A/N: I had some extra time on my hands, so here's the next sort of one-shot. I needed some Tim cuddles since he kind of got left out of the last chapter. So here you go, read on, and please review :)

Tim doesn't know quite how it happened, but somehow Jason Todd has moved into the room across the hall from his. There was no great proclamation, no killing of the fatted calf. One day he simply rolled out of bed and when he opened the door Jason was picking the lock to his old bedroom, duffel slung over his shoulder. Dick didn't seem surprised, and the demon child isn't fazed by much, but Tim was…bemused. There is a resident in the long-empty room across the hall, where he never thought there'd be one again. He doesn't quite know how he feels about it.

There are a lot of things Tim doesn't know these days.

The first week was rocky, to say the least. Damian was twice his usual sadistic self, and the amount of sharp projectiles usually aimed at Tim's head was now leveled at Jason's. That, at least, Tim can get behind. The respite from ducking flying forks at dinner was a welcome one.

Jason, though, seemed well equipped to handle the little monster's temper tantrums. Yesterday he intercepted one of the hazardous missiles and sent it spinning back at its owner with such force that it stuck, quivering, in the wall—the original perpetrator having ducked with a yelp.

Dick skirts around Jason with a wary combination of joyous disbelief and watchfulness. Tim has noticed how Jason carefully submits to each embrace Dick is brave enough to give him. Submits, but does not return. But still, this is progress for the once half-feral young man. It seems that he is both afraid to reciprocate the affection and afraid to reject it, like Dick will realize he's made a mistake inviting the wayward brother home.

Tim appreciates Jason's effort on Dick's behalf, but that doesn't mean he trusts him.

For the first few years of Tim's foray as Robin, Jason Todd was equal parts legend and ghost. He was the standard against which Tim was judged and the warning unvoiced.

He was a hero, and Tim wanted nothing more than to become him—minus the bloody end, of course.

And then, miraculously, Jason lived, and Tim's idolized image of the child martyr came crashing down around his ears. Tim saw the mingled horror and joy of the former Robin's new existence in his mentor and eldest brother's eyes. Yes, Jason was everything he'd imagined—smart, ruthless, fast, and strong—but he carried a darkness that threatened to swallow himself and anyone who dared get close enough to touch.

Tim had dared, and he'd nearly died for his stupidity.

So Tim keeps his distance now. He avoids eye contact, slips unobtrusively from the room when his predecessor enters. He rises early and is gone from the kitchen by the time the rest of his "family" stumbles down stairs. He pulls long hours in Bruce's study, in the cave, because that door across the hall bothers him in a way that little else does.

He is content with their separate coexistence.

Until today, that is.

The cave always holds a slight chill, and Tim's socks offer little barrier from the cold stone. He hooks his ankles around the legs of the stool he is perched on, and tugs the neck of his red sweatshirt higher. He is grateful for the quiet his brothers' absence provides, as it is more conducive to the delicate work he has in mind today. The razor wire he is adapting for League use is so thin as to be nearly invisible, and he already has a handful of little nicks scattered across his hands. But gloves make his fingers bulky and clumsy, and he can handle a little sting in the name of genius.

Dick is attending to some or the other form of legal business with the company, and had left the manor earlier with the air of someone about to attend their own hanging. Jason is somewhere upstairs avoiding Alfred's constant attempts to shove more nutritious food down his throat—and also probably dodging the numerous college brochures the kindly butler keeps slipping under his door. Damian is likely sealed in his room with his assorted animal friends, no doubt plotting some wickedness against his housemates or the world at large.

Tim is alone with his project. Peace is a welcome companion.

He is weaving the wire into the beginnings of a net when the first bang sounds.

A bright flash and billows of smoke accompany the near-deafening sound. In the confusion, Tim unconsciously clenches his hands into fists.

He can't help but cry out as the wire slashes his hands to a myriad of ribbons of blood.

Second and third smoke bombs follow the first, leaving Tim disoriented. Only the knowledge that they are Bat-made diversions allows Tim to remain in his workstation this long, endeavoring to protect his bloodstained work. Before he can dive off the stool and attempt to crawl to safety, the current Robin's bird-a-rang flashes out of the haze, catching Tim across the temple and sending him sprawling on the cold concrete, head cracking sharply against the hard surface.

There is the thunder of footsteps down the stone stairs and the whir of a fan switched on.

Tim opens his eyes to find Damian dangling two feet off the ground, courtesy of Jason Todd.

"Todd! Release me at—"

"Shut. Up." Jason's nostrils flare dangerously, and even Damian doesn't defy him. He strides towards Tim's ruined workplace, snags the abandoned seat, and drags it into the corner. He deposits Damian roughly, positioning him facing the cave wall.

"You little shit," he says furiously, "I don't care what issues you have with the Replacement, or Dickiebird, or anyone else in this damn house, you don't get to hurt them just because you feel like it!" His voice had risen steadily, until he is shouting at the cowlick at the crown of Damian's head.

"I didn't mean—" the child protests, attempting to twist around.

Jason stills him, with an uncompromising hand to the back of his neck.

