What follows is a silent feud about where Jason will sleep. He tries to insist that the cot in the medbay will be sufficient, but Tim is unmoved by the argument.

"You need to be comfortable," he maintains crossly. "The only time anyone gets any sleep in here is if they're doped up on the good drugs, none of which will help you right now."

"Sleep won't help me either, you know. There hasn't really been a difference between being awake or not for a while now."

Tim tries not to betray his dismay at that. "It might not do anything for your mind, but it might for the rest of you. You need to keep what strength you can."

"Then I'll sleep on your couch."

"That thing was brought for decoration only," Tim counters. "I can tell you from experience that falling asleep on it causes as many bruises as a night of patrol." He pauses to consider, and then says, "Besides, that's where the brat's sleeping if he stays over."

Damian rolls his eyes. "Hilarious. I expect someone else will be here to relieve me before I ever have to endure what passes as your version of hospitality."

"There are two bedrooms in the apartment," Tim goes on, ignoring the boy, "Alfred was by before all this happened to change the linens, so it's all clean. You can take my bed—"

"No. No. I can't. If you're going to be stubborn about this, I'll go with the guestroom."

"Really? You're going to pick a fight over this too?" Tim groans. "My room is the only one with blackout blinds, which are statistically proven to improve sleep quality."

Jason shifts from side to side, like he's wavering, and then throws Damian an almost pleading look.

The boy huffs in irritation and snaps at Tim, "Surely even you can't be ignorant to the implications of letting a man, who's aroused by your very presence, sleep in your bed?"

Stunned silence meets that comment, before the horror sets in.

"Damian!"

"What the hell, kid?!"

"You just…I can't believe you…That's not…!" Tim may be too upset for words at this moment, not least of all because the little monster has a point.

"If this is what having a normal younger brother feels like, I'm amazed any of you make it to adulthood," Jason growls, cheeks bright red.

The boy remains unrepentant. "I'm sure Richard has said the same thing about both of you on occasion. Now, if you're both finished with the Victorian theatrics, I haven't eaten yet and assuming the likely event that Drake has nothing palatable in his fridge, I intend to order something. If you don't want to starve, you may come along. And bring your credit card."

He swans out of the medbay, leaving the older vigilantes staring after him.

"How?" Tim mutters. "How is it the little jerk always manages to walk around my property like he owns it?"

"Because you're a pushover," Jason answers immediately.

Tim makes a face. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me that when you're not holding my hand like it's a lifeline."

Jason's eyes snap downward in surprise like he didn't notice he was doing it. If they were red before, the color of his cheeks appears to darken further now.

"Shut up," he snaps.

Which makes Tim feel bad about teasing him.

It's not like he has control over it.

Or the way he's been looking at him since Tim showed up with Barbara.

It's total disbelief, like he can't understand how Tim was physically in front of him, and then something like shame or guilt.

The knot in Tim's stomach tightens at that.

Is kissing me really something that bothers him that much?

"You, uh, you don't have to take my bed," Tim murmurs, avoiding the other man's gaze. "It's like you said. Not like you're going to sleep anyway, so…the guestroom should be good enough."

He leaves the medbay, Jason in tow.

"Why do you even have a guestroom?" the latter wants to know. "You don't strike me as the type to want people staying over here."

"Kon and Bart sometimes crash here."

Jason scowls. "Aren't they fast enough to just zoom back home in a blink? Why do they have to stay here?"

"Uh, because they're my friends? And sometimes friends get together and do things like play video games, go see movies or just sit and commiserate about how irritating our parent-slash-mentors can be. They don't have to stay, but sometimes it's just fun to hang out."

"Yeah, well, wouldn't know anything about that," Jason mutters.

Some of Tim's attitude fades away. "Really? Bruce didn't let you hang out with your friends?"

"To do that you need to have friends to hang out with."

"But I thought—there was that girl, wasn't there?" he asks as he opens the door to the apartment, and they head in.

I'm sure I saw pictures of her and Jason up in his bedroom.

Jason looks confused for a moment, like he's trying to remember something long-buried, but eventually the recollection takes hold.

"Rena? Yeah, we hung out, but there weren't sleepovers involved, and I couldn't exactly complain to her about when Batman was being a douche," he reminds him. "And I guarantee when we went to see movies, we weren't actually watching the movie. If you know what I mean."

He ends the last bit with a leer and now it's Tim who's embarrassed. "What about the Titans? You never stayed over at the Tower?"

"Daytrips only," Jason replies. "B wasn't keen on me hanging out with them. I think he still blamed them for Dick leaving and thought they'd corrupt me or something. I was rarely there long enough to bond with anyone like that."

"Sounds kind of like Damian's situation," Tim says, glancing over to where the younger boy is sitting at his kitchen island with his cellphone in hand, lecturing someone across the line in rapid Chinese.

"I think in his case, it isn't so much the lack of opportunity to make friends as the lack of interest."

