Summary: Jason never signed up to be a role model or anyone's big brother, but with Dick dead and Damian now resurrected, he finds himself more or less thrust into the role. Meanwhile, Tim's carefully maintained façades are beginning to crack, leaving him vulnerable to his worst enemy—his own mind. Somehow, they end up relying on each other more than either ever expected to.
Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to comics, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Rating: T (may change)
Warning: Will lead to eventual canon-divergence; canonical character's death and resurrection (i.e. Dick Grayson).
Canon-Compliance: References to events and characters present in the DC 'verse up to the new 52 (after the "Robin Rises" story arc) but before DC Rebirth. Also ignores that whole Bruce Wayne amnesia arc, and the end of Nightwing's stint with Spyral.
Beta Reader: None at the moment
Maybe this is how it happens: with Jason lugging a bleeding and unconscious Red Robin up a rickety fire-escape, swearing every time the kid's stupid fucking cape gets stuck on a metal edge.
Ivy's latest creations—some Venus Flytrap-vampire hybrid—have done a number on the guy. When Jason found him, his replacement was suspended by a network of razor toothed vines doing their best to burrow into his body through his suit's Kevlar. Judging by the puddle of blood below him, they were pretty damn close to succeeding.
Luckily, plants and vampires have the same aversion to fire. A brief stint of arson later (and a few gashes of his own to show for it), and Jason had Tim hoisted over his shoulder and Ivy knocked out. He grappled toward his nearest bolthole, the police sirens wailing in his wake.
It's pure coincidence he found him. Jason's only just gotten back to the city, taking a short break from intergalactic outlawing. As far as he knew, Tim's been zipping around the world playing chicken with a bunch of ninjas and an irritating reporter. Not that they interact much beyond the occasional text or major crisis in Gotham under normal circumstances, of course. But Bruce's demon spawn's been back from the dead for two weeks now, and everyone's been sticking closer to the home from since then.
Not too close though.
Jason's still twitchy about spending long stretches of time at the manor. Since the demon brat's resurrection gave him a bunch of friggen superpowers, Jason's erred on the side of self-preservation. It's not as fun teasing a ten-year-old when he can lift a car and crush the life out of you with it.
He's pretty sure Tim has been steering clear of the manor for that same reason. And avoiding any parts of Gotham where Batman and Robin might be patrolling. Because of course Bruce is crazy enough to take a twerp with a hair-trigger temper on patrol.
Like it doesn't matter he has the means of caving someone's head in with a flick of his finger.
It's why Jason took a different patrol route tonight (he pointedly avoids thinking about the fact it was part of Dick's usual patrol route). It's also why he happened to stumble upon Ivy about to turn Tim into plant food.
And really, Ivy? Vampire plants? How bored were you?
This safehouse is one of his smaller ones, the top floor of a three-story walk-up that's listed as unsafe and condemned for demolition. Jason's been paying city officials off to ignore for as long as he needs it; it's not the fanciest or most upgraded spot, but it's got running water and it came with the furniture. That's about all he cares about when he's tired and when someone unsavory comes looking for him in Crime Alley.
This neighborhood is also the kind of anti-social and distrustful where no questions someone in a scarlet helmet carrying what looks like a dead body up a fire-escape. Especially someone stumbling around and making as much noise as Jason is.
Vines must have been poisonous, too. No wonder the kid's out cold, I feel like I was hit by a truck.
The door's easy enough to get open, even one-handed, but he has to stoop and contort to get himself and Tim inside considering all of their armor. Blood smears across the handle and he makes a mental note to scrub everything down with bleach tomorrow.
Tim makes a discontent sound when his head knocks against the archway,
"Oh, yeah, like you felt that," Jason mutters, kicking the door closed behind him and heading through the kitchen and down the narrow hall toward the living room and bedroom.
He bypasses the couch because stains are a bitch to get out of that upholstery and he doesn't want the whole place smelling like stale blood forever after this. Bedsheets are easier to toss. There's already a rubber sheet on the mattress here, legacy of several incidents where he's shredded his stitches or didn't bother changing after a particularly brutal fight.
"You'd better not have this thing fucking armed," Jason tells Tim after he tugs off the cape and cowl and reaches for the utility kit. "I mean it. If I get electrocuted, I'm letting you bleed out."
"Awesome…bedside manner," Tim mumbles. "Ten out of ten…would recommend."
"Dick."
"No…Dick's dead…I'm Tim."
Jason groans. "That was pitiful. Like, me levels of bad. How much blood have you lost?"
Nothing but a pained wheeze in response, and Jason rolls his eyes, continuing to strip the kid down to his underwear with rough efficiency.
Though Tim's arms and legs are peppered with bruises and a few tiny gouges leaking blood, those injuries are superficial for the most part. It's only the one gash across his right side where one of the vines pierced through the armor; it hit nothing vital, but it's bleeding like a son of a bitch.
Jason heads to the bathroom to grab the med kit (which is stocked better than most hospital supply closets) and injects them both with something to counteract the poison. It's a broad spectrum antitoxin, geared specifically toward Poison-Ivy related emergencies, and he really hopes she hasn't gotten more creative than the whole vampire-plant hybrid thing.
He sets to work stitching the rent flesh and muscle in Tim's side back together. He takes longer than normal because his vision is blurring, and his fingers trembling.
Side-effect of the antitoxin; Tim's already passed out again, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm that assures Jason he's not about to seize up and die. Still, he maneuvers him roughly into a recovery position and sticks a bucket beside the bed. It's not unheard of for Ivy's poisons to cause projectile vomiting.
"Don't say I never do anything nice for you," he grumbles, and takes the time to check for injuries of his own. The room sways, his eyes drooping, and he decides if he hasn't bled out now, there can't be anything too pressing.
Jason barely shrugs out of the bulkiest bits of his armor before plummeting face-first onto the bed beside Tim.
Horizontal is good; he likes being horizontal.
He doesn't intend to stay there. Not being the same bloody mess as Tim, he's okay with crashing on his couch because it's an amazing couch. He might actually sleep better on it than the bed.
Except, sleep is a goddamn glorious temptress and sounds so much better than willing himself to trudge back across the apartment.
"You'd better not snore," he tells Tim's back, before pressing his face into the pillow and letting beautiful unconsciousness swim up around him.
TBC
