here, stop it!”

“Not really much incentive,” Eros sniggers.

Tim scrambles over to his computer console, trying to block out the sounds, and punches in the code to activate the fire safety system. There’s a sputtering sound as the sprinkler in the ceiling sets off, followed by a shriek of surprise.

“What the hell, man?” Eros yelps, trying to scuttle away from the cold spray.

“Pants,” Tim bites out. “Now.”

“Okay, okay, geeze!”

There’s the rustle of jeans being dragged on, along with a great deal of cursing in more languages than Tim can recognize. Deeming it to be safe, Tim turns off the sprinkler and turns to face his unwanted houseguest, who’s glaring at him as if he wants to set him on fire.

“I can’t believe you did that. What happened to respecting guy-time?”

“There is no guy-time while you’re here,” Tim growls. “It’s enough I have to deal with your attitude, I’m not listening to sex noises. Or watching you get off.”

“Not something you’re into?” Eros questions. “I bet if I was 6’2” and with muscles like Thor, you’d be singing a different tune, darlin’.”

Don’t bet on it.

Eros’ personality aside, Tim’s never really had a taste for men. He considers himself open in terms of preferences, but until Jason, there’s never been any guy he’s ever thought about that way.

He clenches his fists.

Jason.

“Why didn’t you say anything about Stygian Sleep?” he demands, desperate to reroute this conversation pronto.

Eros snorts and rolls his eyes. “Of course someone brought that shit up. I’ll tell you why—because it’s a cure that’s as bad as the disease. Worse maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean its price is steep and I didn’t think you’d be willing to pay it. I was saving time.”

“What did we say about not sharing all the information?” Tim snaps, and then pauses as something occurs to him. “Wait. Is that price the reason you couldn’t help your wife?”

It’s been confusing him, since Eros is supposedly a god; you’d think he’d be able to figure out a way to save the life of someone he supposedly loved.

“The Styx is older and more powerful than we are,” Eros replies, his entire demeanor shifting, as if to put distance between himself and the topic. “It has rules that make it pretty much impossible for a soul that’s been bound to it to leave. Only a soul that’s already returned from Hades can make that sacrifice…and it must be of equal value. Soul for soul, you see? God for god, mortal for mortal.”

Tim frowns.

“Put it this way—bodies are like this Zesti container,” the Olympian says, grabbing one of the many empty cans lining his table. “There’s only room for a certain amount of soul. No more.”

“And when Psyche was cursed, she was mortal,” Tim realizes; a beat later, “And you were a god.”

“Exactly.”

For the first time since they met, Tim feels a flicker of sympathy for the Olympian. It doesn’t make up for his generally irritating personality, but no one wants to lose someone they love. It’s especially hard when you know how to save them but are physically unable to do it.

Something else occurs to him.

“If we used the Stygian Sleep on Jason, there wouldn’t be anyone who could bring him back,” Tim realizes.

There’s no shortage of colleagues they know who have been dead, but no one with enough of a connection to Jason to willingly consign themselves to the death for him. And in the Family, the only one that’s actually been dead and come back (Dick doesn’t count, his heart only stopped for a few minutes) is Damian. And there’s no way Bruce, or anyone else, would let him make that sacrifice, even if he were so inclined.

“See?” Eros says. “I was sparing you the pain of a bad option.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Somehow I doubt it was as altruistic as that.”

Which means they’re back to square one, with the only way to save Jason being finding Eros’ diviners.

There’s a hollow pain in Tim’s stomach. Jason’s in trouble because of him. If he hadn’t thrown himself in front of Tim to save him from the gunfire, he wouldn’t have gotten tagged with Eros’ blood.

On the heels of that is the feeling of disgust.

His harmless daydreams of Jason ever liking him in that way have been twisted in mutated into this.

So, Tim dutifully throws himself back into the investigation.

Video-chatting with everyone back at the Cave, they work together on cross-referencing areas where Eros’ robberies took place and the locations where he last sensed his bow.

For two days, it’s just endless sifting through data and ignoring Eros’ increasingly obnoxious behavior and trying not to think about Jason.

Then, at last, there’s a break in the case.

