Jason always thought he’d recognize the thing that would kill him.
A bullet.
A blade.
A warehouse door slamming shut.
Not five-foot-six of sharp eyes and sharper mind standing under a flickering Gotham streetlight like he owns the night.
Tim doesn’t even try to look dangerous. That’s the first lie.
He looks small. Wired. All nervous energy and controlled breathing. Gloves tugged tight. Cape collar turned up against the wind. Calculating everything.
Jason tells himself he could walk away.
He’s done it before. From worse. From the grave, for Christ’s sake.
Poison doesn’t burn when it goes down.
It slides in smooth.
Jason’s pulse doesn’t spike. It slows. Dangerous. The kind of stillness right before a trigger pull.
“You’re late,” Tim says, voice calm, analytical, like this is just another patrol briefing and not the fact that Jason has been thinking about his mouth for three straight days.
Jason scoffs. “You missed me.”
That’s the venom right there.
Because Tim never begs. Never chases. He just waits.
Yeah, okay, Tim’s pretty in that unfair, breakable way that makes people underestimate him. Narrow shoulders. Lean muscle. Bruises that bloom dark against pale skin. Jason’s hands fit around his waist too easily.
But that’s not what hooks him.
Tim dismantles people without raising his voice. He gets under Jason’s skin like he mapped the anatomy first. Knows exactly where to press. Exactly when to go quiet.
Jason has faced down clowns and mercenaries and monsters. He’s taken torture with a smile.
That soft “Jay” right against his ear?
Tim steps into his space like he belongs there.
Tim’s fingers brush the front of his jacket. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just resting there, like Jason’s heartbeat is something he has a right to monitor.
“You going to keep staring,” Tim murmurs, “or are you going to decide something?”
Jason exhales slow. “You’re bad news, you know that?”
Tim tilts his head. “And yet.”
Jason laughs under his breath because this is how it happens.
A slow seep into the bloodstream.
Tim’s eyes flick down to Jason’s mouth, then back up again. Subtle. Intentional.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Jason used to think poison was weakness.
Something you didn’t see coming.
Tim stands right in front of him and says, You know this will ruin you.
And Jason steps closer anyway.
Likes the way Tim makes him sharper. Meaner. Hungrier.
Likes the way Tim doesn’t flinch from the ugly parts. Just studies them. Catalogs them. Keeps them.
Jason curls a hand around the back of Tim’s neck.
Jason kisses him like he’s trying to prove something.
Tim kisses him back like he already won.
It’s teeth and breath and tension wound tight as wire.
Tim’s fingers slide into his jacket, grip the fabric, and Jason feels it—that pull downward. That sweet, deliberate drag into something he won’t crawl out of.
Jason breaks the kiss first, breath rough.
Tim’s eyes are dark now. Dilated. Satisfied.
Jason laughs low, almost feral.
“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging Tim back in. “You’re gonna kill me one day.”
He always thought he’d recognize the thing that would take him down.
It’s five-foot-six, brilliant, relentless, and smiling against his mouth.
And Jason is already too far gone to look for the antidote.
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