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Tim’s bag drops to the floor with a thunk. If he could be, he would probably be worried about whether or not he just broke the screen of his laptop, but he’ll worry about that later. He’s had a long fucking day, and he can’t find it in him to give a shit right now.
His pile of shoes are lined up by the wall, neat and tidy, and it’s not a surprise. It’s a signature move of Jason’s. But the tornado that his living room had been — well, it looks like another tornado spun through in reverse and put everything back where it belongs. It smells incredible, too — sweet and salty and cheesy and oh — grilled cheese and tomato soup.
There are blankets and pillows piled high on the couch and the TV has his favorite episode of the Next Generation pulled up — the one where Q loses his powers and tries to join starfleet — and the lights are dimmer than he remembers, some of the harsh white bulbs swapped out for warmer yellow ones. He’s surprised how much more comfortable it makes his space.
All of this is surprising, actually. But the most surprising thing is that in front of a steaming pot on his stove and a plate with two grilled cheeses on it, Jason is standing there, looking like Alfred just caught him sneaking into the manor.
“Shit,” Jason says, but it doesn’t seem like he quite meant to say it.
Tim raises an eyebrow and Jason’s cheeks flush. That panicked look doesn’t go away.
“You’re home early,” Jason says, like that clears anything up.
Tim opens his mouth to answer, because his body seems to know he should do that. His brain hasn’t quite caught up, though, so he just sort of stands there with his mouth open while Jason’s blush spreads down his neck.
By the time he manages to get his brain to start working again, Jason has stopped blinking at him and started moving. The only reason he doesn’t make it out the door is because Tim grabs his arm when he tries to walk past him.
“You… did all this for me?”
Jason’s eyes latch onto the door like maybe if he focuses hard enough, he’ll find himself on the other side of it.
“It’s not a big deal,” Jason says, and it sounds like he’s been repeating that one to himself for a while.
“You swapped out my lightbulbs.”
“They were white LED bulbs. It was oppressive.”
“I know, I complained about it a few weeks ago.”
A muscle in the side of Jason’s jaw pulses. He still won’t look at Tim.
Shit. Shit.
“We need to talk,” Tim declares, because he knows what happens after this if they don’t:
Jason disappears for a little while, leaving Tim with only a hastily written note and thinly veiled excuse. He answers Tim’s messages, but he can’t take calls, and then eventually Tim stops messaging, because he wants to give him space if he needs it. And then one day, Tim’s swinging over a street or sneaking through a building or catching his breath after a fight, and he spots a glint of red. And even though he knows he should know better, even though it isn’t the first or fifth or maybe even fifteenth time this has happened, even though his gut clenches with something angry, something indignant— his heart beats a little faster in his chest.
And a few days later, he inevitably flicks on the lights in his apartment and sees that his shoes are lined up by the wall. Or he pulls into one of his garages and finds Jason’s bike parked in his spot. Or he turns a corner and nearly slams into Jason’s chest, has to wrestle his anger with one fist and his excitement with the other, while Jason snickers and he tries to get his heart to stop pounding.
And then Jason makes it up to him.
Things will be good for a while. Easy. Everything will go back to being backup in the field and tech projects — Jason’s always got something that could use a little work, something with low enough stakes that it doesn’t keep him awake but high enough importance that it isn’t a waste of time — and showering the grime off together and wringing an orgasm out of each other, and then eventually it’s waking up next to each other and home cooked meals and waiting to watch the new episode of whatever they’re watching and all the things that would make Jason run if Tim called it what it was: domestic.
But he doesn’t have the chance to, because inevitably they run into something too domestic for Jason’s comfort anyways, and suddenly Tim’s throwing out spoiled vegetables and piling paperwork all over the counters and chucking his shoes into a pile at the door again.
And that’s what’s about to happen, unless Tim forces some words past the knot in his throat.
“We don’t need to talk,” Jason says.
“Can we?”
“Why? There’s nothing to talk about. It’s not a big deal.”
“I’m not asking to talk because it’s a big deal, Jason.”
“Then why do we need to talk?”
Tim grits his teeth. He knows what Jason’s doing. Trying to wind him up, piss him off. Get him to snap at him so they can have a fight and call it, and then Tim won’t even try to get in touch with him while he fucks off to wherever he really goes when he’s decided he doesn’t want to play house anymore, and then he’ll come back in a few weeks, once there are lines for him to cross again.
“Because we never talk about it. We never talk about anything!”
“It’s—”
Tim interrupts him, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “If you say it’s not a big deal one more time, I’m going to make it a big deal. Bite back your snarky asshole attitude for one goddamn second, please.”
He hears a little frustrated-resigned huff and opens his eyes, looking around the apartment. This is… it’s a love letter, isn’t it? Jason is all acts of service, Tim knows that, and he doesn’t say anything because if he did, Jason would stop.