“All these places you robbed,” Tim begins, frowning at his digital murder-board. “They all correspond with instances of murder-suicides. The victims are always a couple that never showed any sign of domestic issues.” He had noticed them earlier in his investigation, but thought they were unrelated. “Wasn’t there something in the stories…your arrows, they can make people fall in love, but that’s not all they do.”

Eros blinks and then his eyes narrow. “The golden tipped ones make people fall in love. The lead-tipped ones make people hate each other with a bitter passion.”

“I’m going to run a search on the victims, see if there are any connections.”

“I can tell you right now there aren’t,” a mechanical voice interrupts, freezing Tim’s screen.

“Oracle,” Tim greets, not even surprised that she’s been listening in.

“Oracle?” Eros repeats. “What is it with you people and muddying the legacies of the great ones? Have you ever even been to Delphi?”

“The only link between the murder victims is they were all newly married,” the flat, digital voice continues, ignoring Eros. “If you widen the net to track murder-suicides during the past month, most of them occur in or around areas where Eros was looking for his bow and arrow. The interesting thing is, though, they all happened before Eros committed his robberies.”

“What?” Tim asks, confused.

“That’s probably what I was sensing,” Eros says, perking up. “If someone’s using the bow and arrow to incite hatred between lovers, that’s what I was drawn to. But if there were more than one death happening in the area, it’s no wonder I couldn’t get a strong trail. It’s like the scent was overlapping too much.”

“Which means whoever took your diviners not only knew what they were taking, but also from who. And how to throw you off their trail.”

Eros’ face is stormy.

“Still no clue who this could be?” Tim asks, and receives no answer in return. “Great. Very helpful. Do you even want to solve this case?”

Oracle interrupts whatever quip the Olympian has prepared. “Red Robin, you might want to return to the Cave.”

“What? Why?”

There’s a sinking sensation in his gut.

“Red Hood isn’t doing well. And Nightwing might be on the verge of convincing Batman that Wonder Woman’s solution is the only option.”

“What? No! I sent them the report of exactly why that’s a bad idea!” Tim snaps, already hurrying toward the garage.

“I know that,” Oracles replies, her voice switching from the screen to his comm. “But if you could see what Hood looks like right now…it might be a kinder end.”

“And what’s Hood’s opinion on this?”

“He’s…not exactly lucid at the moment.”

And now he feels like throwing up. He was sure they had more time! “I’ll be there in ten.”

“I’m blocking any incoming and outgoing transmissions from Wonder Woman, but at some point, they’re going to clue in to that fact. Drive fast.”

The ride is a blur to Tim, whose thoughts race without registering anything beyond a desperate disbelief.

Think! There’s got to be something we can do, something we missed.

As he weaves in and out of the traffic on the bridge to Bristol, he goes over every interaction he’s had with or about Eros and his abilities. Anything that was said, no matter how seemingly insignificant or unrelated.

One idea needles at him, a shadow of an inkling…

He doesn’t bother with the roundabout route this time, tearing into the Cave’s parking area and barely parking the bike before he’s hurrying toward the containment unit. Bruce isn’t there, which is a good sign—he must still be trying to get a hold of Diana; if he were ready to carry out any action for Jason, he would be here with him.

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t!” Tim orders, striding forward.

“Tim,” Dick says, getting up from the chair he’s been occupying beside the unit. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He ignores him, eyes drawn immediately to Jason. The older man is sitting curled in a ball at one end of the glass cage, surrounded by books and papers that look like they’ve been thrown in a fit of rage. He presses the heels of his hands against his temples, and Tim can see the bags under his eyes from here. And the angry red welt around his wrists and neck, like he’s been scratching into his skin.

Tim’s heart lurches.

“I didn’t know he was doing this bad,” he whispers.

Dick sighs. “He hasn’t slept in two days, and we can’t sedate him after what Diana said. It’s like he’s going through withdrawal—fever sweats, hallucinations, throwing up. Which isn’t great because he hasn’t been eating, either.”

And on top of that, he’s probably feeling trapped in that claustrophobic cell.

“He’s deteriorating right in front of us.”

“I know. We’re trying to contact Diana, but—”

“No. Not that. That is not an option.”

“Tim—”

“It would kill him, Dick! There’s no waking him up from it!”

