Tim and Jason need to talk about things more. It would fix so many problems. BUT THAT WILL NOT BE HAPPENING IN THIS CHAPTER. It was just a note. C: If they communicated properly, how would us authors make them so lovably awkward? (Miscommunication makes stories better, just ask Romeo and Juliet.) ENJOY. :DDDD

Tim has been lying on the couch all day, a fluffy blanket wrapped tightly around him. And, it hasn't exactly been all day, but he has been on the couch since Damian embarrassed him in kitchen. He hasn't moved much, hasn't wanted too. At least, that's what Jason can gather. Because he has passed by the living room several times and Tim has been there every single pass.

Just. Lying there. And. Staring at nothing. If it weren't Tim, Jason would have guessed he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. But Tim doesn't fucking sleep, so that would have been a ridiculous thought. And Jason wants to go over, ask what's wrong. Because Tim has been on that couch in that blanket for hours. It's dark outside. And Tim has been here.

Jason doesn't think he's eaten.

"Hey, Babybird."

Tim is up, blanket off. He had been taken by surprise. Tim. Had been. Taken by. Surprise. What the fuck.

"Oh. Jason." Tim sounds. Something. Jason doesn't have a word for it.

"You ready to get to bed?" He gestures toward the stairs. Flinches. He'd forgotten. But Tim's eyes wander up the portion of the stairwell that is visible from the living room. Then his eyes fall onto Jason, near his collarbone. Jason swallows.

"Sure. But." Tim stands, folds the blanket, smooths his hands over it. "You don't have to read to me. I can." He stops and smooths his hands over the folded blanket again. "I can probably get to sleep on my own."

Jason rubs the back of his neck. He knew Tim would be having second thoughts. He fucking knew it. Tim hates people in his space and his room is his space. Reading books in Tim's space would be like violating a church, that's how sacred it is.

But Jason's never been really good at the whole "respecting sacred shit" thing.

"I want to." And he does. He wants his voice to be the last thing Tim hears before he goes to sleep. He's never had the honor of being that for him. He wonders if it will actually help Tim sleep. He wants it to.

Tim doesn't say anything for a moment. But then he says, "okay."

He shuffles up the stairs on his own, his shoulders sagging, as if under a great weight.

This is all Jason's fault. All of this. He breathes a sigh out viciously through his nose as he follows Tim up the stairs and into his bedroom. It's perfectly clean. Alfred has done a great job of maintaining it in Tim's absence. (Jason's room had been the same way, but he has already managed to make it look a little more Jason-y. There's shit everywhere. Clothes, boots, weapons...).

Tim slips into bed and rolls onto his left side, scooting backwards so that Jason will have a place to sit. Jason has already picked out the book he's going to read. It's a collection of poetry by Robert Frost. Tim loves poetic stuff (and, frankly, so does Jason, but if you tell anyone he will fucking find you and wipe you from existence. This, he promises).

One of Tim's favorites, Jason found out awhile ago, is Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. Jason doesn't bother to tell Tim what he's reading. He'll knows when Jason gets to the first line.

Jason sits and Tim rests his forehead against his knee.

"Whose woods these are I think I know," Jason begins. A smile touches Tim's lips, one of the first Jason's seen today (maybe even the only one). "His house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow."

Tim pulls the covers under his chin. He looks so small. Jason wants to curl around him and keep him safe. He swallows. Keeps going.

He doesn't even get to the third stanza before Tim starts dozing. Babybird must be pretty fucking tired (or maybe he had really needed this, Jason doesn't know). But his breathing evens out when Jason gets to the middle of After Apple Picking.

Jason runs his fingers through Tim's hair, and continues until he finishes that poem. Tim sighs, murmurs something (and it makes no sense, but it's just so—). Jason moves to Mending Wall. Jason thinks he could fall asleep here. Tim even left enough room for him to lie there and sleep.

But he doesn't (because he wants to, and because it wants it, he cannot have it. Not yet). He reads two more poems, brushes his fingers over Tim's forehead, and quietly leaves the room. He leaves Frost's anthology on the bedside table for another time.

(But he doesn't know that Tim saw him leave.)