Tim’s eyes lock on the steam floating off the pot on the stove, and he makes himself say something he’s thought about saying a million times, but never really considered admitting.
God, he hopes he’s right.
“I fucking hate it when you leave,” he mutters, his heart beginning to pound.
The muscles of Jason’s bicep tense under his fingers, and he sees Jason freeze from the corner of his eye. The words start tumbling his mouth, because now that he's started the only way out is through, isn't it?
“I just… I like pissing you off with my inability to cook and I like getting annoyed when you flaunt your height over me and I really like fucking you, and I really, really like spending time with you.”
He spots Jason’s throat working from the corner of his eye, feels his own face heating up.
“And it’s just frustrating! Because you just leave one day and then you turn back up out of nowhere and we start fucking around again and it takes forever for things to go back to normal, and then they finally do for just long enough that I think maybe I don’t have to worry about you disappearing again, and I let my guard down and then one day you do something that gives you cold feet, and you run off again. And I hate it.”
Tim finally forces his eyes off the tomato soup and onto Jason’s, his gut clenching tight with anxiety and uncertainty.
He was expecting to see panic, considering Jason’s been looking panicked since he walked in, but he wasn’t expecting to see fear, and shit, maybe he did miscalculate somewhere.
“I’m just tired of you playing with my feelings,” he mumbles, already bracing himself to hear what he didn’t want to hear. His eyes skate back to the pot — at least he’ll have some solid comfort food for the night of wallowing he’s about to have.
“I—” Jason starts, his voice cracking on the word. He has to swallow before trying again. “I’m not playing with your feelings.”
At the look on Tim’s face, Jason keeps talking. “Nonono, I didn’t mean— fuck. I’m listening. I just didn’t know you had feelings. Not like— not at all, just. You know. Like that. For… me?” he says like a question, his eyes seeking confirmation in Tim’s.
Tim flushes.
“Look, if you just want to do the fucking around thing and that’s it, then fine. We can do that. But if you’re going to do stuff like this, you can't keep disappearing on me. I really need you to be clear with me about what you want. Please.”
There are only so many seconds of silence he can bear staring at the pot of soup, so he lets his eyes skip back to Jason’s, finding them wide and scared and so goddamn green. His throat keeps working, like he’s trying to get some words out, and god, Tim was stupid for trying to get Jason to talk to him. If he’s ready to talk about something, he’s fine with communicating, but if you beat him to the punch?
The pounding of his heart marks the passing time as they stare at each other, as the fear pools in Jason’s eyes, as the vice of his jaw clicks tighter shut, and finally, Tim can’t take it anymore.
“I’ll make this easy, okay? Thank you for doing all this for me, it’s… it’s really kind. I’m going to pour myself some of that soup and turn on that episode of Star Trek, and if you want to join me, I would really like that, but I am going to read into it that this is not just fucking. And if you’re not comfortable with that, if you want to go, you can go ahead, and we can keep fucking around if you want, but stuff like this has to stop. We’re either fucking, or we’re more, and I’m tired of guessing wrong. It’s not fair. So just… do whatever you want,” Tim sighs, not quite sure that he managed not to sound bitter about the last few words.
What’s the point of even saying them? Jason always does whatever he wants.
Tim lets go of his arm, watches Jason’s pupils dilate as he feels the cool air against his fingers. Then he steps around him and pushes up his sleeves as he heads to the stove.
A cacophony of thoughts whir in his head, too busy for him to pick any one of them out as he ladles his campbell’s into the bowl Jason pulled out. He can barely hear the sound of Jason’s tight, shallow breathing, and even though he hasn’t looked, he knows Jason hasn’t moved.
Wait, he thinks as he picks up his plate and brings his food to the living room. Wait, he thinks as he kicks up his feet onto the coffee table and tracks down the remote. Wait and see, he thinks as he clicks play and picks up a grilled cheese.
The sounds of the enterprise filter in through the speakers, and Tim makes it a little quieter. He picks up his sandwich and is about to dip it into the soup when he hears it — the creak of the linoleum floor of his kitchen.
His breath catches as he listens, hearing sharpening as he waits to hear the sound of the front door.
He doesn't. He hears Jason’s footsteps getting closer, the sound of his breathing, tight and shallow and quick. He comes around the couch and hesitates, his gaze palpable on Tim.
Tim keeps waiting, refusing to let himself react one way or the other. Jason could still turn around and leave, after all. So Tim holds the sandwich and stares at the screen and waits, and waits, and waits, until the show has made it to the goddamn intro and he can’t take it anymore.
He drops the sandwich back on the plate and grabs the remote, pauses, and turns to Jason.