“This is killing him, too! Wouldn’t you rather he didn’t suffer anymore?”

Tim’s fists curl into balls and he glances back at Jason.

He knows he;s is fighting. Bruce’s training and whatever he learned from the League is probably keeping him tethered—even if it’s only looselytethered now—but that’s only a stopgap. Jason looks like he’s on the brink of bashing his head against the glass until he knocks himself unconscious.

The mental image makes Tim recoil.

Jason’s in pain and it’s my fault.

He needs to help him, needs to do something, even if it means tamping down his own inconvenient feelings and letting Jason do…whatever he needs to.

Tim will do it; if it means giving Jason more time, he’ll do it.

Even if the idea of it makes him nauseous because right now Jason isn’t in his right mind and when they fix him, he’s going to hate Tim. But then…he’s hated him before, so at least Tim will know what to expect. And maybe if he’s careful about it…

Something Eros said about the nature of desire comes back to him then, and he considers it alongside what he knows about Jason.

He can’t take it anymore.

Tim strides to the door of the containment unit, ready to input the code. Dick blocks his way.

“You can’t!”

“I have an idea.”

“Then tell me what it is, and I’ll do it.”

“You can’t do anything right now,” Tim replies with a sad smile. “Just trust me, okay?”

Dick is still conflicted, but after a beat, he steps out of the way.

Tim opens the door to the containment area and slips inside, letting it close behind him. Slowly, he approaches Jason, almost the same way he might a wounded animal, moving slowly so as not to spook him.

Jason is shaking his head, backing away from him, and murmuring something to himself. Something foreign sounding, like a grounding chant; swear beads on his forehead.

His eyes are clenched shut, as if he’s trying not to see—either Tim or whatever hallucination has been plaguing him.

“Jason,” Tim says quietly. No response. “Jason, look at me.” Clear blue eyes snap open, locking with Tim’s. “I need you to focus on me, okay? And, uh, don’t punch me.”

He can see the difficulty Jason is having with comprehending right now, but he’s lucid enough to flinch away when Tim reaches for him.

“Tim!” Bruce barks somewhere in the distance, having finally made his appearance.

He ignores him and seeks out Jason’s hand, wrapping his hand around it. Or trying to; the other man’s hand feels huge compared to his.

He gives a fully body shudder at the contact, and then he’s clasping back at Tim as if he’s his lifeline. Something is at war in his eyes, that bit of sanity that tells him Jason’s still there.

“Philtatos,” he whispers, and Tim shivers at the way the strange word rings like a verbal caress.

Tim’s thumb automatically swipes across Jason’s wrist, and skin to skin like this he can feel the frantic beat of his pulse. Too fast for someone that’s been sitting still.

“You’re going to be okay,” Tim tells him. “Remember your training. Just breathe…and focus. Hold as tight as you need to.”

Jason’s breath shudders in a way that suggests he trying to comply.

Tim isn’t sure how long they stay like that, him crouched in front of Jason just holding his hand and murmuring calming words. But at some point, Jason begins to look visibly better. His pulse is returning to normal, the cold sweat on his face is beginning to cool and his breathing evens out.

“What…” Jason begins, eyes unfocused in their exhaustion. “Tim…?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“…shouldn’t be. I might…”

“You won’t,” Tim insists, confident. “It’s like what Eros said when we met him, remember? Desire is not just about…physical attraction. That’s not what you’re fixating on right now, is it?”

Jason shakes his head, slow, though his eyes don’t leave Tim’s face.

And I know what skin hunger looks like, Tim doesn’t add.

Before becoming a Wayne, before Dick and Alfred and Bruce and Steph—no on ever touched Tim in kindness or just casually because they wanted to. He was so touch-starved that for the longest time he flinched whenever Dick tried to hug him, even as he craved it more than anything.

He had been so worried about it seeming creepy to want to be held or hugged by his former mentor that it was, he’d let himself believe he wasn’t worth it. It’s a thought that occasionally comes back to him even now. And Jason…

Well, he wasn’t just starving for food when he was living with an abusive father and a drug addicted mother.

