A/N: Hey, I'm back! :)

This was actually started in May when my friend HelenaGrace22 and I both decided to write a fic based on a writing inspiration picture of a woman with her head in her hands behind a bunch of milkshake glasses. Four months later, it is finally complete XP

Tim's POV at the end was hard for me for some reason, so I apologize in advance for any awkwardness.

Enjoy!

I throw my hands up I surrender

I don't want to be a fraud

I don't want to be the pretender

And I was like a lightning rod

I was always your defender

We were both right and wrong

I throw my hands up I surrender

~"Firing Squad" by Lifehouse

Of all the things Jason planned on doing tonight, finding a seemingly doped Tim Drake in a 24-hour diner near the Narrows was not one of them.

At first, Jason didn't even notice him as he pushed open the creaky glass door into the old café that had somehow survived in the violent chaos between upper Gotham and the rougher outer fringes, the tarnished bell jingling merrily as he stepped across the threshold.

The bartender—a slightly overweight man with a scruffle beard and walrus mustache—glanced up from the glass he was almost absently rubbing with a dishcloth. "What can I do for you?" he asked gruffly.

Jason considered for a moment. "Beer," he decided. "Whatever you got on tap."

The man grunted in acknowledgement, plopping the now sparkling glass on the chipped countertop before waddling to the other side of the bar.

While he waited for his drink, Jason took the opportunity to examine his surroundings more closely. (The habitual cursory glance he'd taken upon entering had only been enough to ensure there were no other dangerous characters in the area.)

The diner was rough, but clean. The floor tiles were chipped and cracked, a dim sheen from the fluorescent lights gracing their white tops. The ceiling showed signs of water damage, but at least there weren't cobwebs hanging everywhere, like the previous bar Jason had tried.

At nearly two in the morning, it was no surprise that the place was mostly empty. Only one other person lay slumped over a table covered with half a dozen...were those milkshake glasses? The combined number of them with the various colored residue on the insides mostly hid the dejected figure from view, only a shock of raven hair peaking out at him from over the folded arms between the glasses.

Curious, Jason casually sidled over to the bar, taking a seat at the far end of the counter in order to see behind the wall of cups as the bartender handed him the beer. Sipping lightly at the foamy surface, Jason allowed his gaze to wander over the man at the other table.

Wait... Not a man. A teenager.

Maybe seventeen or eighteen from the looks of him, but definitely a teenager. The shaggy black hair was in dire need of a good chop, sticking up in random places from where the teen's face was hidden in his arms. He was awfully skinny, his clothes just on the edge of too big for his small frame, like they'd fit properly at one point.

But what really confused Jason was that the fact the kid was wearing a suit. Like, a really expensive, business style, Bruce Wayne suit that had once been pressed and cleaned neat as a pin, but was now rumpled and creased as if its owner just didn't care anymore.

What teenager would have a job that required him to wear a suit, let alone afford one of that caliber?

And then it hit Jason so hard, he very nearly spilled the cold beverage in his hand down the front of his leather jacket.

Too long black hair... Expensive suit... Clean, yet obscure diner...

Jason ogled the back of the teen's head in shock. The only teen that fit that description in Gotham City was Timothy Jackson Drake.

But...that couldn't be right. What could the family favorite be doing in civvies in the Narrows at this time of night?

Jason briefly considered up and leaving right there. After all, the kid hadn't noticed him yet. He could pay the bartender, finish his beer, and slip out without Tim even knowing he had been there.

But something stopped him. Later, Jason would pin it on pure curiosity over the other emotions—guilt, worry, protectiveness—that may or may not have been flashing through his heart when he elected to stay put.

However, that didn't mean Jason was going to do anything about it...yet.

He took his time, contemplating what he was going to say as he nursed his beer, wanting it to last as long as possible. After a moment, Jason shook his head in annoyance.

Screw the planning, he thought, downing the last of his drink in one go. When's it ever done you any good, anyway?

Inwardly sighing, Jason stood from his stool, sliding up to the prostrate form on the opposite table.