“Look, I’m not asking for a proposal—” and then he stops talking, because the look on Jason’s face isn’t what he was expecting. He doesn’t look panicked anymore. He doesn’t look frightened, or awkward.
No, the look on his face is a mixture of determination and longing and — there’s something else he can’t place.
“Tim,” Jason says, and his voice is thick and gruff and low, heavy with something that Tim’s never heard in it before.
“Yeah?” His collar is too tight and his cheeks are hot and he’s gripping the remote too hard and Jason is staring at him, intensity rippling out of his gaze.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Tim’s gut seizes, all the nerves he’s been trying to ignore suddenly reaching up and grasping tight around his stomach. Of course, he thinks. Of course, of course, of course, you absolute moron. Who wouldn’t?
His mouth opens to say yes, and it snares on something in his throat. It’s funny, how even though he just demanded the same thing of Jason, even though he can see how much Jason cares for him in all the things he does, he can’t get the words out.
The last thing in Jason’s expression falls into place; it’s suspicion. And suddenly it clicks— Jason’s been putting love in everything he does. It’s in the shoes and it's in the lightbulbs and it’s in the sandwich, on the couch and in the kitchen and in the fucking sheets.
And Tim doesn’t know how to do that. He doesn’t know how to write his feelings into the moments of a day. He doesn’t know how to scatter the evidence, the proof, for Jason to find. He doesn’t know how to cook it into a sandwich, how to wipe the counters with it, how to make the bed with it.
He swallows and holds Jason’s gaze. He may not know how to do any of that, but he knows how to do this. His chest aches as the words fight their way out.
“Of course I want you to stay.”
There’s a brief moment where even though Tim knows he’s right to admit it — he couldn’t give you an exact calculation but he knows he wouldn’t have taken the risk if it wasn’t well over 90% in his favor — his gut still clenches again, a small part of his brain screaming that he probably just fucked up and Jason’s going to leave after all and it’ll be all his fault that he chased away the one thing in his life that made things easier—
And then Jason’s stepping forward. He drops down onto the couch, right next to Tim, gravity displacing the cushion and making him bounce slightly. Jason reaches to pluck the remote from his hands, but he grimaces once he’s holding it.
“Ugh, you got it all greasy.” He stands again, reaches across the table for a paper towel, and wipes it off. Then he presses play and drops it back on the couch next to him as Picard’s speech floats between them. His arm falls behind Tim’s shoulders and he stares at the screen, watching the intro scene that they’ve seen over a hundred times like it’s brand new.
“Stop staring at me,” Jason says without looking away from the screen.
“Sorry,” Tim says, his eyes shifting to the screen. “Are you… staying?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jason asks, waving his hand around in a little ‘see?’ gesture, before he drops it back on Tim’s shoulder.
Relief floods through him, the tension in his muscles relaxing as he melts into the couch, into Jason’s hold.
“It’s not a big deal,” Jason says, and Tim knows that out of the two of them, he isn’t the one that Jason’s trying to convince.
“Okay,” Tim agrees, forcing himself not to grin like an idiot. But he feels pleased, content, relaxed in a way he hasn’t in a while, maybe since before the first time Jason left.
He leans into Jason’s shoulder and tucks himself into the space there, letting Jason wrap around him.
“Did you buy wonder bread for this?” Tim asks, right before he picks up a sandwich half and swipes it through the soup, takes a bite. It’s crispy and buttery and warm and it tastes like comfort. His eyes water, and he tells himself nostalgia has nothing to do with it. The food’s just hot.
“And Krafft slices.”
A short, sharp laugh squeezes past the lump in Tim’s throat, easing it a little. “Wow, you do like me.”
“Shut up,” Jason says, blush creeping down his neck, and now Tim can’t help grinning like an idiot. “You like me.”
“Of course I do. Look at all this,” Tim says, waving around the apartment at all the things Jason did. “You swapped out my lightbulbs. You bought me that cheese you hate because you know I like it. You do that thing with your tongue. You’re boyfriend material.”
Now Jason’s blushing all the way up to his ears, and Tim grins wide.
“It’s not cheese, it’s cheese product,” Jason says, and Tim lets it go. They can worry about the labels another night. Jason probably still needs some time to think before he’s ready to talk about it, and that’s fine — Tim will wait. He won't have to wait long before Jason broaches the conversation, he'd bet.
“You’re not even a little curious about the tongue thing that I’m referring to?”
“No. Maybe. No, we’re still on the cheese product,” Jason says, but he’s smirking, because he does, in fact, know exactly what thing Tim’s referring to.
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s nostalgic. There’s a difference,” Jason argues, rekindling their argument from last week. He grins, his gaze going soft when Tim lets out an exasperated sigh and launches into the same speech as he did last time, and yeah, as long as Jason keeps looking at him like that, Tim’s happy to wait.