"You're not wrong." Tim shakes his head. "I mean, he did grow up in the League. And you…" He trails off, suddenly reminded. "You were there too, right? When you came back?"

"Sort of," Jason allows, shifting with discomfort. "Friends weren't high on the list of priorities then."

"I guess not."

Tim purses his lips as he leads Jason up the stairs toward the bedroom, wondering not for the first time what kind of hell the other man had to endure upon his resurrection. That part of his life is a mystery to them all.

And I have a feeling some of it shouldn't be.

He recalls the blades that appeared in Jason's hand out of nowhere, and strains his memory through the disorganization of the fight to remember what Carrie Cutter said when she saw them.

"What about the All-Caste," he recalls out loud as he leads for Jason to enter the guestroom at the end of the hall. "Was that the same thing?"

He doesn't have to look at the other man to notice he's tensed up. "Sort of, yeah."

"So, it's another secret organization? They're the ones who gave you those swords, right?"

"Nobody gave me anything," Jason grunts, and skirts past Tim and through the door into the room. He pauses a moment, assessing the space as if expecting something to jump out at him—there's the Bat-paranoia—before turning back to face Tim. "I trained for that shit, and it takes a special kind of rage to be able access the All-Blades."

Tim leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. "All-Blades. Really. They're seriously called that?"

Jason shoots him a look. "Problem?"

"No. I just…it's kind of a lame name. Magic blades are usually called…Excalibur or Sword of Omens or Dagger of Time." That earns him a disbelieving look, and Tim throws his hands up in defense. "I'm just saying."

"You're a goddamn nerd is what you're saying," Jason informs him. "And it doesn't matter what they're called, it's what they do."

"' Only show up in the presence of pure evil'. I remember. As far as powers go, at least they're useful."

"Not if Cupid decides to keep switching back and forth with whoever's helping her," Jason says. "They work against whoever that is but are useless against her when she's human and just crazy." Weariness radiates off him, and to Tim's surprise, he throws himself back onto the bed seemingly without any of his prior unease, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "What I wouldn't give right now for a superpower that was a bit less finicky."

"The fact that we have a power on our side at all is still an advantage."

"Not as much as if I had the ability to blow shit up with my mind. Which would be kind of poetic."

His mouth twists into a self-deprecating grin that makes Tim scowl. "Of course."

Always with the death jokes.

Jason appears to notice his tone because when he lowers his hands from his eyes there's a glimmer of apology there. It vanishes almost immediately, hidden beneath the veneer of humor.

"What about you?" he asks.

"What about me what?"

"If you could have a superpower, what would it be?"

And isn't this surreal?

First, that Jason is here in his apartment, second that this isn't some kind of Red Hood plan where he shows up to mess with Tim. And now they're talking about superpowers? In the hypothetical sense, instead of their usual 'someone-with-a-power-is-trying-to-kill-us' sense.

Jason is still waiting for him to answer, so Tim thinks for a moment. "I don't know. Something easy to hide, I guess."

"Hide? Like from B?"

"No—well, yeah, that too. You know how he is. But I wouldn't want something that would call attention to myself, or anyone else in the masked community. Especially not the Bats," he says.

"Huh. Guess you got a point. If suddenly getting powers meant you develop lizard skin or wings or gills, it'd be kinda hard to hide even with all the fun Wayne Enterprises toys you've got."

"And if someone like Vicki Vale could finally make the connection between me and everyone else? I think I'll pass."

Jason shakes his head. "There you go again, putting everyone's needs and comfort above yourself. It's a real issue with you, isn't it?"

"It's a hypothetical situation, you don't need to read too much into it."

"Okay, well hypothetically, if you weren't a self-sacrificing moron, what power would you want?"

Tim ponders for a moment, and then says, "Being able to fly, maybe. Or super strength."

"Wanna be able to keep up with Super Clone, huh?" Jason asks, voice a little tight.

Tim frowns because that sounds like a dig; not at him, he realizes a beat later, but Connor.

Why would that…? Oh. He's jealous.

Still unsure how to deal with Jason's newfound possessiveness, he gauges the other man's body language, and then slowly enters the room proper to perch on the edge of the bed. Knowing how uneasy Jason is about physical proximity, he keeps a respectable distance between them for now.

Out loud, and in a would-be casual voice, he replies, "No, nothing like that. It'd just be nice to be able to go up against Bane or Killer Croc without having to worry too much about the day I'm too slow to dodge."

Wrong thing to say, apparently.

Jason's instantly sitting up and reaching for Tim—almost snatching at him. "You go one-on-one with Killer Croc? Are you nuts?"

"It's an example," Tim is quick to assure him even as he lets him grasp his hand. "I've never been that reckless. I'm not Damian."

Although there was that one time, I tricked Killer Croc and Bane into going after each other instead of me, but I'm not telling Jason that now. Save that for when he's cured and will find it funny instead of upsetting.

He tries to ignore the nagging doubt at the back of his mind that they're even going to be able to cure Jason.

