Full Title: then do as adversaries do in law (strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends)

Partly based on this headcanon by Incogneat-oh.

It's a wet, cold October morning, and Tim's already dropped his armload of files twice – once on his way out the door and once as he was trying to juggle opening his car door and not losing his grip on his coffee. He lost the struggle, and the files went all over the floor – again – and his coffee went all over himself and the files.

Hence the reason he's pushing open the door to Coffee, Inc., with one hand, while the other cleans his suit off as best he can with a spare napkin.
He's glad to be out of the rain, and the shop is as nice as Tab, his bubbly PA, is always telling him it is, with small tables here and there and two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with armchairs in front of them as classic 70's plays over the speakers. He shakes his head with a slight smile, remembers her teasing grin. "You really should try it sometime, Tim. Maybe it'd stop you working for five minutes altogether. There's a really sweet barista that works there – shy, cute, polite – she seems like your type."

Tim had laughed politely, filed the name of the coffee shop away, and had forgotten about it until this morning.

He glances around, but doesn't see anyone, including a barista, but a voice from the back calls out, "Be with you in one second!" so he takes a seat in one of the armchairs in the corner.

A couple minutes later there's a grating noise and an apron wrapped figure backs out of the back room, dragging a rolling cart of baked goods to one side of the low front counter.

Tim gets up and moves towards it, notes that the grating sound is because the cart's missing a wheel, and then stops stock-still as the barista turns around, already asking, "What can I…" he trails off.

Probably not the sweet, shy barista Tab was talking about, Tim thinks ruefully, still trying to process why Jason Todd of all people is working in a no-name, hipster coffee-shop with a little tinkly bell over the door okay this just does not compute.

Jason folds his arms – across his flour-smeared apron how is this real life – and scowls defensively. "You gonna order something or just stand there and gawk?"

"Are you going to poison it?" Tim asks abruptly, then flushes.

Jason raises an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between amused and offended. "As if I'd ruin a good espresso like that," he scoffs, "and besides, poison's a coward's weapon."

Stabbing people in the back, Tim thought, had never been Jason's modus operandi. He liked you to know he was coming; spent a lot of time and effort building his reputation. Which made it all the more inconceivable for him to be standing here waiting to hear Tim's coffee order.

Oh. Waiting to hear his order. Right. He cleared his throat. "Uh, just a double espresso. Please." He pulls out his wallet, but Jason waves him away. "I got this, Babybird. Not every day the son of Bruce Wayne graces our humble establishment."

Tim flushes again at the nickname, but says steadily, because despite his last name he knows Jason is (always was always will be) more Bruce's son than he ever will be, "Every day you're working, Jason."

The other man turns away with a dismissive shrug, flicking the grinder on.

Not the most subtle means of changing the subject, but then Bruce still hangs up before anyone (read: Dick) can bring the conversation around to anything so Bruce-repellant as feelings, so. He comes by it honestly, at least.

Tim waits patiently while Jason doses the fresh ground coffee into the portafilter, tamping it with a couple quick flicks of his wrist and then locks it into place on the machine, starting the flow of espresso.

There's an easy familiarity to the movements, and almost before he's thought, Tim asks, "How long have you been working here?"

Jason shoots him a quick-silver glance, one eyebrow quirked. "Questioning my competence, Babybird?"

Taken aback and flushing a little (if anyone is the 'baby bird' in their messed little family it's Damian, surely!), he says, "No! I just wondered. You're really good at that." Why does his voice sound surprised it's not surprising Jason's good at this, he's not Tim of course he's just as good at making coffee as everything else.

Jason grunts. 'You haven't tasted it yet." He pours both shots of espresso into a tiny cup and moves it across the counter to Tim.

There's an expectant, almost hopeful look on Jason's face as Tim goes to take a sip, and Tim wonders if in his suit and tie and file with WE stamped on the outside, Jason's using him as a kind of Bruce substitute (Tim's the Replacement, the Pretender; Jason wouldn't care about his opinion). It's good, really good, and Tim's look of pleasure is entirely unfeigned. "This is really good, Jason."

Jason grins (all over his face, as Tab's little two year old put it once), and says. "Six months. I started working here. Um. Six months ago."

Tim blinks. "What does your boss say when you come in with two black eyes and a broken arm?" Most of them can't hold day jobs for much longer than a couple months, since bruises, cracked ribs, and knocked out teeth tend to be a turnoff to employers and customers alike.

"He thinks I'm a bouncer," Jason shrugs.

