Hi! Uhm, JayTim Road Trip, please? ; w ; Thank you!
Hi, hi! Again, sorry that this was a bit late! D= and thanks for asking me!!
They had really just intended to drive to the next city over, check a common lead - an arms dealer is organising a shipment of 80000 machine guns from China to Gotham, and that ain’t cool in the Reds’ book - but the night is long over, and they are already in a different state, the grey road under them drawing them further west.
Thunderheads rumble far ahead of them, hanging low and menacing like black draperies across the horizon. The light of the rising sun peeks across the rearview mirror. Pink, orange, pale tendrils of yellow. The car top is down, and a capricious wind is streaming through Tim’s hair, whipping it up and to the sides. As soon as he wakes up he’s futilely - fastidiously - trying to palm it down, and Jason has to suppress the urge to help him. He curls his hands tighter around the wheel, hears the leather of his gloves creak under the pressure.
The drive is uneventful for several miles - the do not talk, and old rock songs are blaring from the speakers in an endless stream. There’s half-a-cup of coffee between them, and they reach for it at the same moment, without even noticing. Jason draws away first. Tim hesitates a moment, then snatches the cup and takes it to his chest as though it were a treasure. It’s cold and it tastes a bit like battery acid, but it wakes him up all the way.
Drowned the last of the coffee, he blinks, licks the residual - horrid- taste from his lips, and carefully settles the cup back in the holder. Jason would’ve chugged it off the side of the car, most probably. Crumpled it in one massive hand and threw it to the side like a baseball.
Tim isn’t Jason.
Which is not particularly bad, but not particuarly good either, and surely not something to dwell upon at too-early-o’-clock in the morning, several miles away from the freeway.
Tim takes a moment to stretch the kinks out of his aching back. His eyes feel sticky, and he tips his face into the the icy wind. He turns to look outside - farmhouses and the occasional trailer stream past, every now and then silvery glint of a distant river says a quick hello from a greeny bowel. Tim steals a glance at Jason as though he were looking for something he’d left behind, then turns away once more, lips pressed together.
Jason nudges him. Two fingers against his elbow, then higher up, at the curve of his biceps. “Hey,” he says. And when Tim doesn’t answer: “Hey,” again, but lower, more intimate; magnetic, almost.
His fingers dance up Tim’s shoulder, rest at the base of his nape - Jason’s palm is as broad as it is hot, and the rough but still soft surface of the leather makes for an interesting sensation against Tim’s naked skin.
Where are we going? Tim doesn’t ask. And neither does he beg: let’s never go back. He turns instead. Tilts his head so that Jason’s hand slides across his cheek a moment before falling away. Their eyes meet, and Jason looks oddly sedated. At peace.
He picks a candy bar from the pocket of his leather jacket, reaches over and taps it against Tim’s nose.
Tim grabs it reflexively. It’s a Snickers bar, the original peanuts, nougat and caramel version. Tim remembers Jason munching on these, back in the days when he still was Robin. Crunching noisily and then licking his lips, the tip of his gloved fingers.
He doesn’t know why, but he fishes a mint gum from his jeans pocket, throws it in Jason’s general direction. They don’t look at each other as they unwrap the candies and put them between their lips.
The engine of the car is purring steadily, a hum that reverberates through their bones. Sunlight is pouring in on them like water, golden and dry and hot. The wind in their hair is cold, but their hands, when they brush, are warm. The taste that floods their tongues is sweet and fresh and thick and prickly and warm and soft and buttery and harsh, like either true love or poison.