Or that if they do, Jason will even stick around.

"Thank the gods for small miracles," Jason exhales; he doesn't remove his hand, though.

"Also, aside from being useful the next time someone decides to drop a baby over a bridge, flying's awesome," Tim says lightly. "You can't tell me your favorite thing about being Robin wasn't jumping off tall buildings."

"Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. There's something to be said for busting collarbones."

"You forget that I was there," Tim points out. "I saw you taking the long way back to your rendezvous points just so you could be in the air a little longer."

"Pics or it didn't happen."

"I have pictures."

"Which you don't show anyone."

"Yeah, because I love reminding people of how I stalked them when I was a stupid kid," Tim deadpans.

"Hey, you did it, own it. But I'd still like to see those pictures. I…uh…don't exactly have a lot of me from before…from when I was a kid."

Tim purses his lips, holding back on his first instinct to babble out an agreement. This new honesty and vulnerability Jason is showing him—the increased tactility and need for proximity—it's only Eros' blood influencing him. Who's to say once things are back to normal—and they will be!—Jason won't go back to mocking and deriding Tim?

Assuming he wants to be within ten feet of me.

"Tell you what," he says at last. "When this is over, if you still want to see them, I'll hunt them out of storage."

Jason beams at him in genuine excitement. "Awesome."

They gaze at each other for several seconds, before Jason seems to remember himself. His eyes dart to their hands, and he pulls back again. "Sorry."

"You know what I'm going to say."

"Yeah. But it's not just about you. I'm not…I don't do this." He gestures. "Even when I'm not under the influence of mind-altering drugs, not a fan of handsy guys. Especially if the handsy guy is me."

"You know, I had noticed that pattern since you got back to Gotham," Tim says dryly. "All that busting of collarbones you were talking about."

Jason's cheeks go pink for some reason at that. "Uh. Yeah. Exactly."

Before Tim can think it over, Jason shifts until he's lying down, and then turns his back on Tim. "Think I'm gonna try that whole sleeping thing. Just for shits and giggles."

"Okay," Tim replies slowly, feeling as if he's missing something. "You want me to go?"

"No!" Jason practically whirls around, winces when he realizes how fervent that was. "I mean…you can stay. If you want." He swallows, looking anywhere but Tim. "Might help. A bit. You don't have to."

I hope the King of Mixed Signals thing you've got going on is just the infection…

"How about this," Tim begins, bringing out his phone. "I'll sit over here—" A respectable six inches away from Jason, "—and get to work on that list. You try to get some sleep. When you wake up, you can look it over and tell me what you think."

He can see how Jason's working out if that's alright, trying to find any way that could backfire, and then he slowly nods.

"Okay. Yeah. Let's do that."

"And at the top of the list," Tim says, shooting him a meaningful glare, "'Jason Todd is allowed to hold Tim Drake's hand'. Should I put it in bold?"

"Don't be such a smug shit, Replacement."

The other man still settles back on his side of the bed. It's completely stiff at first, and his eyes remain trained on Tim like he's afraid he'll either vanish or wrap himself around him.

Tim pretends not to notice the scrutiny, instead sits cross-legged in his designated spot, and makes it seem like he's wholly engrossed in figuring out a list of behaviors that they can both consider allowable. Which is a new one for him, because he's never really considered doing this before in a regular relationship, let alone one as situational as this.

Eventually the exhaustion of the past days catches up with Jason, and the Bat conditioning of grabbing sleep wherever and whenever one can wins out. His breath evens out and when Tim does look up, his eyelids have drifted shut.

For several minutes, he simply watches, before catching himself.

Don't be a creeper.

He turns back to his phone.

Unsure what else to add to the list (and there's kind of no point doing this while Jason's asleep, Tim only said he'd work on it to keep the other man calm), Tim decides to use the time to read up a little more on Greek mythology. Jason is so well-read on this subject and Tim has only a passing knowledge, if there's any chance of thinking up new solutions for this case, it will help if he doesn't need Jason or Eros to take the time to explain things to him.

Especially not Eros. I trust him about as far as Kon could throw him…

He never thought this sort of thing was important to know, mostly because if there was ever case involving mythology or ancient evil, Cassie generally had that covered.

Apparently, a refresher course is in order.

Speaking of Cassie, he sends her a quick text—and then one to Bart and Kon just to cover all his bases—before diving into his research.

He doesn't have the time or the patience to read the original works of Hesiod or Homer, although he amuses himself thinking Jason probably has.

Maybe even in the original Greek.

He spares a fond look for the sleeping man beside him.

Somehow, he never expected he could look so vulnerable. And not only because that word seems incompatible for describing Jason.

After years of training, the mantra of 'constant vigilance' gets so ingrained in a body that it can never really relax into slumber. Tim doesn't think any of the Robins are able to just check-out when they go to sleep.

Not without heavy sedation, or under the care of a qualified English butler.