"Hey, Baby Bird."

The figure flinched violently, jerking up behind the wall of glasses to glance at Jason. Before Jason could see much more than watery blue eyes beneath the shaggy hair, Tim ducked his head back into his arms.

"Hi," the teen muttered. "What are you doing here?"

Jason raised an eyebrow, even though Tim couldn't see him. "I could ask you the same question."

"You first," Tim sighed, voice muffled by his arm.

"Getting a drink," Jason snorted.

"And there you have it," Tim said morosely.

Jason eyed the tall glasses lining the table. "You're doping up on...milkshakes?"

"Underage," Tim mumbled huskily. And boy, the kid sounded exhausted. "Remember?"

"That hasn't stopped you before," Jason pointed out. "You have enough false identities and fake licenses to fill a shoebox. Which is actually true..."

A tremor shuddered through the too thin frame. "Tired of lying."

Uh oh. That did not sound good.

"Tired of faking," Tim continued, muttering almost to himself. "Tired of trying. Tired of...everything."

There was an awkward pause, at least to Jason. He never knew what was going on in his replacement's head these days. Of course, he doubted anyone did. When was the last time Bruce called Tim for anything but a mission? Not in a long while. Whenever Jason ran into the bird on the rooftops, Tim was always on same case or other for the big bad bat. He'd even caught the kid checking something out for Nightwing a few weeks ago.

Wrapped up in his own thoughts, Jason would deny later that he jumped when Tim spoke up again: "I don't drink anyway."

That time, Jason couldn't contain his amused snort. "Of course you don't, kid."

"I don't," Tim protested weakly. "I swear I've never even touched the stuff..."

"Hey," Jason interrupted, "I believe you. Jeez, Baby Bird, what's wrong with you tonight?"

Tim flopped his hand in what might have been a shooing gesture. "Five more minutes," he sighed. "Just five. Then..." his voice cracked almost imperceptibly. "Then I'm going back to work and we can forget this ever happened."

Jason hesitated. Tim was right. They could both leave and pretend this never happened. It would certainly be the easiest choice. But at the same time...was it the right choice?

Despite popular theory, Jason actually did care about his replacement. He just wasn't so great at showing it. Seeing him this depressed caused a foreign emotion to stir in Jason's gut: the desire to protect the kid. Unfortunately, Jason had never been good at the whole emotional thing, and therefore had no idea how to deal with it. He was good with actions; not words.

And so, it all boiled down to: What would Dick do?

Hardening his resolve, he took a deep breath and plunked onto the bench across from the facedown Timothy. "Then we'd better make those five minutes count," he decided. "What's up, Baby Bird?"

Finally, the kid looked up.

Jason's eyes widened.

The pale blue eyes were wide and red-rimmed, hair wet with sweat sticking to his forehead. Every crevice of his face screamed exhaustion, just the smallest hint of surprise flickering through his eyes presumably at finding Jason sitting in front of him.

"What?" Tim asked, tone as confused as his befuddled expression. "What are you doing?"

"Talking about feelings," Jason snorted, recovering from his previous start at the other's ragged appearance. "What else?"

A frown pulled at the corners of Tim's mouth, his brows furrowing. "Not to sound rude, but...why?"

Jason shrugged self-consciously. "Because you're obviously having issues, and Dickie's not here to fix 'em. So I repeat: What's up, Baby Bird?"

His replacement blinked slowly, as if that information had trouble computing.

Who said a drink had to be alcoholic to mess with your head? This kid was very obviously on a sugar high; and not the fun kind, either.

Suddenly, the foggy blue eyes hardened with sudden clarity. "Nothing," Tim said, moving to slide out of the booth. "Nothing at all. My free time's over and I—"

"Whoa!" Jason said, holding his hands up in a T. "Timeout. Your free time is over? At one forty-five in the morning, you expect me to believe that bull?"

Tim hesitated. "I was working on a report," he stated in a monotone. "I'm figuring some data schematics that need to be ready for tomorrow's 9am WE meeting, not to mention a few briefings for...my other team."

