Borrowed
A Word: This was for First Thursdays of JayTim week, but I wanted to edit it more. So it's a little late.
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It's October and Gotham is throwing her annual shit fit. Every criminal and villain crawls out of the holes and gutters they've been hiding in to celebrate. Weapons and drugs pour into the city through the docks, human trafficking picks up, and the tempers of just about every damn person in the city fray so much that Jason's not surprised to hear about a woman killing her boyfriend for not lining his shoes up the right way. October is a god damn nightmare and they're all feeling it as the days drag by.
Jason falls into the hole he's calling home as the sun rises and his eyes skim right over the ball of red and black on the couch. There's a cape dragging on the floor and that's not-Dick enough for Jason to disregard the extra body as he drags his sorry ass to his bed and collapses onto it. Still fully dressed and armed. He's out before his head even hits the pillow.
The sun is an inch away from hitting Jason's eyes in a really unpleasant way when he surfaces enough to feel the aches caused by his armor and holsters. Jason grunts and rolls over. Fumbling the straps of the holsters off enough to drop them over the edge of the bed. He curses his armor when it stubbornly refuses to fall apart, and almost laughs in triumph when the whole thing thumps onto the floor. He curls up and attacks his boots as well. Getting them off before the energy he'd gotten from his brief nap runs out. He's still in a smelly undershirt and kevlar reinforced pants, but Jason decides to live with it and smashes his face back into his pillow.
He surfaces again for brief seconds throughout the day. Hearing the sound of the shower, some rustling too close to his bed, and the door clicking shut. All faint noises that don't really bother him as much as they should as he sleeps dreamlessly late into the day.
Jason finally wakes up to a heavenly smell. His stomach forcefully dragging him to consciousness despite the fact that Jason could use another four or five hours. He groans and stretches, grimacing at the way his shirt and pants stick to his skin. Feeling the ache of lucky hits and a sting as a few cuts reopen along his arm. Faint scratches that Jason hadn't bothered tending earlier. He glances at them now and dismisses them again. Catching a tiny bead of blood with a thumb and wiping it off on the sheets. Jason sits up and takes in his place.
His weapons and armor have been propped up on the crate next to the bed. The boots lined up neatly on the floor next to it. The smell is coming from the corner devoted to the kitchen and Tim's standing in front of the kinda crappy stove Jason'd bought from some crack addict down the hall. Two large pots that Jason's never seen before steam away on it.
Jason blinks. Taking it all in, but he's really only focused on one thing at the moment. "Are you wearing my clothes?"
"I refuse to eat another boxed meal, Jason, and it's not like I could go to the store in my suit," Tim looks over his shoulder at him briefly with an annoyed glare before turning back to the stove. Completely missing or just ignoring the poleaxed look that has to be on Jason's face.
The pants are Jason's because as much as Tim likes wearing baggy clothing even he wouldn't wear the torn things that're falling off his hips despite the -a grin flashes across Jason's face- rope threaded through the loops to hold them up. The shirt has to be Jason's too, but he can't remember ever owning a red shirt. Not one that hasn't been destroyed at least. The shirt hangs off Tim's frame as well. The collar gaping and sliding to one side to show part of his shoulder and collarbone.
Tim's not exactly small or thin. He's pretty average sized and ripped beyond the average person. It's just that he's smaller when compared to Jason, and it shows in those clothes. Makes him look tiny and fragile in a way that Jason knows he's really not. The bagginess concealing the strength of his body, creating an illusion that does something funny to Jason right about in the chest area. It would do something funny below the belt area as well but Jason's -sadly- far too exhausted for that.
It's hot in a way that Jason's only ever attributed to the few high school girls he'd flirted with asking to wear his jacket. He watches bemused at his association -and stuck on the image of Tim twirling his hair and looking up at him through black lined eyes- as Tim swings one pot up and takes it over the sink just outside the bathroom door that serves dual purpose. His face is swallowed in a cloud of steam as he upends it and a river of noodles flow out with the water. "I figure we could use the carbs right about now. So, spaghetti."