And unlike Dick and Tim, the other Robins all led lives that were anything but safe. Being a heavy sleeper could lead to more than just bruises.

His fingers want to drift toward Jason again, want to comb through his hair but Tim is loath to disturb his fragile slumber.

He becomes aware then, of eyes on him and Jason; looking up, he catches Damian watching from the doorway, a frown on his face.

Tim tenses up defensively then, expecting a snide comment and already planning on how he'll fight the kid if he makes a big deal about this.

Jason already feels bad enough about the whole thing, we don't need any more comments from the peanut gallery.

"Did you need something?" he asks coolly, voice soft so as not to disturb Jason.

"I simply came to inform you that Brown has arrived for her babysitting shift," the boy tells him, but the usual sneer that would accompany his words is absent. He lingers a further moment in the doorway, shakes his head and then walks away.

Tim frowns, not sure he wants to ask, but also knowing that leaving Damian to his own devices rarely turns out well.

Carefully, he shifts away from Jason, moving with gentleness so as not to wake him. Once he's satisfied that he hasn't disturbed him, he leaves the room and gently closes the door behind him.

Damian is already across the hallway, leaning against the door of Tim's study with his arms crossed and mouth pulled downward. It's the same look Bruce gets when he's puzzling out a clue that doesn't fit.

"You care for Todd."

"Of course I do," Tim agrees automatically. "He's one of us."

"No. Not like that." Damian pauses, like he's trying to choose his words with care, which is…rare for him. "You care about him in a romantic way. I had assumed it was one-sided due to the circumstances, but it's not. You return his feelings."

Tim's stomach swoops, a lump in his throat.

First Steph, now Damian. I've managed to keep this to myself for almost ten years, and in the span of two weeks two of the people I'd least like to know figure it out.

Damian continues to watch him, waiting for a confirmation or a denial.

Tim chooses to side-step. "He doesn't have feelings for me. You know that's Eros' blood making him act this way."

"Perhaps. It doesn't change the fact that at this moment, he cares for you and you care for him."

"The key words being 'at this moment'," Tim says with a scowl. "Which means it doesn't matter. It's not real."

"I don't understand. This is clearly a good thing, and yet you both persist in being miserable," Damian says, crossing his arms. "If you act on your feelings, it could allay his distress much better than your current half-measures. And in the meantime, the rest of us can work on a long-term solution."

Tim clenches his jaw, a myriad of responses on his tongue, some more defensive and angry than others.

He's saved from saying anything when another voice says, "It doesn't work like that, Dami."

Steph has made her way up the stairs; she's dressed in comfortable clothes and the cast on her arm has been wrapped with purple tape.

"There's no Band-Aid solution for this," she goes on. "When this is all over and Jason goes back to wanting nothing to do with the Family—with Tim—it's going to be heartbreaking."

"It will be heartbreaking anyhow," Damian points out. "You may as well enjoy it while you can. At least then, you'll have the memories. Especially if our efforts to save him are unsuccessful."

Which is oddly deep, for Damian.

"Memories aren't always a good substitute for giving up that last bit of yourself," Steph says quietly. "Take it from someone who knows from experience."

Her expression wavers, and Tim wonders which heartbreak she's thinking of just then. Her father constantly letting her down, having to give up her daughter, the events that lead to her breakup with Tim—

It could be anything.

"And you don't want another schism with Jason to affect the team dynamics," Steph concludes.

Damian is not convinced. "Please. If that were the case, we would already have seen worse consequences from you and Drake working together."

Steph tilts her head to one side. "Okay, you have a point there. Kinda surprised you're the one making it, though."

"Why?"

"I always figured romantic relationships didn't merit your attention."

"Not unless they affect our work. Which is what Drake and Todd's is doing now."

"Should have known…" Steph rolls her eyes. "Still surprising, though. Especially considering your background."

"Meaning?"

"The, uh, culture you come from. With the League and how strict they are about everything. I figured you'd have a bigger problem with two guys, you know, having feelings for each other."

"Alleged feelings," Tim reminds. "Alleged feelings induced by supernatural roofie. I don't think it counts."

"Technicalities," Steph dismisses with a wave of her hand. "There's still major dude-on-dude sexual tension happening here."

Tim chokes, and Damian looks like he stepped in something gross. "Thank you for that horrifying assessment, Brown."

"I do what I can."

"But for your information, League law is based on skills, not who warms one's bed," Damian says. "Proscriptions against homosexuality were created by populations with such a low survival rate following birth that every available person had to be governed by the need to procreate. That's no longer an issue today."

"Really."

"In fact, should anyone in the League develop an attachment to one of their comrades—which isn't forbidden, by the way, it's just looked down on—it's considered less of a problem among same-sex relationships because it means fewer children adding to the surplus population of the world. If no one elevates their paramour above the League's law and purpose, it is not a problem."

"Huh. That actually makes sense. I mean, with Ra's' whole 'destroy humanity to save the world' spiel."