The Teen Titans. Jason got it. But one thing he didn't understand... "And all this is due tomorrow?"

The younger man's shoulders slumped. "As well as some updated stock charts and charity fund files," he said softly. "And I'm trying to cover up for a stray project that blew up most of R&D this morning. And I need to revise a few criminal files for B and download the latest software to upgrade the JL's floating headquarters. And Dick needs some help with the defunct security system in his apartment. And..." He trailed off, his already too pale skin fading to white as he seemed unaware of Jason's dangling jaw.

Abruptly, Tim jerked out of the booth. "I need to get back to work."

Lightning quick, Jason lunged forward, ignoring the bartender's startled glance as he snagged Tim's wrist before he could escape—er, walk away. "Uh uh, Timmy. Dickie keeps telling me that I shouldn't completely ignore you all the time. This is my attempt at...brobonding, I think he called it.

"Besides." He gave the younger man a critical look, taking in the usually immaculate suit and tie that were now rumpled and creased, the sleeves wrinkled and suspiciously damp from hiding Tim's face for so long. "I think you need to talk more than you want to admit."

Tim hesitated, blue eyes wary. Jason could practically see the gears turning behind the matted locks and creased brows, trying to work out if Jason was kidding or not. Finally, apparently satisfied, he reluctantly sank back into the booth, gaze flicking everywhere but Jason.

"Fine," Tim mumbled, pulling faintly at the cuffs of his sleeves. "What do you want to talk about?"

"First off," Jason said, holding up a finger, "what in the freaking multiverse possessed you to take on so many projects at once?!"

Tim flinched, staring down at his clasped hands. "I didn't," he admitted quietly. "I mean, some of it is routine, but people asked me to do a few things and—"

"You couldn't say no," Jason finished.

Tim nodded. "It's fine, though," he added quickly, "I'm not complaining, I'm used to it." Then, almost an afterthought: "I can handle it."

Jason cocked his head, unconvinced. "Be that as it may, here's my second question: Do you come here a lot?"

Tim's head was shaking before Jason had finished. "No. First time."

Jason found that hard to believe. Tim was an expert liar. He lied to the freaking Batman on a daily basis, and Bruce was none the wiser. But apparently, his tells were a bit more obvious when he was clearly suffering from exhaustion and sugar overload.

"So...what gave you the idea to get drunk on milkshakes?" Jason asked carefully.

Tim shrugged, slouching a bit further over the tabletop. "I don't know. I had one and I just couldn't stop." He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I probably just screwed up my entire diet."

Jason eyed the tightly notched belt around Tim's waist, taking in the sunken cheeks and the bones sticking out visibly beneath the skin of his wrists. "I hope that diet includes lots of calories, Pretender, because it sure looks like you haven't been eating anything."

Tim didn't reply. His head drooped, his blue eyes dazed and slightly crossed.

Jason frowned. "When was the last time you slept?" he asked, the query slipping out before he even properly thought it out.

Tim blinked, then scowled angrily. "What's it to you?" he challenged. "You've never cared before. It doesn't matter anyway."

"If it doesn't matter, why won't you answer?" Jason countered.

There was a long, tense silence. Just as Jason was about to give up on an answer, Tim finally spoke.

"Eighty-three hours," Tim breathed, rubbing his eyes once more and shifting them away from Jason's face. "Twenty-one minutes...45 seconds. Give or take."

It took a minute or so for that information to fully process through Jason's brain. He ogled his replacement in shock and horror, only minutely aware that his jaw was hitting the floor. He clopped it close, swallowing thickly, but unable to take his eyes off the enormous purple bruises swelling beneath Tim's eyes.

"How the freaking hades, Replacement?" Jason breathed. "That's inhuman."

Tim shrugged, swaying in his seat as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "S'not so bad, really. I just drink...a lot of...coffee."

