Tim awoke in the darkness of Jason's bedroom. Around him the sheets were cool to the touch, the pillow on the other side of the bed untouched, and Tim knew instantly that Jason had not gotten any sleep since he'd carried Tim into his apartment that night. Though it was summer, which in Gotham City usually meant sweltering heat with little to no breeze to cool down the rising temperature, the night— or probably more accurately, the early hours of the morning— were blessedly cool.

A draft flowed through the rooms of the apartment, stirring stray papers pinned under empty mugs and the bent pages of the paperback book Jason had left on the side table. As it swept over Tim, he curled his arms across his naked chest, hands careful where they laid over his bandaged torso. Even with the moonlight as his only light source Tim could see the discoloration that crawled up his ribs and around his right side. When Tim brushed his fingertips over the exposed skin, he felt heat but not the radiating sort of heat that signaled infection.

Tim sighed. He would most definitely live, though if anyone had asked him a couple of hours ago he would not have been able to give them a definite answer. Jason had taken care of him during his unconsciousness, staunching the blood flow from the slicing sword wound Deathstroke had bestowed upon him. Tim did not remember much about his fight with Deathstroke, but he remembered the pain of that wound. It had been deep, at the time it felt like Tim had been cleaved in two, but not deep enough to gut him right there on that rooftop, his armor protecting him from the worst of it. Still… Tim had fallen, blacking out very soon afterwards. At the time he had only thought I won't even get to say goodbye to Jason before I go.

The reminder of that was enough to spur Tim to movement, even though any medical professional would most likely advise against it. He dug his elbows into the soft mattress and pulled his upper body up and back until he was leaning against the headboard. The pain was surprising mild, but Tim was smart enough to guess that Jason had dosed him with morphine.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed and yanked the sheets away from his limbs. If he were to trip and fall now it would not be likely that he would be able to get up again. The walk across the room was a slow process. Tim took tentative steps across the room, holding onto anything that would support him. He emerged into the living room but did not make it further than the threshold before he found who he was looking for.

Jason was sitting on the laminate counter by the sink, legs dangling over the side. The little window over the sink had been slid open, the air rustling Jason's messy hair and dragging out the smoke that floated up from the half finished cigarette fixed between Jason's fingers. Tim had always loved when Jason smoked late at night, the darkness of night time serving as a backdrop against his broad shoulders and arching neck. The moonlight illuminating all those bare sections of skin that Tim longed to put his lips to.

Jason took one last long pull on the cigarette, the filter dissolving to a stub in between his fingertips. At that moment Jason caught sight of Tim standing across the room from him and Tim watched the way that Jason didn't blow the smoke out like he'd done before. Instead, he threaded his fingers back through his short dark hair, the stripe of white catching the moonlight, and exhaled softly, the smoke curling out from behind his teeth to ghost the air in front of his face.

His voice spoke through the cloud of smoke, though Tim could not see his lips forming the words. "I know I should have taken it out to the fire escape, but I need to be close in case you…" He changed subjects quickly, "I know you don't like the smell."

He didn't say the words but Tim knew that it must have been a dicey situation for awhile with how much blood Tim had lost. In truth he still felt woozy and thirsty. The cigarette smoke hanging in the air wasn't doing anything to help at the moment but Tim couldn't be bothered to argue about it.

Tim shook his head. "I don't mind the smell tonight. It reminds me of you."

Jason stubbed the cigarette out into a dish on the counter.

"C'mere." His arms spread open wide and Tim stumbled his way into them, not minding that the kitchen counter was digging in uncomfortably. His face was pressed against Jason's chest, hands strong against his head and back. Tim threaded his own arms around Jason and breathed deeply the scent of tobacco smoke, sweat, and Old Spice.

"I almost lost you." His breath was scratchy, hitching in the middle and it had nothing to do with the cigarette he'd must smoked.

Tim squeezed Jason all the tighter as if he was trying to mimick to Jason the same feeling of building pressure that was happening in his own chest. "I know."

Jason slid off of the counter to stand over Tim and pull him deeper into his embrace. He burrowed his nose into the hair on the top of Tim's head, breathing deeply. Tim felt Jason's strong arms around him, a strength that seemed undefeatable in that moment and knew that whatever had happened before did not matter because he was here. He was still right here and Jason was holding him in his arms and saying his name in that gruff voice that Tim loved so much. This was all that mattered. Here.