"Only certain bloodlines are continued to ensure stewardship of the world," Damian agrees. "My aunt, once she fulfilled her duties to give birth to an heir, has taken only female lovers."

"Wait…you have an aunt?"

Damian ignores her and turns to Tim. "Were your feelings for Todd entirely mutual, it would be a smart match for the both of you. Your bloodlines would cease, ridding us of your less desirable evolutionary qualities."

"Gee, thanks," Tim deadpans. "I think that was almost a compliment."

"With you and Todd unable to provide a legacy, I would be the only one to carry on Father's bloodline," the boy concludes.

"You do realize that adoption and surrogacy are a thing, right?" Steph asks, bemused. "I mean, weren't you technically a test-tube baby?"

"Blood is blood," Damian says with a shrug.

"And how do Cass and Duke and Dick fit into your little scenario here?" Tim grumbles.

"Cain has never indicated an interest in any children and given the conditioning her biological parents subjected her to, I image they ensured it would never become an issue for her," the boy muses. "Thomas is not part of the family—"

"Yet," Steph pipes up.

Damian makes a dismissive gesture, as if he agrees but doesn't consider it an issue. "And Richard is not blood."

"He's still Bruce's son."

"We're all Bruce's sons," Tim growls, once again growing irritated with Damian's black-and-white view of the world.

"You retained your father's name, as does Thomas. Todd is legally deceased. And Richard never took Father's name, to begin with. He will have his own children—if by some miracle he doesn't have them already—and they will likely marry into the family since he is ghayr mahram. Thus, we'll maintain a strong Wayne bloodline."

He nods to himself as if pleased with the assessment.

Tim stares. "Your brain is a messed-up place. You know this, right?"

"You seriously have all of this planned out?" Steph wonders, expression caught between disturbed and impressed. She looks like she might want to hear more, and so Tim interrupts.

"In any case, you guys are way off-topic—like, parallel-universe-levels of off-topic. And if you don't stop, I'm going to start speculating about hypothetical future relationships between the two of you."

"Oh, ew. Why, Tim? Why?"

"As if I would ever…of all the preposterous…does your mind know no bounds of depravity?" Damian sputters.

"Consider it revenge for that comment you made about Jason in the medbay."

Damian shudders. "Point made.

"What comment?"

"Not now, Steph."

She sighs. "Fine. I know when I'm not wanted. I'm going to finish steal some Chinese food if you don't mind."

She heads downstairs, and Tim shoots a glare at Damian. "You didn't come to get us when the food got here?"

"Do I look like Pennyworth to you? It's not enough I had to order it for you—"

"With my money, I'm guessing."

"—did you want me to eat it for you too?"

"Like you didn't already."

"Semantics." The boy turns toward the stairs as well.

"Damian."

"What?"

"Don't…don't tell Bruce," Tim says after a beat of hesitation. He doesn't like confirming any kind of perceived weakness to the younger boy, but this one has ruinous potential if not kept secret. "Please."

Damian doesn't immediately take his meaning, but when he does, he gives a sharp, barely noticeably nod.

"Tch—as if Father would be bothered by such trivium. But if you insist." Tim exhales in surprised relief. "Although…"

He tenses. Should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

"I would caution you against making your feelings about Todd very obvious around Richard," Damian suggests. "Considering the way he has been compromised, should he discover the truth it won't remain a secret for you to tell."

He departs then, leaving Tim standing in the hallway, feeling bizarrely wrong-footed.

⁂

The horizon over Susa is dark but for a thin strip of pink, the last lingering trail of Apollo's chariot. As he heads out of the feast chamber and onto the balcony, Jason—no, not Jason. He is Alexandros, scion of gods and heir to kings—breathes deep the spicy sweet-smelling air and tries to dispel his melancholy.

His mind is a million miles away from the festivities within. He can hear the raucous shouts of his men and their new wives, the music and the dance and the drink. He should be in there with them, but his mood for celebrating feels false—false like the entire charade he's just engaged in for the sake of peace and politics.

His feet are itching to take off at a run for who knows where, and yet he remains stubbornly and painfully grounded.

There is a hand suddenly upon his—brown, callused and familiar. He looks down into dark, burning eyes and sees concern there, and so forces a smile.

"This is your wedding night, you know," he reminds. "You should be spending it with your brides."

"And you with yours," Tim—no, Hephaestion—replies, trying for teasing but it sounds more brittle than anything else.

"The duty will keep. There is only one I would spend this night with."

Alexandros leans into the other man, presses his forehead head against the smaller man's hair.

"I'll be sure to notify Roxana to expect you," Hephaestion murmurs.

Alexandros reels back with a scowl. "Very funny."

"I thought it was."

But there's a lack of his usual wry humor in the words.

Alexandros sighs, knowing the reason for it. "Are you still angry I insisted you wed Drypteis?"

"How can I be? The weddings were my idea." And they were—a brilliant and necessary political maneuver meant to forge ties between the ruling houses of Perses and Makedonia.