“Fuck, babybird, I’m so tired,” Jason murmurs, and there’s something in his voice like he’s asking permission. Tim feels a grating burn at the back of his throat and a swoop in his stomach.

“Go to sleep,” he says quietly. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

And utterly uncharacteristic of him, Jason listens. He lets Tim lead him back to his cot and sit him down, their hands still clasped, and almost the moment he closes his eyes, he’s passed out.

There’s a lingering heavy silence.

Tim takes one last moment to make sure Jason’s asleep and not about to wake again anytime soon, and in a more level voice remarks, “Could you guys stop gawking like this is a side show?”

Outside the glass, Alfred and Dick watch with bemused expressions; for Bruce, it’s disapproval.

“Uh, Tim?” Dick asks, clearly uncomfortable. “Explain?”

“It’s something Eros said. And Cassie, too,” Tim explains, settling back against the wall beside the cot. He keeps his fingers threaded between Jason’s. “This infection, it capitalizes on feelings that are already there, right? With Jason, his instinct when it comes to physical desire…it’s probably not a sex thing. Not with his background. But there is a touch component; having physical contact with another person—in this case, the object of his fixation.”

Alfred appears impressed. “How could you be sure of that?”

“I…wasn’t.”

But his theories are usually correct, so it balances out, he thinks. Dick and Bruce look like they disagree, though.

“Tim, this was foolish,” Bruce lectures, looming as best he can from the other side of the glass. “This might have gone very differently.”

“But it didn’t. I might not be great reading people, but except for you, I don’t think anyone ever bothered to learn about Jason the way I did.”

“He has a point,” Dick agrees carefully. “He was a persistent little stalker.”

There’s a degree of fondness in the statement.

Tim scowls at him and continues. “Besides, like I said, I know the look.”

Bruce doesn’t seem convinced.

“This is only a temporary solution,” he points out. “It won’t work forever.”

“But it will work for now,” Tim insists. “That’s what matters.”

And there’s really no more arguments against it.

⁂

Of course, Jason complains about it when he wakes up.

“I’m going to lose all my street cred,” he grumbles, shoveling a plate of Alfred’s oatmeal into his mouth with his left hand. The fingers of his right remain interlocked with Tim’s.

Tim makes to pull away. “I can stop—”

“I didn’t say that,” Jason interrupts, tightening his hold on Tim’s hand. He knows Tim has no intention of following through with the thread, but that doesn’t make it easier to look him in the eye.

Since waking up with Tim by his side, Jason’s condition has improved drastically. The color is back in his skin, and he’s entirely lucid if Tim is sitting within his personal space. And, of course, his appetite for actual food as returned.

It doesn’t completely quell the gnawing hunger, but he knows that’s not a physical hunger. There’s not much anyone can do about that until the damned arrows are found.

“I think you’ll eventually be okay to leave the containment for short periods,” Tim tells him, looking thoughtful. “At least if I stay in close quarters.”

“Out of the question,” Bruce interrupts; he’s been looming in the corner with a glare since before Jason woke up.

Oddly enough, I don’t think it’s directed at me this time.

“Definitely not a good idea, Timmy,” Dick adds.

“Why? He deserves to shower in peace and eat and groom and act like a normal human being instead of a quarantine patient,” Tim points out. “It’s not like he’s contagious.”

And, yes, Jason could definitely go for a goddamn shower; the grit on his skin has grit. But almost as soon as he has the thought, another image appears in his mind.

“You planning to shower with me, babybird?” he asks, voice tense as he tries to joke it off, because Tim couldn’t possible mean—?

“What? No!” Tim’s cheeks darken. “I think after another hour or so, you should be alright with light or no contact. And once we reach that point, I can probably sit outside the bathroom or something. If I’m within reach it should be okay. We can test it out.”

“Just what I always wanted, to be a science experiment…”

“No,” Bruce says again. “He might attempt to make a run for it or lash out and hurt someone. You in particular, Tim.”

“It is the whole reason I agreed to come here,” Jason concedes.

“And do you have any intention of going away again?” Tim shoots back, and frowns at Bruce. “At least not voluntarily. Also, the idea of him harming anyone is unlikely, he only reached out for Matt because he was disoriented and mistook him for me.”

“Who?”