"Hey," Jason said, concerned. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Lousy, actually," Tim said matter-of-factly. "But...can't sleep yet. Gotta...go..." And suddenly, his entire body sagged into the seat, his head falling toward the table so fast, Jason only just leapt forward in time to stop the kid breaking his nose on the linoleum.

Apparently the kid had finally passed out from sheer exhaustion. Jason was just debating whether or not to carry him out when a garbled mumble erupted from under the too-long mess of raven hair: "M'fine. Jus' nee' coffee."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Sure, kid." The kid had finally run out of milkshake. "I'm taking you home."

Jason scooted out of the booth, reaching over to grab his replacement under the arms and ignoring the feeble protests as he slung one over his own shoulders.

Tim gave him a half-hearted glare as Jason reached into Tim's pocket, grabbed his wallet, and tossed a wad of cash onto the table. "I c'n do it m'self," he whined childishly.

"Nope," Jason said, beginning to half drag, half carry the reluctant Timothy Drake out of the café to the street. "You're so out of it, Baby Bird, I'm surprised you haven't collapsed yet. You're stuck with me."

Tim grumbled something not very flattering under his breath, which Jason chose to ignore as he considered his options.

He could try to drag the two of them back to Tim's penthouse apartment back in upper Gotham. But in order to do that, they had to cross approximately half of the most dangerous parts of the Narrows. And assuming they reached the skyscraper alive, Jason wasn't sure he'd be able to properly break into the twenty story building with a half conscious teenager hanging off his arm.

They could go back to the Manor... Jason immediately dismissed the idea, cursing himself for even thinking it. He had avoided the massive mansion for going on four years now, and attempting the trek there didn't seem worth the awkwardness it would cause for Jason should he appear randomly after so long with a quite dead-on-his-feet Tim Drake on the ornate doorstep.

So that left him with only one choice.

Sighing in irritation, he guided the stumbling Tim Drake around the corner of the café, swinging a right, and crossing an empty street to enter the dark, narrow alley where Jason had parked his motorcycle.

As of this point, the only sound Tim had made was his own harsh breathing, seeming compliant and uncaring as to the fact Jason could be marching him anywhere. Only when Jason pulled off the greasy sheet that concealed his bike and gestured for the younger man to climb on did he finally hesitate.

"Wurr...where're we going?" Tim slurred almost drunkenly, dragging his feet into the grimy pavement.

"My place," Jason admitted. "Now come on, up you go, Replacement."

It took a few moments, but Tim managed to clamber up the side of the motorcycle without falling, slumping tiredly against the handlebars with eyelids fluttering.

Huffing in exasperation, Jason elected to straddle the seat behind Tim in order to make sure the stupid kid wouldn't just slide off the back end. At the rate he was going, Tim would never be able to hold on the 22.3 minute trip to Jason's apartment.

With a few adjustments and a couple muttered curses, Jason managed to arrange the two of them so Tim's hands were gripping the inner ends of the handlebars, Jason's own fingers wrapped around the far sides so the teen was effectively trapped on the bike. Jason was slightly unnerved at how easy it was for him to maneuver the handlebars despite the fact a teenager was in his way.

This kid was skinny. He was so tiny with his head drooping over the handlebars, it wasn't hard for Jason to see over him as he cranked the engine, roaring out onto the street toward his apartment.

He made a mental note to start calling the younger boy "Tiny Tim" when this whole mess was over.

The trip took 22 minutes exactly. Jason mentally congratulated himself for the faster time as he hauled the near deadweight Tim Drake up the stairs of the fire escape. He fumbled a moment with the lock, heaving the old window open before shoving his load unceremoniously through the hole.

He smirked at the muttered, "Ow," as he clambered through the window himself, sidestepping the skinny little lump just under the sill. Jason quickly shut the pane and drew the shabby curtains, just in case there were unfriendly types lurking about.

Heaving the other to his feet, Jason managed to drag him across his apartment and into the tiny bedroom, allowing the boy to slip his arm off his shoulders and flop, shoes and all, almost comically onto the bed.

"Smell's bad," Tim slurred, eyes closed.