"One you suggested without expecting you would have to endure yourself," he points out. "Policy works better when those in power lead by example."

"Is that what it was? Here I thought you were simply tiring of the rumormongering of your other vassals," Hephaestion says darkly. "It's no secret they would have me banished or dead to take my place."

"There is no one who ever could," Alexandros assures him, worried about the sudden insecurity. "And my wish that you wed had nothing to do with what anyone else thinks. There is a grander hope in my heart than that."

Hephaestion raises an eyebrow; it's the first he's heard of this.

"Do you not see? In having you marry the sister of my own wife, you and I are now bound even more closely together than before. We are family in more than just bond now—as closely as nature will allow—and no one can argue it," Alexandros explains fervently. "And one day when I have a son, and you a daughter, they can wed. We will share descendants, and they will cement the dynasty and our bloodline in perpetuity." He crosses his arms. "So my other vassals can bay at the moon as much as they want, there will never be another who replaces you in my esteem."

Hephaestion's expression is surprised at first, then pleased. A small smile curls at the edge of his lips, cheeks darkening. But a moment later, something troubling and uncertain enters his eyes.

"What is it, philtatos? Does that future displease you?"

"It's a pretty dream your words weave, but if someone sticks a knife in your back or poisons you before you father an heir, it's nothing but a dream."

"There is time enough for that yet. And in that task, I am not alone," he teases. "Your line also has yet to be so blessed."

But Hephaestion does not rise to the bait. "You have already achieved so much. As great as—greater still—than your father before you." Alexandros clenches his fist at the mention of his father; the man is dead twelve years and yet still casts a long, damned shadow. "What could you lose, hanging back for a year or so? Spend some time running the empire you're building instead of marching constantly to war."

"What would be the point of that?" he dismisses, putting some distance between the two of them. "You do that job better than I do, with your shrewd plans and shadowy plots. I am quite content with you keeping the works running while I conquer us a legacy that will last millennia."

"I have already made the point as to why that might be problematic."

"Nonsense. Don't you see? This is why our empire will last longer than any other—because instead of one man grasping desperately to hold the reins of power, there will be two." He grasps the shoulders of his beloved. "For you, Hephaestion, are Alexandros as well. My second self." He reaches to cradle his chin, brushing his thumb across the other man's lips. "Have I not said so a thousand times?"

Hephaestion's eyes lose some of their strain, though he looks away. "And yet you are king, not I. This was never meant to be my domain. The gods chose your line, not mine."

"Perhaps not yet," Alexandros allows. "But one day it will be. As I said before."

He has no doubt about that.

There are several long moments where he waits, expectant, and then Hephaestion sighs. "As always, I will serve your will."

Alexandros nods in approval. "Good."

"I still worry, though, that your utter certainty in your will may someday be misplaced."

"Nonsense. I am a god, remember?"

"In your own mind, perhaps."

"Blasphemy," Alexandros says with affection, curling his fingers into the hair at the name of Hephaestion's neck and pulling him close. "You have called me god on more than one occasion."

Whatever the response to that might be is cut off as he fits their lips together, and then he knows nothing but the taste of his beloved.

He startles awake, the ghost of lips upon his own.

His skin tingles and burns, like it's been stretched around an ill-fitting frame, and there's a throbbing pressure behind his eyes.

"Where…?" he murmurs, examining his surroundings in confusion for a moment. The room is a far cry from the frescoed rooms and silken furniture he is used to, and the incense-thick air now replaced with something floral and false.

Worse than the disorientation is the fact Hephaestion has vanished.

Only as he jumps out of the bed where he was laying does reality return, hitting him like a crowbar to the head.

He's not Alexandros—not anymore. He's Jason, and this is Tim's guestroom, and Tim is—

"Not here," he realizes, whatever panic might have been brewing about his previous lives blurring with his current one vanishing with the realization. It's like a vice clamps around his lungs, and unless he finds Tim, it won't release.

Instantly he's stumbled from the bed and across the room, throwing open the door in a hurry. He bursts into the hallway, frantic eyes flitting wildly until he spots Tim standing at the other end. He is framed in a doorway, deep in discussion with—

Blondie is on the stairs beside him—too near, way too near!—and Jason's already moving.

Before he's even aware of it, he has Tim wrapped in his arms, has his face buried in his neck and breathes in the scent of him that is somehow so different and yet so similar to how it once was beneath blood and sand and time.

Tim stands stock still, bearing up under the sudden onslaught remarkably well. Jason is a full five inches taller than him and considerably bulkier; Jason can feel him bracing himself beneath him.

"Sorry," he says immediately and pulls away.

"Don't be," Tim says, clearly working to keep his voice level and pretend he is unaffected. He clears his throat. "It's on the list."

Jason rubs the back of his head, uncomfortable. "Guess I should probably take a look at that then maybe."

They're both trying and failing to avoid each other's gaze until there's a cough beside them.

Jason suddenly recalls Steph's presence—which comes along with a long-buried piece of information that's never bothered him until now. Namely that she and Tim dated.

