Something I drew for myself as a guide in the different size/builds of our dudes, jumping back into normal bat-verse.
I’ve already ignored all my own notes completely though
I’m kind of surprised Tim is that short. I always saw him as having a leaner frame than Jason and Dick, but still being pretty close to their height. Although I can’t remember how old Tim is in the new canon, so I guess if it’s still mid-teens he could be due for a growth spurt.
Mostly I’m just happy you included Damian and still called it the “normal bat-verse.” Because that is promising.
according to most books today, i think TIm’s the size of Grayson and Batman’s the size of Bane. It’s probably all the hormones they’re injecting in our comics these days.
This Tim is perfect. I always think of him and Cass being the same height. Small and deadly. :)
And this Jason is kind of devastatingly handsome.
13: Sleep cuddling
Tim’s asleep. He’s almost diagonal across his expensive sheets, surrounded by fancy pillows in neutral colours. His room looks exactly as lived-in as usual; which is to say, not at all.
He isn’t snoring, but his breath comes in little gasps sometimes, uneven huffs and sighs. He’d been sick recently, was probably still recovering. The cold air wouldn’t help.
Jason watches from the doorway. Paused. He hadn’t expected the place to be so quiet, especially considering it’s just after 1am. Hell, he hadn’t figured Tim would even be home, wanted to grab a snack in his amazing, entirely unused kitchen, and then get some sleep.
His damn place was compromised again, and the kid has got a sweet setup. Usually.
He takes a silent step closer to the bed, and Tim’s eye cracks open.
Jason doesn’t say anything, just takes off his boots one at a time. Leaves them by the door. He shucks his jacket next, and then his shirt.
Tim’s eyes have drifted closed again disinterestedly. He’s still more than halfway asleep, comfortable. Relaxed.
It’s probably stupid of him, to be this trusting, Jason thinks. But it’s kind of a nice feeling, having a someone in his so-called family who sometimes trusts him. Because for all his big talk, even Dick is still on his guard whenever he’s around.
He takes his phone out of his back pocket and hesitates, hand on his belt. He glances toward the bed again, to see the babybird watching him lazily, eyes slits. He mumbles, “Y’re okay?”
“Did you know,” Jason says instead, “That Goldie is asleep on your couch?”
“Damian shotgunned the gues’ room,” he says, into a pillow.
Jason processes this. “And they… don’t have homes of their own?” he concludes, eventually.
“Don’t you?” Tim says, still watching him in the dark.
He kicks off his jeans, then, scowling. He’s in a t-shirt (#YOLO printed large across the chest, because he never said he wasn’t an asshole), and a pair of truly hideous boxer shorts.
He puts his folded clothes into a vaguely-tidy pile by his boots, figuring that the pretender’s floor is probably cleaner than the plates he eats off. And he walks closer to the bed.
He lifts a corner of the covers. “Move over.”
“My bed,” Tim says, enunciating carefully through his mouthful of pillow, “My rules.”
“Christ,” Jason says. “You little shit.”
“ ‘m comfy.”
“You’d better be, ‘cause that’s the position you’re gonna die in.”
Tim’s eye cracks open. “Yeah, right.” And, “You could always go home.”
Jason sighs, easing his way under the covers. Then, irritated, “Least lift your stupid head.”
Babybird obliges, even halfway-rolling onto his side. And Jason, as always faintly self-conscious of his bulk, carefully fills the gaps Tim’s left vacant. The sheets are faintly warm and stupid plush, a silk cotton blend on goosedown, and Tim’s head is heavy on Jason’s arm, his hair tickling bare skin.
Safe-houses and the state of vigilantism being what they are, it isn’t the first time he’s shared a bed with Tim. But admittedly it’s usually less planned than this, typically one of them injured or drugged or a bit of both. If he’s honest, he’d expected a bit of a fight with the kid, or a sincere (but patronising) offer of enough money for a hotel. Tim, who’s so careful with his space.
But he sometimes forgets how well Tim’s people-reading skills are.
“If I hit you in my sleep,” Jason says, quietly. “You get a free face-shot tomorrow, okay?”
“… Reassuring,” Tim mumbles wryly, eyes closed.
“Why are the demon and his pet Batman here?”
“One of them’s here ‘cause B’s an asshole, an’ the other one got lonely.” Tim snorts, then, says “I honest t’God don’t know which one’s which.”
Jason snickers, low, and Tim sleepily slings an arm over his torso, curling a little closer. “Now shush, I’m sleeping.”
Jason doesn’t laugh, but he does say, “Goodnight, Baby b.”
And it takes a few minutes, but Jason is sure that the Replacement’s asleep again. Which is why his heart jolts when he hears a rasping whisper, right by his ear–
“You’re going for a bagel run tomorrow.”