SORRY. NOT DICK/WALLY.

Sorrryyyyyy. But this pairing's good too. Along with, you know, Tim/Kon. And. Stuff. And Tim/Damian's okay. And. ANYWAY.

THIS IS SAD AND A LITTLE SEXUAL? SORRY. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT ANYWAY. ALSO, READ THIS: FOR ANYONE WHO'S READ THE "ART OF..." SERIES, I WAS THINKING OF ADDING, LIKE, ONE MORE INSTALLMENT, BECAUSE I'VE GOTTEN A FEW REQUESTS. SO. LET ME KNOW IF YOU'D LIKE ONE.

REVIEW IF YOU'D LIKE. ALWAYS APPRECIATED.

DISCLAIMER: Do not own anything. :D

Tim is at his door. His hair is sticking up all over the place and the grey hoodie he's wearing is torn on the left shoulder. A bruise is forming on the right side of his neck.

And Jason is painfully pissed, or painfully confused. He can't really tell.

"Hi," is all Tim says at first.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

Tim shrugs and taps the floor outside Jason's door with the toe of one of his sneakers. "I got in a fight. Mugging. Real quick, I won, no problem."

Jason scoffs. "A mugger got unlucky with you, eh, Robin?"

A wince crossed the younger man's face. "Right. About that. Not Robin anymore." As if on cue, Tim's phone begins ringing, playing the classic circus theme. "Ah, it's called, 'Entry of the Gladiators,'" he says, presumably hitting the end button in the pocket of his hoodie, since the ringing stopped. "It's the ringtone I have for Dick."

"It fits. So, what, Not-Robin?" Jason leaned against his doorframe.

"Ah," Tim looks away and his phone rings again. He hits the end button and it stops. "Ah, I... Dick fired me. I'm not Robin anymore." He grimaces. "He took up this sociopath Damian instead."

"And to think, Dickie can't stand me."

Tim smiles a wry smile and the wind outside tousles his already messed up hair. It bothers Jason that Tim is here, because there's something off about it. It bothers him even more that he finds Tim cute when his hair is all messed up like it is.

"Yeah," is all Tim says, hanging up when his phone goes off once more.

"That doesn't tell me why the fuck you're here."

"I..." Tim swallows, starts over. "I don't have anywhere else to go, right now. The Tower..." He trails off. Jason knows why. Both Conner and Bart are gone. What does Tim have there? "And..." And Stephanie's dead. "The Manor..." Dick and Damian live there and Tim can't bear to see his replacement (now he knows how Jason felt, he thinks) taking over his old life. "The Manor is... since Bruce..."

And the man who adopted him was dead. So Dick had free reign and Tim doesn't appear to be okay with it.

"...so you came here."

"Yeah."

Jason looks at Tim, sees damage in him, just under the surface, right there.

And moves aside, gesturing inside to the unasked question.

"Sure. What the fuck ever."

"It's only going to be one night," Tim says and the ringtone starts up again. Tim reaches into his hoodie's pocket, turns, and tosses the phone into the night. It flies, carrying its annoying circus tone with it.

Jason looks at him like he's crazy and, really, he probably is. All Tim does is say, "No one I need to hear from is ever going to call me again."

Jason shrugs and shows Tim to the couch, says things like, "sleep well" with words like "fuck whatever" in there, and moves to go to his room.

"Wait, one sec." And Jason turns, only to meet Tim's lips and holy fuck no way. If Tim had felt this way, if Tim had wanted to fuck, or whatever, Jason would have noticed, he was sure, positive —

Holy fuck.

But Jason doesn't complain because Tim's totally legal and, who's he kidding, he's been wanting this since Tim turned eighteen and got so smart and wantable.

Jason takes Tim to the bedroom, and Jason doesn't regret a single thing that happens there.

—

There's note on the refrigerator and Jason can't help but wonder if Tim would have been better off born a woman, because he was sure only women and Alfred left notes on the refrigerator.

But, then, Tim wouldn't have been as appealing, perhaps.

What the notes says is what catches Jason by surprise:

I think I've been forgetting to mention something. You know, since most of our encounters haven't gone all that well, seeing as how you've attacked me before. Many times. But that's not what I forgot to mention.

I love you, I guess, is where I'm going with this. Batkids aren't good with feelings. But I tried, right?

Like I promised, I'd only be here one night. But... thanks. For the stay. And the... (here, the writing appears scribbled with embarrassment, classic Tim) other stuff.

Jason made a personal note to himself to find out where Tim lived. He'd been a thrill last night, glorious, and there had been something... something stirring in his chest. The same stirring he'd felt when he saw Tim outside his apartment, with his wry smile and disheveled hair, coming to him of his own free will.

He taps the button on the TV in the small living room, moving back to the kitchenette so that he can make breakfast and hear the news.

"—in local news, tragedy strikes as the body of Timothy Drake-Wayne was found in an alley late last night from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head—"

Jason rushes out of the kitchen and sees the newscaster with her dark hair and blue eyes that don't really care about what it is she's saying (the things that are making Jason's head suddenly reel). And then he sees the blurry picture of the body. The body of the man he'd been with last night, in the clothes he'd seen him in, except they are bloodstained and there is brainmatter on the pavement next to his head —

Jason opens his front door and finds Tim's phone not halfway across Gotham, but right there where it should not be at all, near the front door, as if placed there carefully.

He picks it up, hits a button, and checks the screen.

There are forty-three missed calls, all from Dick.

Jason tries to curse, but all that comes out is a strangled gurgle.

Tim is dead. An impossibility that is rolling around in his head and the pain that he feels is so intense, almost as intense as when he found out the Joker was still alive. No... wait... this pain is worse, and it is growing because Tim had been right there, right outside his door late last night, not dead in some alley because he'd killed himself.

Tim should have told Jason sooner.

"You don't do, that, Replacement," Jason hissed, his throat threatening to close. "You don't say 'I love you' in a fucking note and then turn up dead. That's just... that's not even fucking fair. Not... I don't..."

A musical little ringtone starts up, signaling an unknown number, according to the screen.

Jason answers, and there's a murmuring there that could be words in a voice that could be Tim's.

And then there's static and Jason wonders if that's what a broken heart sounds like.

(Not that his was breaking, or anything. He wasn't a fucking girl.)