Warning: In case it hasn't been made clear, Dick Grayson is currently "dead" (since this takes place during some of the Spyral arc)

AN: I had way too much fun writing this. Dialogue is my happy place. Decided to go for Tim's POV this time, so hopefully I did him justice.

There's no transition from being asleep to being awake. One minute, Tim is swimming in the dreamless black of total unconsciousness, and the next he is staring up at an unfamiliar cracked ceiling.

His mouth has the rancid metallic taste it always gets when he's been dosed with antitoxin, and there's a body beside him. It's a fact that should concern him—he's woken next to unconscious or dead bodies more than he'd like to admit—but the unhurried, easy breathing suggests it is voluntary unconsciousness. Scent returns next, the air damp and cool, with a hint of mold, drying blood and cigarette smoke.

Familiar cigarette smoke.

Jason, he decides, not even having to glance to his side to confirm his deduction.

Memories of the night before return, along with the itchy sting of new stitches in his skin and what feels like a hundred paper cuts across the rest of his body. He can feel that especially well, since he has no clothing other than his underwear and the air is aggravating the broken skin.

This had better not be another Paris situation…

He's not sure why that's his first thought, because obviously he had to lose his uniform to be treated, but he really doesn't like the idea of being manhandled while mostly-naked. Not that there's anything to worry about from Jason. Even if he wasn't an ally-maybe-friend-not-quite-brother most of the time, the Red Hood has a very well-known attitude towards untoward behavior and minors.

Still going to check his phone for any blackmail material, though.

It's what Dick would do in this situation.

Would have done.

Tim swallows painfully.

He continues to stare up at the ceiling for another few seconds, choosing to collect his thoughts rather than dwell on the unpleasant. It's easy to put together the chain of events from when he passed out in Ivy's clutches to waking up in what is clearly a safehouse. It's happened to all of them at some point, so there's no associated panic. He is, however, curious about one thing that's different from usual.

"Jason."

The flatness of his tone marred by sleep, makes him sound groggier and less aware than he would like.

There is no response. He knows the older man is awake now though; it's a universal talent of the Bat-trained, being able to rouse from a deep sleep to peak awareness at the drop of a hat.

"Jason," he repeats, a little louder, still studying the cracks in the plaster that spread and merge with a spot of water-damage.

"Mmf…ckff…"

The words are muffled by a pillow, but understandable enough. He's awake enough to formulate a response. Good, on to the next bit.

"Why am I in bed with you?"

And is there any way to make that question not sound disturbing?

"…no blood on the couch…" is the grumbled, surprisingly coherent response. "S'my favorite couch…"

Which makes a Jason-like amount of sense, even if it doesn't completely answer what Tim is asking. He decides the conversation isn't worth the trouble of dragging it out of the other man, mostly because he's pretty sure a half-asleep Red Hood is just as hard to interrogate as an awake and alert Red Hood. Maybe harder, given the propensity for slurring his words.

And so, Tim eases himself gingerly upward into a sitting position, hissing when the movement tugs on the skin around the wound in his side. He examines it with a frown, noting that it's far too close to his right kidney for his liking; he'll have to take a break from patrol for the next few days to let it heal, and to make sure it doesn't get infected. It's something he actually has to worry about since losing his spleen.

Though, it won't be due to subpar first aid, he allows, considering the neat row of stitches holding the still angry red wound closed. "At least your sewing has improved."

"Screw you, my sewing's awesome." This time Jason definitely sounds more awake, and there's a shift of the bed. "Martha Stewart's got nothing on me. You snore, by the way."

"I do not."

Tim glances over at the other man, taking in the somewhat bloody clothing he apparently fell asleep in. He's in a sweat-stained t-shirt, and there are a few slashes in his arms that are scabbing over. Probably from the vines. He obviously hasn't shaved in a long while, and he's got a bad case of helmet head. The red roots are coming out again, and coupled with the bloodshot eyes, he looks like someone who just got off a bender.

"You look like crap," Tim tells him bluntly.

Jason rolls his eyes.

"Aw, thanks Timbers. And you're welcome, by the way. You know, for the whole saving your life thing?"

Tim grits his teeth, knowing the slightly mocking tone is meant to get a rise out of him. Jason is nothing if not excellent at pushing people's buttons.

"Thank you," he says. Annoyance about this whole situation aside, he is grateful. He thinks a year ago Jason might have left him to him die. "I appreciate it. Really."

"You'd better. I almost left you to strangle on the fire escape in that ridiculous cape of yours. You know one day that's going to get stuck in a jet-engine or something right?"

"Bruce is the one that tackles runaway jets, not me."

Jason makes a dismissive gesture.

"So, how many times is that now?" he asks then, reaching for the shabby night table beside him and finagling open a drawer. He pulls out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a zippo. "I'm starting to wonder if I should be waiving the family discount for my services. I mean, it's not like you can't afford it."

"What's the point? You'll have died of lung cancer before I have to make a payment."

Jason makes a point of holding Tim's gaze as he lights the cigarette between his lips, just to be contrary. Tim makes a face at the acrid waft of smoke that follows.

"And that's my cue," he sighs, swinging himself over the bed and promptly putting his foot down in a bright red garbage pail.

"Watch the bucket," Jason tells him after the fact, a bit of a mocking lilt in his voice.

Tim closes his eyes and silently counts to ten.

It could be worse. It could be Damian.

"Can you, for one second, not be a total jerk?" he asks conversationally, carefully stepping out of the bucket ad getting to his feet. "Where's my suit?" Jason motions vaguely in the direction of the floor, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Thanks. That's really helpful."

"I aim to please."

"Right." Tim is the one to roll his eyes now. "At least tell me you have a coffeemaker in this place."

He's getting one of those headaches, and at least forty percent of it is not caused by Jason.

"That would be lying though and lying is wrong." Said with a shit-eating grin. "Your choices are Earl Grey or mineral water."

Tim curls his lip. "You're destroying the whole tough-guy image I have of you. What kind of vigilante doesn't drink coffee?"

"The kind that likes having a sparkling white smile?"

"I don't know if I can take you seriously anymore."

"Yeah, well, I never took you seriously," Jason retorts, flicking his cigarette into the nearby ashtray. "I'm taking you even less seriously since you're standing there near-naked with rat's nest hair and a hard-on."

Which causes color to flood Tim's cheeks and an unfortunate automatic flick of his eyes downward to see that, damn it, he's right.

"Shut up!" he snaps, grabbing the nearest pillow to cover himself, and Jason guffaws. "It's a normal biological function."

"Still funny, though."

Tim's already stumbling from the bed in embarrassment, looking for the bathroom.

"Door on the right," Jason calls after him, disgustingly amused. "Don't get your stitches wet." Just as Tim reaches it, he pitches his voice louder: "And if you need to rub one out in there, have the decency to rinse down the wall!"

Mortification hits Tim even harder than before.

"Fuck off Jason!"

He hears a roar of laughter from the bedroom.

I take back what I said about Damian.

TBC