"Gee, thanks," Jason snapped. "For that, you're getting the couch."

But the splayed teen's only response was a light snore.

"Typical," Jason grumbled, snatching his cellphone from the bedside table and tiptoeing back into the small hallway.

After a quick shower, Jason wound up in the living room wearing a T-shirt and a baggy pair of sweatpants that might've been Dick's at some point. He couldn't remember.

Shooting a glare at the lumpy couch that would be his bed, Jason fixed his attention on the cellphone in his hand.

There was really only one way to fix this, at least for a little while. And unfortunately, Tim's problem was something Jason had zero control over—which meant he needed outside help.

Don't think about it, he reminded himself, dialing in a phone number he'd sworn never to call, but had memorized on accident anyway. Just do it. He hit the send button, hesitated a moment, then pressed the phone to his ear.

Jason fidgeted while he waited for someone to pick up, pacing silently up and down the carpet as the rings continued. Come on, come on...

Finally, just as he was about to end the call, a disgruntled voice (Jason smirked at the thought he'd woken the man up) came through the line: "'Lo, this is Dick. Who're you?"

Jason snorted. "That's pretty blunt even for you, Goldie."

There was a clatter on the other line, followed by shuffling sounds as if a hand was scrabbling around on the floor. Then, a breathless: "Jason?"

Jason rolled his eyes, even though the gesture was completely lost over the phone. "No, this is his life model decoy."

"But...what... Er, how are you?"

Jason almost winced at that lame attempt at a normal conversation. "Alive. And don't get so excited. I'm calling in a favor. It's about Tim..."

Immediately, Dick sounded more alert. "Tim? What's wrong with him? Did you..."

"No!" Jason interrupted, anger and hurt bubbling inside him at the implication of the elder's words. "Why the heck would I be calling you if it was my fault?!"

"That's not what I—" Dick started to protest.

"Sure," Jason sneered, already regretting his decision to call the first Robin. "You totally weren't blaming me for everything bad that's ever happened to your precious Baby Bird. Well, news flash, this time it's all on you!"

There was a deathly pause.

Finally, a whisper: "Me?" The man sounded so heartbroken and confused, Jason almost felt sorry for him. "How is this my fault?"

"You, Bruce, and Wayne Enterprises have been running this kid ragged," Jason snarled angrily. "He hasn't slept in 83 hours, Dick. And he's still backed up with reports and security system upgrades. This kid is stressed and overworked to the point of collapse."

The only sound through the line was Dick's muffled breathing.

"Look," Jason sighed, forcing himself to calm down. "I only called because I want you to tell Bruce to rearrange Tim's schedule tomorrow. Give him the day off to clear his head. And would it kill you to ask Babs to fix your security system? She can't be that ticked at you, can she?"

A humorless snort of laughter echoed into Jason's ear. "Sure she can't." Then, lighter, "I'll see what I can do."

"And don't forget to tell B to start taking care of his own freaking company and criminal reports while you're at it," Jason added. "Not to mention the other tower's upgrades." He lowered the phone from his ear, prepared to hang up, when Dick cried out: "Wait!"

Reluctantly, Jason paused.

"Jason," Dick breathed, "look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blame you for anything, and I swear I had no idea what Tim was doing."

"Working himself into the ground, that's what," Jason muttered.

"But," Dick continued, "I'm so glad you're taking care of him. You're stepping up to do what Bruce and I have admittedly been doing a sucky job with, and you probably just saved Tim's life—at the very least, his sanity. So...thanks, Jay."

Jason blinked. For a moment, he couldn't find his voice as a treacherous lump grew in his throat. "Whatever, Goldie," he grumbled thickly, unable to muster up any venom. "Don't get used to it."

He ended the call before Dick could get any sappier and tossed the device on the drooping couch. He eyed said couch distastefully.

"Well," he muttered, "time to tuck in, Todd."

Tim woke slowly. The first thing that registered in his barely conscious mind were two unfamiliar smells: cigarette smoke and...gunpowder?

