For the meme - is 2 and tim and jason, or tim and bruce ok? Also - your rules aren't mean, people are just dumb about paying attention.
Jason is scowling in the Manor’s kitchen. It’s a bit after 8am, which is practically the middle of the night for people of the vigilante persuasion. Alfred is away for another few nights, and somehow, Jason had found himself babysitting the kitchen-illiterate members of his family. He can’t remember agreeing to do it, but then, that’s how these things happen with Alfred.
And, there’s the small matter of his apartment sort-of burning down last week.
So. He’s here.
He’s contemplating making an omelet, figuring someone’ll stir eventually, when he feels something small collide with his side. And latch on.
He can feel bony fingers digging into his sides, the ruffle of breath against his shirt.
Jason very carefully shifts his arm. Peers down.
And. The figure is so dwarfed by oversized clothing that Jason’s immediate instinct is to think it’s Damian. But that kid’s hair is not long enough to achieve the seriously impressive bed-head-bird’s-nest currently smushed into his torso.
Slowly, Jason reaches his hand down. He bravely touches it, smoothing its tangled hair away from what is probably a face.
And Tim Drake blinks owlishly up at him from under his own hand, sleepy blue eyes and an open mouth. After a moment, he mumbles, “Y’re not Bruce.”
Jason says, “No shit.”
Tim drops his arms. Looking only very faintly put out, but mostly just asleep.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to go ‘round hugging psychotic killers?” Jason says, because he really doesn’t know how to play this one.
At that, the kid frowns a little deeper, eyes still half-lidded. And he steps (stumbles) forward, fitting himself effortlessly against Jason’s side again. And he says, “You w’re Robin.”
Like that’s everything.
And Tim squeezes tighter, fingers probably leaving fuckin’ bruises, and Jason just waits. Tim Drake, the boy who is prickly on a good day, who grimaces his way through Dick-Grayson hugs, who maintains an awkward, professional distance from Alfred, is hugging him. Like he means it.
So what can Jay do? Except raise an awkward hand to rest on the babybird’s back, against his sleep-warm ‘The Breakfast Club’ t-shirt. He says, eventually, “You have met the latest Robin, right?” and the little shit shushes him, in a mumble, from where his face is hidden.
Feeling oddly… fond, Jason just laughs. Ruffles Tim’s stupid-messy hair with his spare hand, mostly to see what he’ll do. (The answer: Nothing at all.)
And he’s still coming to terms with the oddness of this situation, the unfamiliar warmth-and-soap-and-firmness that is a hug from Tim Drake, when he hears someone at the doorway. He half-turns, mouth open–
“B.” Tim says. And that’s all. He’s long gone from Jason’s side (and when did that happen—), when Bruce meets him halfway.
The man’s in a henley and a pair of sweats, hair loose and feet bare. He’s also wearing a soft smile, and apparently, the clingiest ever barnacle that’s his third son.
Bruce smiles at him, over Tim’s head. He looks down, then, arms coming up to return the boy’s squeezing hug. He says, “Good morning, Tim. Sleep okay?”
The man nods, quite seriously, as though it wasn’t nonsense. Then, warmly, “Good morning, Jay. I see you’ve met pre-coffee Tim.”
Jason feels his eyebrows hit his hairline. He says disbelievingly, “This isn’t… unusual?”
Bruce considers the question, a large hand absently petting Tim’s back. “He’s been doing it since I adopted him,” he says, after a moment. And, thoughtfully, to himself, “He used to thank me every morning…” He doesn’t even slightly relinquish his hold on the Replacement — if anything, he squeezes tighter — but he does steer them both closer to the counter.
On their way, Bruce ducks his head slightly, to kiss Jason’s temple. Then he continues forward, saying, “Well, it seems you’re part of a very selective group now, Jason.”
“Tim’s hug beneficiaries,” Bruce clarifies, smiling, pouring himself a coffee. He is apparently an expert at manoeuvring around the lump of Tim.
He takes a long sip, absently fixing the kid’s hair with his other hand.
And Jason blinks, his eyes closed for less than a second, but somehow, when he opens them, Tim’s got Bruce’s coffee gripped in both hands and is sleepily making his way over to the empty table.
There is a long moment of silence.
“Did Tim just steal your coffee.”
Bruce considers this for a beat. “To the untrained eye,” he concedes, “It might appear that way." and Jason. Well. He figures breakfast can wait, until he’s got his breath back from laughter.