I really wanted to write a oneshot. Took forever to decide about what. AND HERE IT IS. It's quite lighthearted and fluffy. ENJOY. I LOVE YOU ALL. C:

Tim does everything right. It's a fact to anyone who knows him. Going a step further, Tim is an artist with almost everything he does. His fighting style is superb, a combination of Batman's ferocity and Nightwing's grace. If this were poetry, Tim would be described as a dancer. This isn't poetry, so describing Tim's style as a dance is an out-of-place description. But the point has been made.

Tim is also a miracle worker in the kitchen. He learned from Alfred, so it is no surprise, but he adds his own Tim-things to whatever he does. While his is just as spectacular as Alfred's cooking, there is something different about it. But Tim doesn't like this talent mentioned. Especially when he bakes. Tim is sensitive (which, in Jason's opinion, is fucking precious).

Even Tim's handwriting is lovely (don't tell him that, he's touchy about that too). Clear, tight script, that's Tim's handwriting.

Jason notices these things. He notices them because, regardless of past insults and viciousness, it is really difficult not to notice Tim. And Jason seems to have contracted—well, he seems to be—to describe it appropriately, maybe—

Simply put (and Jason's not sure when the fuck this happened) he loves Tim. Not likes, in that grade-schooler way of "I think I may have feelings" but full-blown, there-is-no-one-else-on-Earth-who-does-what-Tim-does love.

But no one in the manor (except maybe Alfred) knew that Tim could do this.

This would be the sketch portfolio on Tim's desk in Tim's perfectly clean room (the door was open and Jason fucking Todd has no reason to abide by proper etiquette if Tim isn't here). It is scattered around a manila folder, a little, because today he is with Damian, doing something for Wayne Enterprises.

Batman, in watercolors, blue and strong against the deep purple night sky.

Dick, participating in the circus as a child. Tim's eidetic memory is flawless.

Damian , trying to pull away from a Dick-initiated hug.

Alfred, baking.

The Bat-family, everyone. Except Tim. Strange.

The Titans, also minus Tim.

Sketches, watercolors, charcoal, pastels, oil paintings, all on eight-and-a-half by eleven sheets of white cardstock. It's remarkable. And surprising. Jason will not claim to know all of what goes on in Tim's head, but even in the most farfetched of ideas he would never have pegged Tim as a sketch artist (or painter for that matter).

He flips through the collection. And stops. There is a sketch of him, Jason. He is scowling at something off to the left. Tim probably remembers this moment perfectly, but Jason cannot place where this scene came from. Jason flips onward. Another sketch of him, reading something in the living room. Flips further. Another Jason-sketch, this time of his asleep on the couch.

If Jason had not been who he is, this would be a little on the disconcerting side. But it's Tim, who followed Batman and Robin around with a camera for God-knows-how-long, so this isn't as weird to him as it would be to normal people.

It makes Jason's stomach turn over and his lungs constrict a little. Only, these things feel a little... good? It's... Tim draws him. And there are more images of Jason. More pictures of Jason than anyone else. Jason in his jacket, Jason as the Red Hood, Jason with Batman, Jason with Dick. They're all so detailed, so beautifully rendered that, maybe, Tim—

Wishful thinking, Jason. Shut the fuck up. Jesus.

There are no pictures of Tim himself. It is sad, but not shocking.

"What are you doing?" Tim's voice. Resigned.

"Snooping," Jason replies. Tim would have known anyway. Jason's boot imprints are on the carpet. His jacket probably smells like cigarettes even though he's been smoke-free for two weeks and he will not get rid of this jacket. Tim can probably smell it, regardless of how faint the smell is. Tim's nose wrinkles, indicating that he can, in fact, catch a whiff of the last cigarette two weeks ago.

"I can see that."

Jason shrugs. "Don't have to knock when no one's here, do you, Babybird?"

Tim smirks and says, "I guess not." He moves past Jason, stacking the pictures up and slipping them back in the folder and placing them in the top, left-hand drawer, under a false bottom.

"Didn't know you could draw so well," Jason notes, as the false bottom of the drawer falls upon the folder.

Tim just shrugs, looks away.

Jason tries again. "Didn't know thought about me so much either." Tim's cheeks light up, the blush creeping down toward his neck.

"It's nothing." Tim slides the drawer shut, forcefully. He won't meet Jason's eyes. Come to think of it, since Jason moved back in, Tim hasn't looked directly at him all that much. At all, almost. Then when Tim does meet his eyes, right this second, something clicks, a light comes on.

Dick's hints make a lot more sense. Damian's gagging noises click in place too.

Alfred vacating the room whenever the two of them are together.

Everyone knew about this? Christ.

Jason is not known for is tact. He is known for his impulses. So when Tim opens his mouth to say something along the lines of "this never happened, forget about it," Jason goes in a kisses him. Hard. With feeling. A lot of feeling. Tim is frozen, but only for three-point-four seconds (if it had been more than five, Jason would have berated himself for reading into signals that he desperately wanted to see).

And, goddammit, Tim's even an artist at kissing too. Jesus-fucking-Christ.

Jason pulls away to say that. "You just have to make every damn thing you do a work of art, don't you?"

Tim blinks, dazed. Confused. "What?"

Jason sighs, the kiss still tingling everywhere. Fucking finally. How long had he been waiting for that?

"I love you," Jason says, instead of answering Tim's bewildered inquiry.

"What?" Tim says again. His expression is guarded, his voice, higher pitched from nervousness. "Jason, this is absolutely not funny—"

"I'm not trying to be."

Tim starts wringing his hands. "Jason, are you sure? Or. Did you drink? Or." His normally concise articulation is failing him.

"I'm not drunk." That is a fair assumption, however. Jason can be... well, he's trying to quit that too. "The pictures—they're fucking fantastic, by the way—I thought that maybe... you might." He stops dead. How does one say "I've been in love with you and I think you're in love with me too, but let me know if I'm wrong."

"I do." Jason blinks. Tim is now staring straight at him. His eyes are solid blue (that blue cannot be replicated, Jason is certain) and unwavering. But he rolls his shoulders nervously. "Love you, I mean. I do. I just thought... I mean how could you... love me. Is all."

Jason opens his mouth to say something, something meaningful and deep. But Tim cocks his head, listening. Then he walks to his door and says, "Dick, get out of the hallway."

Jason is glad he waited to say something sappy. Dick would ruin him, he is sure.

Tim stays by the door, nervously shifting his weight. Jason moves to him, instead of the other way around.

"How could anyone not love you, Tim? Everything about you is..." He tries to put his thoughts and feelings from earlier into words. "Your Tim-ness makes everything you do great. And meaningful." It doesn't sound too eloquent, but Tim smiles. It's a tentative thing. He's probably wondering if he's dreaming. Jason's wondering the same thing.

Tim's smile gets wider and his eyes shine with... something. Something happy and joyous and Tim.

Jason was right. He knows it. Everything Tim does is an artform of some kind.

But Jason has to amend his thought, just a little. Tim himself is a work of art, one-of-a-kind. Irreplaceable. (And Jason's. Jason's)

Jason cannot help but smile too.