He frowned in confusion. Why would he be smelling that? Tim certainly didn't smoke, and didn't own a gun himself.

Another possibility springing into his waking mind, and he tensed instinctively. Was he in costume? Did he get caught on patrol?

That fear was quickly disestablished as he felt rough, but warm sheets under his cheek, the familiar starchy collar and sleeves of his button-down shirt rubbing against his skin.

That segued to a new question: Why on earth did he go to sleep in his suit? The material below him and his horizontal position proved he wasn't at his desk (where he'd caught a quick nap more times than he cared to admit).

And that's when he realized that the room wasn't silent: muffled snores made themselves known in the previous quiet.

The tension was back; he wasn't alone.

The echo of the sounds proving that although the snores were near, they weren't in his immediate area, Tim allowed his eyes to flicker open...and found himself facing a plain white wall.

Confused, he jerked upright, eyes flicking rapidly around the room to take in the rumpled red sheets of the bed he was lying on, the low bedside table at the left of the bed sporting an unshaded lamp, the single poster on the wall of a rock band with the caption #YOLO, and the small dresser in the corner.

This wasn't his room. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd never seen this room before in his life.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Tim probed through his recent memories, attempting to remember when and how he'd gotten here. He recalled going to the café last night, then downing a half dozen milkshakes—his stomach grumbled in protest at the memory—and then...Jason.

Tim rocketed from the bed like he'd been shocked, nearly crashing into the opposite wall with his momentum.

Jason had been there. They had talked. And...

Then it clicked.

Tim stared in shock at the slightly ajar bedroom door, painfully aware of the snores echoing through from someone else in the apartment.

This couldn't be right. The Jason he knew would never...

There was only one way to be sure.

Cautiously, utilizing every ounce of his training (he was trying to sneak up on another Bat, after all) Tim glided to the door, easing it open silently and sliding through the moment he could fit through the opening.

He found himself in a short hallway, a single door to his left. The snores were louder now, coming from straight ahead. Tensed like a spring, Tim padded down the little hall, emerging into a room nearly twice the size of the bedroom—the living room.

An older TV sat on a cabinet at the right wall, the only other furniture in the room being a moldering armchair, a radiant green houseplant in the corner, and a sagging couch.

The mysterious snoring noises were coming from the couch cushions.

Two steps later, Tim spotted the source.

Jason Peter Todd took up every inch of the seating portion of the couch, one arm dangling over the side and mouth slightly open as increasingly loud snores erupted from the orifice. His hair was flat on one side, sticking up in porcupine quills on the other like it had dried that way. The thinnest strand of drool dangled from the parted lips.

A list of options sped through Tim's mind, and he quickly latched onto the least awkward one: Leave a note, and get out of there.

His cheeks flushed in shame as the contents of last night's conversation drifted through his mind, how he'd unknowingly opened up to the most volatile member of the family who happened to have Tim at the top of his hit list.

He couldn't stay. Jason would undoubtedly tease him about this for years afterward, but right now, he didn't think he could take it.

Inching slowly backward, Tim began casting about for the door to the apartment, intent on slipping out before the older man woke up.

Abruptly, the snores stopped. Alert, green-tinged blue eyes opened, glinting humorously up at Tim. "Hiya."

Tim winced as he realized Jason had been awake the whole time. "Um...hi?"

Jason smirked. "Feeling better?"

Tim started at the unexpected, polite question, having been sure Jason was about to razz him for last night's moment of weakness. "Er..."

And that's when Tim noticed with surprise that the headache that had been plaguing him for the last couple days was gone. His limbs weren't heavy and uncooperative like he'd just ran a marathon anymore, and the fog that had been annoyingly clouding his thoughts had lifted. In fact, he felt better than he had in months.

"Great, actually," Tim admitted aloud. "What time is it?"

Jason lazily craned his neck around, glancing at something over Tim's shoulder. "About one in the afternoon."