“The kid from the alley,” Tim clarifies.

Jason’s stomach churns. “That doesn’t excuse what I almost did.”

“He was fine. He was a little shaken up, but I made sure he knows it wasn’t you. That you’re not like that,” Tim assures him, and refocuses on Bruce again. “There’s no one here he can do that with because he knows us all. If that weren’t the case, he would probably have gotten upset at the fact Damian’s been here for the past hour.”

In the shadows, Damian scoffs at being caught. “It’s not like I was hiding.”

And Tim…has a point there. Not sure if it’s because he’s sitting here with me or not, but now that I think about it, the past two days I couldn’t care less about Damian being here.

That’s actually a relief. So he’s not going to become a creeper to anyone that passably resembles Tim. Just Tim.

Okay, maybe relief isn’t the right word.

“As for trying to hurt me, I doubt he’d be capable of doing that in his current state,” Tim concludes. “Besides, I know how to defend myself. The fact that you don’t think I can do that much is a bit insulting.”

Jason can’t help the snort of laughter at that. He always likes when people other than him stand up to Bruce, but it’s somehow better that it’s Tim.

“If I might also point out,” Alfred speaks up. “It has been a rather long while since Master Jason has been able to enjoy a dinner at a table. With other people in attendance.”

Bruce doesn’t respond beyond exhaling through his nose.

“And that’s it, B,” Dick says, trying for levity. “Alfred’s spoken.”

Bruce doesn’t seem amused, either by the situation or the fact he’s lost the argument. Nor can he pursue it, because a notification pops up on the Batcomputer that Firefly is making a nuisance of himself again.

Which is how an hour later, Jason finds himself showered (fastest shower in his life while Tim waited outside the door), wearing fresh clothing (how the hell does Alfred always have clothes in his size around?) and sitting in the library with Tim, who’s doing something clever on his tablet.

“I figure you’d prefer not to be in the Cave unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Tim tells him, not looking at him.

“And I have taken the liberty of returning all of the materials you requested earlier,” Alfred adds, walking in with an armful of books. “I should hope you treat them with a mite more respect this time though.”

“Sorry, Alf,” Jason winces.

“Never mind that, Master Jason. Extenuating circumstances, and all that.”

He departs again.

“Anyhow, you can keep looking into whatever you were doing before,” Tim goes on, still not meeting his gaze. “It’s a good idea. Not all information on the subject has been digitized, so it isn’t searchable. I’ve got remote access to my system and the Cave from here, so I can keep working without having to leave you alone.”

“Right. Because you’ve got no choice but to be my babysitter.”

He tries to dial down the bitterness there, but Tim detects it easily. Finally, he glances up; his expression is surprised, and strangely soft.

“Being here is my choice. Or didn’t you notice the glares B was sending me all night?”

“Yeah, but he always looks like that. That could be about anything.”

“True, but in this case it’s because I have an issue with you getting dosed with some Olympian Death Kool-Aid.”

Tim had explained about the Stygian Sleep when Jason woke up and was trying to understand why they were holding hands. “Better that than me doing something I’d regret.”

“And I say what I said before—give it time.”

Jason scowls. “It’s not fair for you to use you against me right now.”

“If it means putting off the possibility of you dying, it’s totally fair. Besides, in this family, you know no one is above manipulation. Least of all me.”

“Why do you even care?” Jason wants to know. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

Tim shrugs, eyes darting away again.

“I don’t want Bruce and Dick and Alfred going through it again,” he mumbles, returning his attention to the tablet. “Losing you again. It…wasn’t pretty.”

Which Jason’s heard before, but he’s never exactly been willing to hear the specifics. He wonders if Tim decided to tell him this time, if he’d listen.

They lapse into silence then, both drawn into their respective avenues of research. Thankfully Tim’s theory about Jason’s affliction has proven true, and he seems to be regaining some control over himself.

Jason recalls what Eros said, about his condition depending on how far Tim was willing to go for him. He’s not entirely sold on the idea—there have to be limits, of course—but he won’t argue that it’s nice to be able to focus on something other than Tim for a few hours.

Just as long as he’s within easy reach.

By the early hours of the morning, though, Jason has grown bored.