"You –" Tim pauses, pursing his lips. "Okay, actually that's a pretty good cover."

There's another grin, razor edged. "Glad you approve. He might have come to that conclusion on his own when I showed up for work after that thing with Black Face's gang."

Tim remembers that thing. Oracle had hacked his personal computer with a flashing message to get his butt in gear and get to Red Hood's location. He had found Jason, both guns discarded and red helmet missing, backed into a literal corner with only his knife in hand, bleeding out, again, on a warehouse floor. Black Mask's goons were taking turns kicking at him. They had been laughing too much to hear Red Robin land behind them. He had been glad Jason was passed out and none of the other Bats were there, because he left the men groaning and sobbing on the warehouse floor just conscious enough to hear his purred, "Don't. touch. my family," before he called in ask Alfred to be ready.

(Bruce had looked at Tim disapprovingly when the police report came in that all of the gang had one or more broken limbs and one man was in critical condition. Tim had not apologized. For once he didn't care that Bruce disapproved of him.)

Tim wonders how much Jason remembers about that night. (Jason looks like he might be wondering the same thing.)

The bell over the door jangles and a dark-haired girl comes in. "Hey Jason, sorry I'm late. My car would not start. Again."

A slight accent lends her voice a musical tinge and Tim mentally places her from either Columbia or Ecuador.

Jason smiles at her, some of the harsh lines in his forehead and around his eyes smoothing out. 'Hey, Tina. Don't worry about it – Tim's been the only customer so far. You park in the back? I can take a look at it if you want."

The girl's face lights up. "Would you? Oh, you are so kind. Thank you, Jason." She darts forward and drops a kiss on his cheek. "I will start the coffee cake."

Tim raises an eyebrow, waiting until she's disappeared into the back to say mildly, "She seems very sweet."

Jason shakes his head, expression looking troubled, "Shut up, she's like my little sister." He shakes his head once, impatiently, and grins slyly. "Maybe she's more your type, Replacement."

Tim stifles a sigh. There was a brief silence, but just before it was long enough to be awkward, the speakers overhead began whistling out, Tweedle-lee-dee-dee-dee, tweedle-lee-dee-dee.

Jason and Tim glance at each other. After a second Jason shakes his head with a half annoyed, half amused huff. "Babs keeps adding that to the shop playlist. I keep telling her it's really not that funny, but she just laughs at me." He glances at a fern in one corner and says, "Still not funny, O."

The girl – Tina – pokes her head around the corner, brows furrowed. "Jason – is it two cups of flour or of sugar?"

"You're asking Jason about baking?" Tim blurts out before he can stop himself, lurid details of Bruce and Dick's adventures in the kitchen springing to mind.

Jason scowls at him. "I'll have you know I was the only one Alfred didn't ban from the kitchen."

"He hasn't banned me!"

An unimpressed eyebrow goes up. "Babybird, when did you ever try and do anything in the kitchen except reheat Alfred-meals?"

Tina's looking at them curiously. "You know each other, Jason?"

Time smiles, his Tim Drake-Wayne smile, "Jason and I are-" acquainted, he's about to say. Maybe add business associates.

But Jason interrupts him, expression somewhere between mulish and proud. "Brothers. Tina, my little brother Timmy. Tim, Tina Reyes."

"It's nice to meet you," Tina smiles, leaning over the counter to shake his hand.

"Likewise," Tim manages, looking at Jason. What are you doing?

A shrug and a smile. 'S true, right?

Tim raises a skeptical eyebrow, but doesn't add anything else.

Jason asks aloud, sweetly, "Can I get you anything to go?"

"If you wait, you can have fresh baked coffee cake!" Tina says brightly.

He hesitates. "That's – very kind but I –"

"'s not kind, moron. You'd still be paying for it."

Trapped between Tina's expectant smile and Jason's amused one, Tim coughs awkwardly. "I – that sounds good, thank you. I'll just –" he gestures to a nearby table.

The coffee cake is delicious, as is the Tortuga Tina brings him to go with it, and when Tim finally gets to the office, an hour later than normal, his secretary raises an eyebrow. "Late night?" She asks archly.

"I visited that coffee shop you suggested," he says, ignoring her comment.

"Oh! Good! What did you think?"

One corner of his mouth curls up, almost shyly. "It was – nice." He thinks back on Jason's roughly affectionate teasing and Tina's gentle scolding (apparently he doesn't eat nearly enough), and the smile grows a little. "It was really nice."

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