Tim froze in horror, panic washing over him in a wave. "That late?! The board meeting... I missed it! Lucius will have my head..." He frantically patted his pockets, searching for his day planner. He had to reschedule right now. That meant he'd have to move back the meeting with Star Labs to Friday, push back the repairs to R&D so there would be no banging noises during orientation, skip his afternoon coffee—

"Chillax, Baby Bird," Jason snickered, seeming unconcerned by this revelation. Tim realized he'd said all of that out loud as the Red Hood waved a hand at the frantic Tim.

"I called Dick," Jason said casually. "He rearranged everything. Your schedule is officially empty today."

With that second dive bomb of the day, Tim's brain stuttered to a halt. He stared at his predecessor uncomprehendingly. "Um...what?"

"Board meeting cancelled," Jason said slowly, as if Tim was a toddler. "You are free."

Tim blinked. That didn't...compute. How could there be nothing going on today?

"But...Dick's security system," he managed. "The Titans."

"Taken care of," Jason said dismissively. He gave Tim a critical look. "Seriously, kid, when's the last time you had a day off?"

It took Tim longer than it should have to think that through. "Er...can't remember," he admitted.

Spreading his arms in a 'see what I mean?' gesture, Jason quirked both eyebrows. "Exactly. Congratulations, Timmy, you've got a vacation. Do you need me to define that for you? Vacation: noun, meaning 'to take a rest'..."

"Okay," Tim agreed hesitantly. His mind completely refused to accept that he could take a break. There was always something to do; Tim just had to find it. There was no way Jason could have cleared everything from his schedule... And why would he want to? He hated Tim. Was this some twisted form of revenge?

But then...Jason had so far shown no intention of bringing up last night... And he'd driven Tim home...

All these oxymorons were making his brain hurt.

"And you know how we're going to spend today?" Jason said, interrupting Tim's conflicting thoughts.

Before Tim could even start to reply, Jason had swung an arm over his shoulders, dragging him dazedly over to the couch.

"We're going to watch every single episode of BBC's Sherlock from beginning to end," Jason pronounced. "Should only run...oh, I dunno, 13.5 hours, give or take."

"Why?" Tim asked, utterly bewildered.

"Why not?" Jason countered. "We'll order pizza for dinner and I've got Coke in the fridge. Unless you'd prefer a milkshake? Because if you do, you're buying."

"No...no, Coke is fine," Tim managed, allowing himself to be pushed onto the couch. "Everything is...great."

Jason grinned broadly. "See? What I tell you?" He trotted over to the DVD player, popping open the loading deck and slipping in the disc.

And then it hit Tim: Jason was really trying to help him. Otherwise, why go to all this trouble only to shoot him in the face later?

Guilt and shame crept into the corners of his mind at how wary he was around Jason, when, at least so far, he'd shown no reason for Tim to be cautious. In fact, it had been a couple years since Jason had last tried to kill him. A new record.

A sudden surge of gratitude for the older man washed over him. Jason had been there for him at his lowest point, and didn't seem to be judging him for his weakness. He had ensured that Tim was safe in his pitiful condition, bringing him into his own apartment and letting him sleep in his bed while Jason himself took the couch; offering silent support and a much needed rest by calling Dick to clear Tim's calendar for the day.

If that wasn't being a big brother, Tim didn't know what counted as one.

He took a deep breath. Maybe it was time to start the ball rolling to finally set things right with his predecessor.

A short, but catchy theme song began to play onscreen as Jason settled on the opposite end of the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

Tim licked his lips nervously. "Er...Jason?"

"Hmm?" Jason hummed, eyes combing the back of the DVD case as the theme played out.

"I just wanted to say...thanks," Tim said fervently, "for..." For being there for me. For not giving up on me. For being my brother. "For everything."

Jason glanced up, once again lifting the infamous eyebrow. "Don't get used to it, Replacement. But you're welcome."

Tim smiled, allowing himself to relax against the cushions as soldiers appeared in shaky cam on the screen. Maybe it was okay to take a break every once in awhile. Sometimes it just took a homicidal brother breathing down your neck to realize it.