“We’ve been at this for hours,” he grumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

“Uh-huh.”

He shoots a look at Tim, who’s frowning over his tablet and clearly didn’t hear him, and rolls his eyes.

He wants to have this whole mess sorted out, of course, but right now it doesn’t look like it’s going to be finished for a while.

They need a break.

Tim needs a break, or he’s going to pass out.

“Time to take a breather, babybird,” he declares a good ten minutes later, after debating with himself about how much of this is his regular concern and how much is Eros-induced mollycoddling.

“We don’t have time for breaks.”

“Right now, we do. And you’ll be able to think better if you get some air and come back with a new perspective. Never know when you might get an idea from something random.” Tim still doesn’t appear very enthusiastic, and so Jason tries another tack. “It’ll make me feel better at least, I feel like I’ve got ants in my brain.”

Which is what convinces Tim; Jason feels only a little guilty about that, figuring it’s for the greater good.

No one is above manipulation, right?

“Go sit in the family room and queue something up on TV,” he orders, something like enthusiasm manifesting in his stomach. “Casablanca or whatever.”

Tim makes a face. “You really think that’s the best movie idea for right now?”

He considers, then winces.

“Good point. Fine, choose whatever. Something with car crashes and explosions and shit. I’m gonna grab provisions.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“It’s downstairs, not navigating Gotham’s sewer system,” Jason retorts.

“Okay…” But Tim still looks doubtful.

Which Jason remembers the reason for once he’s in the kitchen making coffee.

Alfred won’t let him cook, insists on whipping up a tray of sandwiches because he doesn’t trust anyone in this house to make healthy food choices. Normally Jason would argue the point, because he eats just fine thank you very much, but his thoughts are straying back to Tim, and the fact he’s not here.

And if he glances at his phone every so often, finger hovering over the Contact button for Tim, well…he can’t do anything about that, can he?

At last, Jason heads for the family room, carrying a tray of coffee and tea.

“I’ve got the drinks, and Alfred said he’s going to bring up the rest of the—”

He freezes when he discovers the room is not occupied with just Tim. Dick is sprawled beside him on the couch—close! Too close!—while Damian hunches over his sketchpad in the corner, Titus and Pennyworth curled beside him, looking mutinous as ever.

“Bruce is still out on patrol. Gordon needed him for something, so he suggested we head back here and check on you,” Dick answers the question that wasn’t asked.

‘Suggested’ my ass.

Unsaid is the knowledge that if anyone has a chance of taking Jason down if he loses it, even if it’s just stalling him until Bruce gets there, Dick and Damian have the best chance.

He can’t even argue the point.

Scowling, Jason wanders over to the end table beside the couch and puts down the tray before handing Tim his coffee. The younger man takes it, sniffs and makes a perplexed face. “How��d you know that’s how I take my coffee?”

“Hell if I know, apparently it’s something I noticed,” Jason mutters as he finishes steeping his tea.

“Aw, Little Wing, don’t I get any?”

“Fuck off and get it yourself,” Jason snaps, still testy about how close Dick is sitting to Tim.

He knows that Dick has no interest in Tim that way, and vice versa, and that he’s just here to protect everyone. But the older man is also the one everyone likes best. Tim already likes him better than Jason, which puts a bad taste in his mouth and—

And he’s getting lost in his thoughts.

“Move,” Jason tells him. “That’s my spot.”

“You can’t have a spot. You don’t even live here.”

“Neither do you.”

“I’m here more often than you are.”

“That’s irrelevant. It was my spot when I lived here but you were too busy being elsewhere and an asshole, so I guess you wouldn’t know that.”

“I can move,” Tim pipes up quietly.

“Or Jaybird could just sit over here beside me,” Dick suggests innocently

Jason is not gritting his teeth. “No thanks. Your ego’s already suffocating me from over here, I don’t need the added burden of your cologne.”

“Guess you’re sitting on the floor then.”

Tim huffs. “If this is an issue, we can just go back to work. We really should be—”

“No, this is supposed to be a break,” Jason interrupts and glares at the older man, “and he’s ruining it.”

God, he sounds like a child. Tim must think so too, because he stands up and points to the space he was occupying. “Sit.”