"Oh no, you don't. You just put Red Robin out of commission for three weeks minimum, and if I have anything to say about it, you're going to spend the whole of that time boring holes through this wall with your eyes alone," Jason hissed. "You will not move until either Dick comes to your rescue or the Second Coming rolls around, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," is the tiny, stony answer.

Satisfied Damian has been properly intimidated, Jason paces back to where Tim is now sitting up dazedly.

"C'mere, Replacement," Jason mutters gruffly.

Tim has little warning before he is plucked unceremoniously off the stone and swung with surprising ease into an unfamiliar pair of arms.

"I—" he objects, one hand dabbing curiously at the sticky wetness that threatens to drip into his right eye.

"Ah, ah," Jason remonstrates, plopping Tim onto one of the beds in the med bay, and restraining the exploring fingers with a firm hand.

The fingertips of one hand just brushing Tim's chest, Jason rummages in the pristine cabinets with the other for the first aid kit. He comes away triumphant, and begins pulling various bits of gauze and tape out of the box, generally making a mess of Alfred's careful organization.

"Let's do your head first, huh? It's harder," he murmurs, and applies an iodine-drenched cotton ball to the area with unexpected gentleness. It still stings, though, and Tim jerks, nearly knocking his head on Jason's collarbone.

"Whoa, there, Baby Bird. Relax. If I'm fixing you, I'm not likely to murder you, now, am I?" Jason places a steadying hand on his shoulder and continues with his work.

Tim is still stiff, but he allows the older man's soft touch to ease the bite of his cuts. He closes his eyes, suddenly unbelievably tired.

"Why?" It's all he has the energy to ask.

He feels rather than sees Jason's shrug.

"Big brother would be upset if he returned to find either of his precious birdies damaged. Might kick the big bad wolf back out on the streets where he belongs." The tone is light, but there's a dry bitterness to the words that belies the speaker's flippancy.

Tim frowns. "He wouldn't. Dick…you matter to him."

Jason glances up, meets Tim's eyes with disconcerting frankness.

"So do you. You're an idiot if you can't see that. And for some godforsaken reason," Jason pitches his voice to be heard by the corner's occupant, "he cares about that little monstrosity, although I can't fathom why."

"Tt."

Tim has the inappropriate urge to laugh. Instead, he slumps further into Jason's hold, the elder having finished with his head and moved on to his tattered hands.

Jason whistles. "Damn, Replacement, you don't do things halfway." Tim's hands feel small, cradled as they are within Jason's larger ones.

"Razor wire requires delicate handling. I wasn't expecting…disturbances."

Jason hums in sympathy. "This is going to hurt. A lot."

The bottle is tipped, and Tim lets out half a moan before he stifles any sound in Jason's t-shirt. His breath comes hot and fast against Jason's shoulder.

"Okay," he pants when he realizes the older boy has been saying his name multiple times, "I'm okay."

"I don't think many of them need stitches, just a couple," Jason traces the air over a deep slash in the meat of his thumb. Tim resigns himself to the sharp ache of a needle through skin without the numbing effect of anesthesia. Because using the anesthetic will attract Alfred's attention, Dick's questions, and certain punishment for all parties involved. Not that Tim's mummified hands won't draw inquiries, but bandages hide a lot.

Several minutes later, the sutures are in place—not pretty, but functional—and Tim's body is so wilted against Jason they might as well be a single person.

Jason supports the younger boy with one arm while he shoves the medical supplies back into their case and tosses the kit into its cabinet haphazardly.

"Alright, kid, nap time," he announces.

Tim lifts his head groggily, blue eyes hazy with pain. "I don't need—"

"Upstairs or down here. Those are your only options, slim," Jason interrupts.

The younger boy frowns, the consideration of mutiny flits across his face, and then gives in.

"Here. Alfie will see."

"Right-o, then." Jason scowls at the bed Tim is currently sitting on. "There's blood everywhere. We're relocating."

Before Tim can protest, he's scooped up and deposited on the next cot over. Jason pushes him down against the pillow with one hand, and Tim draws his bulkily bandaged hands to his chest and complies.

"Damian is still in the corner," he comments sleepily.

"Oh, I know," Jason replies. He turns his gaze to the drooping figure. "Damian, you may move your exile to the other bed. You may not speak, other than to apologize to Tim or myself, and if you do anything besides lay there or sleep I will make Dick hug you for extended periods of time. Understand?"

"Yes," comes the significantly subdued voice of the youngest. There's a soft rustle as Damian lies on the third bed, still facing the wall. "I…regret the damage to your hands, Drake. It will make patrol…difficult."

Tim coughs in astonished acknowledgement. Jason grins wolfishly.

"Good. Now both of you go to sleep." With that, Jason tugs the sheet up to cover Tim and settles beside him on the bed. "Scoot, Replacement, I'm not sleeping on your blood, either. If either of you moves before Dick gets home, I'm using the gas to knock you out."

Dick finds them two hours later. Damian has flopped onto his stomach, now facing the opposite bed. Tim is curled around Jason's hip, injured hands still tucked to his heart, forehead nudged into the older boy's side.

Jason merely opens a single eye, gives Dick a look that clearly says shut the hell up, and slides it closed again. His arm is hooked around Tim's neck—in affection—his hand buried in Tim's soft hair.

Dick doesn't think he's ever smiled so hard.