The pot's relegated to the floor with a barely there grimace from Tim that let's Jason know he's fighting hard with the Alfred voice in his head. He wins out over the immediate urge to clean and straightens up. One hand coming up to casually tug the top of the shirt straight. A faint noise escapes Jason and he rolls his shoulders back with an exaggerated grimace when Tim twists around to look at him as he shakes the-
"Did you buy me a whole kitchen set?" Jason blurts out. Mostly to distract Tim from the fact that Jason can't quite tear his eyes away from the skin at his neck as the shirt slips right back down.
"Like I said, I'm tired of eating boxed food," Tim gives one last toss to the strainer and quickly moves back to the stove. A few drops of water splash onto the floor before he can dump the noodles into the second pot. The reproach in his voice is pure Alfred. "I also got you plates."
"Don't exactly get many guests," Jason defends and then looks away as Tim reaches down to hitch the jeans back up. Showing a flash of his abs before pulling the rope tighter. "Uh, thanks."
Jason throws himself off the bed and into the bathroom. Closing the door between them before Tim can do something else that makes Jason want to do things. More than the usual desire to shut the guy up with a kiss that'd replaced Jason's innate urge to punch him months ago. Jason staggers over to the toilet -which actually looks cleaner, dammit Tim- and uses it. Ignoring the new turn his brain is taking.
There's a plate heaped with spaghetti on the board and blocks Jason's rigged up as a table when he comes out. A paper sack is carefully folded to hold a pile of cut bread that smells faintly garlicky. Tim's curled up on the couch with a second plate. Doing his best to inhale the noodles and not paying attention to how the shirt has rucked up enough for Jason to see the jeans sliding down again.
"Oh, fuck it," Jason runs his head under the cold tap and slouches onto the couch still dripping. All thoughts about Tim and clothing fly out of his head at the first bite. The bread is good and the pasta is even better. Jason follows Tim's lead and inhales half of it as quickly as he can without choking or asphyxiating. "Damn, baby bird, I might have to chain you to that stove is this is what I get from you cooking."
Tim snorts but there's a pinkness to his cheeks that Jason can see out of the corner of his eye. "Sorry, Jay, I only make that kind of commitment when a ring's involved."
"Well, you're already wearing my clothes," Jason scrapes the last bit of sauce off his plate with the crust of a slice of bread. Tim looks like he licked his plate clean, and is also -Jason notes with far too much interest- pulling the collar of the shirt down to get at a noodle that'd escaped. "That mean we're going steady enough you can cook me dinner once a week?"
"Nope," Tim says immediately, noodle found and disappearing into his mouth as he gives Jason an innocent smile that shouldn't fool a damn person who knew what he was really like. "But it does mean you get to do the dishes and pay for our next date. Which will happen in November."
Jason blinks twice, digesting the words, and looking for the joke. He's not seeing it. Not even with Tim turning up the sass as much as he has. It's a defense mechanism for him though, so that means- "Seriously?"
"Yes," Tim gives Jason a look that's equal parts him thinking Jason's being rather slow, and Tim visibly willing the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Jason really shouldn't find that look as adorable as he does. "After this month is over, because eating and patrolling are about all I can manage right now."
"Next week," Jason corrects, and that might be pushing it, but he'll damn well try. Maybe. Jason groans as exhaustion creeps back up to tap him on the shoulder now that he's no longer hungry. Reminding him of how big his debt to sleep has gotten over the past two weeks, and how likely it is that he'll spend the first several days of November unconscious. "Or after."
"After," Tim affirms and he looks every bit as tired as Jason feels as he lists sideways. Deliberately landing on Jason's lap, and looking like he'll happily fall asleep right there.
"After," Jason repeats, hand resting on the skin exposed by Tim's hips. Perfectly content to let Tim fall asleep on him, and the sappiness of that thought will bother Jason later. Much, much later. When he can open his eyes again.
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