“No, I don’t—”

“Jason, if you don’t sit, I’m going back to work.”

Which translates to Jason going back to work, since he’ll inevitable end up loitering wherever Tim goes. So, he scowls, and throws himself down in Tim’s spot, arms crossed and glaring at Dick, who watches the whole thing with a wary look on his face.

That gets blocked when Tim sits between them and shoots them both an irritated glare. “Are we good now?”

Not really, Jason thinks but doesn’t say, because Dick is still too close to Tim. A beat later, something occurs to him, and he smirks.

He stretches out, wrapping his arm around the back of the couch. Not touching Tim, or his shoulder, but there’s a heavy implication of hands offfrom his body language. Dick’s eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into his hair, and there’s worry now written in his eyes, but Jason ignores it.

He’s the one who even made this an issue.

Tim, meanwhile, sits very still, his cheeks stained red. Jason shifts with sudden guilt.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, considering pulling his arm back. “I can sit on the floor if—”

“No, it’s fine,” Tim cuts him off, crossing his arms tight against his body. “Now are we watching, or what?”

“You people are ridiculous,” Damian informs them, having watched the whole interchange with mild derision.

“Your face is ridiculous,” Jason shoots back and tries to concentrate on the television screen.

Which is more difficult than he expects.

The movie is boring. Worse, it’s predictable. He makes a mental note to never let Tim choose the movie ever again, at least until he gets some taste.

Early on, he loses interest in the formulaic plot and static characters, instead occupying himself with studying Tim out of the corner of his eye. The kid really isn’t that bad looking, for someone who lives on coffee and microwave dinners. His lashes are longer than he’s seen on most men, and his cheekbones are sharp without making his face look pinched. There’s also the curve of his mouth, where it’s not really smiling, but quirking upward in dry amusement.

It works well with the snark, Jason muses as his eyes grow heavier.

He drifts off, the family room fading away, dim light and tinny sound from the television blurring end ebbing, until it’s gone and he’s no longer there.

He’s in a large chamber, warmed by the dry breeze that winds through the open concept room. The walls are decorated with rich, colourful frescoes, and the floor with meticulous mosaic.

He leans over a wooden table, frowning down at piles of vellum and papyrus. There are discarded styli and other design tools lying across the sheets of military maneuvers and maps. The nearest one shows a hastily sketched city plan of roads and buildings; the one with the most notations reads Вιβλιοθήκη but it barely registers for him.

His attention is instead on the man seated across the room.

It’s Tim—because, of course it is—and he has a stylus stuck behind his ear while he uses another to etch something into a wax tablet. He’s also chuckling and shaking his head.

“You’re the one who wanted to stop here and found another city. What is this, the fourth one?”

“Fifth,” Jason corrects, though he knows Tim is just teasing him. “And it’s all planned now. Someone else can do the heavy lifting. Dinocrates is champing at the bit to get to work.” He shoves at the maps in front of him in frustration. “And I have things to do! You know that bastard Darius is holed up across the Euphrates trying to dictate to me?”

“He knows he’s losing, he’s just trying to cling to some semblance of power.”

“Exactly!”

“That doesn’t mean you should be impatient. Think it through—you’ll regret it if you just rush in. Remember what happened last time? You sliced a relic of the gods in half.”

“I was fulfilling a prophecy.”

“You were vandalizing public property. Call it what it is.”

“They threw me a parade.”

“Because they’re superstitious old goats.”

Jason crosses his arms. “You’re questioning my gods-given destiny to rule all of Asia. I could have your tongue for that.”

“You already have my tongue,” Tim says dryly. “Among other things.”

Though his face remains solemn, his eyes dance with irreverence and a heat that has Jason licking his lips and suddenly wanting to do something about that smile.

Which is when there’s a sound of approaching footsteps beyond the chamber. Tim looks down quickly, attention back to his etchings, and Jason draws himself up with an air of irritation that isn’t completely false; he hates interruptions.

A man wearing something like a linen caftan darts forward and bows.

“Your majesty, the sculptor Lyssipos has arrived.”

“Send him in,” he replies, a bit of the irritation waning.

A minute later, an older man appears, graying hair and beard oiled into curls; behind him, two darker-skinned men follow, carrying a large crate between them. From the way the old man snaps at them it’s obvious they are slaves.