On the tails of that fact is irrational anger, because in this time, she has a prior claim on him. And she's never made any bones about disliking him. Who's to say she isn't here to take Tim away from him in the name of protecting him?

Which is both exactly what he wants and also ground for him to rip her throat out.

His lip curls reflexively and he looms closer to Tim. "Problem, Blondie?"

"Yep," she says easily, the forced calm of someone trying to negotiate a hostage release. Her mouth is pulled into a sharp smile, eyes cool. "But not the one you think I have."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you're both being ridiculous," Tim interrupts, a shade too loud and with a glare in Steph's direction. That, more than his words, causes Jason to relax a little; if Tim's annoyed with her, he's less likely to let her drag him off somewhere. "Jason, I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. I had to speak to Damian, and then Steph showed up…" He shakes his head in apology. "Did you at least get some rest?"

"A bit," Jason says though it's a lie. "Speaking of the bat brat, where is he?"

"Went back to the manor."

There's a lot more relief in his voice than the usual that comes with Damian making an exit.

There's a sudden blare of music from Steph's pocket, some pop thing that Jason's probably heard on the radio or in a movie or something. Digging it out, she barely glances at the number before her previously hard expression blooms into a smile.

"It's Cass," she tells Tim. "Mind if I step into the other room, or do I have to worry about wandering hands while I'm out of earshot?" she drawls.

"Very funny," he grumbles as she does just that.

Jason's brows draw together, wary; it almost sounds as if Steph is…joking about all this. Not getting ready to split them up or say something disapproving that might hurt Tim. Which…is not what he was expecting.

"Did I miss something while I was asleep?" he asks.

"No!"

"Yeah, that was a little too quick to be believable, baby bird."

"We just established a few things is all. So if you're worried about Steph, don't be."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she won't say anything. She's an ally." At Jason's derisive snort, Tim glowers. "She covered for you—for us at the Cave. So no one else knows."

Jason stares at him without comprehension for a moment and then remembers, and his neck and cheeks warm.

The kiss.

"Right." He swallows. "Guess Bats wouldn't be too comfortable with us hanging out if he knew about that, huh?"

"I don't care if he's comfortable or not," Tim says with stubborn venom. "The particulars of this situation is no one's business but ours. It's enough B's keeping us benched, he doesn't get to dictate this too."

The fierce expression is the same one he wore earlier in the Cave when he was standing up to Bruce, and Jason once again experiences that overwhelming need to pull him close and continue playing out the scene of his dream in real-time.

This time he's able to rein it in, but it's a tenuous thing.

"Consider this whole thing's about us, I have no intention of staying completely out of the investigation," Tim goes on, thankfully unaware of the direction of Jason's thoughts. "If anyone's going to figure all of this out, it's going to be us."

"Well, you've got me convinced," he says around the dryness of his mouth.

"Not that that takes much lately right?" Tim quips, lightly teasing in a way that makes Jason have to fight down an embarrassing sound in his throat. "Anyway, on that note, there's food downstairs if you want to eat. Then I want to get back to the mainframe and do some more research for the case."

"I'm fine," Jason says, even though his stomach feels like a bunch of razor blades scraping around inside.

He distantly recognizes the feeling from many sleepless, hungry nights on the street, but somehow it doesn't really bother him just then. It's the same way the lack of sleep has felt like an afterthought until Tim forced him to lie down. His interest in anything seems to have become directly proportional to what Tim thinks about it.

Which the other man seems to have figured out as well because he narrows his eyes and indicates Jason should follow him down to the kitchen and the table with several brightly colored containers of Chinese take-out.

"Eat," he commands.

Jason bristles. "You know, just because I'm slightly obsessed with you right now doesn't mean you get to boss me around." Tim raises an eyebrow, and there's that reflex almost-whimper building in his throat that he must cough to get rid of. "I'm eating because I have a girlish figure to maintain and no other reason."

"Of course," Tim agrees, clearly knowing different.

The food, like the nap, doesn't satisfy the way it usually might; there's no relief in it, even though Jason knows it will help keep his strength up and not just because Tim said so.

He's always felt a need to keep Tim happy when he was Patroklus and Hephaestion, but it was never under the compulsion he is now. There was always the freedom to refrain from something he disagreed with or stand up to schemes he didn't agree with.

As pissed off as he is about Eros infecting him and ensuring his over-the-top fixation with Tim, it could be a lot worse. At least Tim would only take advantage to ensure he's taking care of himself.

Which is ironic considering how bad he is at taking care of himself.

In every life, as it were.

Jason's mood darkens, the dream still at the forefront of his mind, along with the prophecy he heard earlier.

If he had any doubt about his involvement before, it's gone now. Too much of it can apply to him and his situation, especially since he's the only one that's been explicitly named.

Magnificent Alexandros…gods, I had an ego, didn't I?