“Your majesty, as always, you look to be in the prime of health!” the old man says; he has a smile like a salesman.

“Conquering the world agrees with me,” Jason answers in dry amusement. “What brings you so long from your workspace?”

“The piece you commissioned is ready.”

He makes a gesture to the men, who are quick to open the top of the wooden box and bring out a two-foot bust. It has been painted lightly with color, less garish than most artists prefer, closer to realistic. The face and shoulders rising from the marble are stocky, nose straight and locks of hair painstakingly hewn from the stone.

“I spent much longer on this than any other before it, majesty, and believe you will be pleased, though I would be humbled to know your thoughts on it.”

“I don’t know,” Jason chuckles as the men place it on the crate, and turns to Tim. “’Wife’, what do I think of it?”

Tim rolls his eyes, and both ignore the scandalized expressions from everyone in the room not privy to their dynamic. He lays his tools gently aside and wanders over to circle the bust with a critical eye. It is some time before he speaks.

“Master Lysippus has done well to hide that receding hairline you’re so worried about.”

Jason scowls, running a hand through his hair—it’s longer in the back than he’s used to—but the expression doesn’t remain long. He’s too busy studying Tim as he continued to evaluate the sculpture. Jason likes the way he wrinkles his brow and the set of his mouth.

Tim traces the statue’s eyelids and cheekbones with a finger, then brushes across the curved lips almost lovingly. Jason is reminded of the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, and rather hopes Tim isn’t about to embrace a piece of stone in his place.

“It is graceful, elegant and has good symmetry,” Tim pronounces at long last, and Lysippus preens. “Although I have to admit, for being the work of the only sculptor the king has ever trusted with his likeness…it doesn’t look a thing like him.”

The earns a sharp gasp, and the old man looks as if he has just been struck. The slaves’ eyes flick toward one another, and no one seems to know what to say to that.

Irritation flares in his chest and Jason feels the inclination to snarl, until he notices the teasing in Tim’s eyes.

That little shit…

“My liegeman is simply enjoying a joke at my expense,” Jason informs the old man. “The piece is perfect. A true artistic marvel, as expected.” He reaches for a piece of vellum and scribbles a hasty note, ignoring Tim’s pained expression at the informal proceedings, and then uses his personal seal to legitimize it. “Take this to Harpalus, Machatas’ son. He oversees the treasury and will see to your needs.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

“Now, I’ll say farewell, as I must have some words with philalexandros here about inappropriate humor.”

“Your majesty,” the men echo, and soon Jason is alone with Tim once more.

He grimaces at him. “Do you see what you did? They’re scandalized by your irreverence.”

“Maybe, but you like that about me, and that’s all that matters,” Tim replies, approaching.

“Yes, but no one else is supposed to know that. I’m meant to be the god-king—remember that cynical philosopher in Corinth? He insisted I’m ruled by your thighs.”

“Hm,” Tim considers. “Aren’t you?”

“Rather the opposite,” Jason grins, drawing close to the shorter man. “I seem to recall you having a few choice things to say about my thighs.” He tips a finger beneath his chin. “Come, let’s take this somewhere else.”

“Why?” Tim teases. “Are you afraid your double is watching?”

Jason’s eyes flit to the lifeless stone irises of the statue, and shudders. “Well, now I am…”

He bends closer to Tim, and can feel his breath on his face—

Jason jolts awake to discover he’s nodded off against Tim’s shoulder—no, worse; he’s practically curled into him, face in the crook of his neck.

Tim is sitting rigid, neck and cheeks radiating warmth, though he’s staring carefully ahead of him. Jason hurriedly shoves himself away. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tim croaks.

Dick is watching the whole thing with evident concern his eyes. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“Shit. What did I say?” He doesn’t remember everything from his dream, but he’s pretty sure at the end there he was making some kind of innuendo.

“No idea.”

“It sounded like Greek,” Damian says, glancing up from his sketching. “Not any dialect I’m familiar with, though.”

“Oh. Good.” Jason swallows. “Also, what the hell?”

From everyone else’s expressions, they’re wondering the same thing.

⁂⁂⁂

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