Though he remembers being him, remembers his feelings and logic and personality, he's also still himself enough now to recognize that he was a bit of a conceited ass in his previous lives. Sure, he's confident and cocky now, but both his previous incarnations lived as if the entire world revolved around him. He wonders what Tim—or Tim's previous selves—ever saw in him.

Speaking of Tim…

He's also mentioned in the prophecy, even if it's not by name.

When Hephaestion died—he swallows, mentally blocking out the flood of memories of that dark day—Alexandros ordered him enshrined in the most magnificent tomb he could commission. He hadn't even arranged for his own to be that grandiose, so overcome was he in his grief. He's long since learned the immensely expensive mausoleum was never completed, but Hephaestion's body is likely still there.

(At least, Jason can't recall hearing anything about the tomb being discovered yet.)

And before Hephaestion, Patroklus' brutal death was the reason Achilles decimated Troy. He was burned on those beaches, his ashes enshrined in a stone shelter on that foreign beach, in earth steeped in blood.

So the likelihood of the prophecy referring to Tim as well as Jason is very high.

For a moment, he entertains the hope that it means Tim will be able to remember their previous lives without having to die to do it.

Then again, Jason's too smart to believe he would be that lucky.

"Jason?"

He glances up, notices Tim watching him worriedly, and realizes he's been staring at the empty container of lo mein. Apparently he ate it, but he can barely taste a hint of it in his mouth, and his stomach remains unsettled.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," Jason says automatically, pushing the leftovers away. "I'm full. Let's head back to that fancy computer of yours."

Tim frowns like he doesn't entirely believe that, but nods.

On their way back to the Nest, Steph returns from her phone call.

"So what was your uber-secret phone call about?" Tim wants to know.

"Lots of things I'm not telling you or your overgrown puppy there," she quips with an irreverent grin. "Also, she's flying in as soon as possible."

"To help us, or help you mock the situation?"

"Why can't it be both?"

Tim groans. "As if things weren't bad enough…"

"Oh, relax, Ex-Boyfriend, if you can't laugh at a situation, what can you?"

Jason growls at the words, earning a startled glance from Steph. Tim catches on quick, because he says, "You might want to watch your words for a bit, Steph. I don't think Jason's got the capacity to interpret certain jokes just now."

"Yeah, no kidding," she agrees with a frown.

"Also, unless you intend to be useful, maybe go away," Jason suggests with false cheer.

"Jason…"

"No, he's right," Steph interrupts, mouth thinning. "I'm just here to keep an eye out, but I didn't sign up to be abused. If I wanted that I could've stayed in the Cave babysitting Dick. I thought you guys would at least be more fun."

"Steph, it's not his fault—"

"This week," she accuses. "What's his excuse for the rest of the time?"

"Lingering trauma."

Tim groans at Jason's retort, and Steph rolls her eyes. "And we're back to the death jokes. Get some new material, Zombie Boy."

"Would you both stop it!" Tim demands. "This is even less amusing than it usually is."

Jason's shoulders hunch; he feels instantly reprimanded and terrible for upsetting Tim. Steph doesn't look quite as abashed, but her tense stance relaxes and she sighs.

"Fine. This is me, letting it go. For now." They pause in front of the secret door as Tim reaches for the panel. "I'm going to commandeer your training room for a bit. See how much range of motion I still have." She moves her injured arm gingerly. "Keep the comms open so if there's any trouble I know to come help." She jabs an index finger at the two of them. "And no smooching noises."

"Why? Jealous?" Jason jeers.

"Hardly," she snorts. "Remember, I've kissed him more than you have."

A film of green fury seems to pass across his vision and Jason lurches forward. His fist is already flying toward her, missing its mark only due to the fact that Steph has excellent reflexes and because Tim's wrapped his arms around him from behind.

"Jason, no! Stop it!"

"Come on, Tim, this time she deserves it," he whines.

"She deserves…something…" Tim grunts, trying to dig his heels into the ground. "But you…don't hit…women…"

Something icy slides down the length of Jason's spine in realization because…Tim's right. He doesn't hit women—at least, not unless he's in a life or death situation facing off with a rogue or unscrupulous woman like Suzie Su who can take the hit. And he's never lashed out at a woman just based on his own fury.

How could he forget something so fundamental to his principles? All because of a bit of teasing he'd probably just answer with snark on a normal day?

It's getting worse, isn't it?

His stomach twists, and he suddenly wants to throw up every bit of food he just ate.

Jason sags back on his heels, kept up only because Tim is still bolstering him from behind. As the inexplicable rage vanishes to be replaced by guilt and shame, he sees that Steph now looks trouble.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice subdued. "I didn't realize it was that bad."

"Neither did I," Jason croaks. He wants to flee—to stalk off and get away from everything about this situation. But the warmth of Tim's arms around him is a more convincing argument against that, countering every one of his normal coping mechanisms.

And as comforting as it is to know Tim is there to support him, Jason can't help feeling utterly trapped.

⁂⁂⁂

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