I have no idea where this chapter came from. It just sort of happened and then I was like "WELL I LIKE JASON, AND THIS IS DEFINITELY GOING TO RESULT IN A LOT OF SEXUAL TENSION." Not so sure about the sexual tension part, but I do like Jason. I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS CHAPTER. :D
Jason's throat stings from his screaming. There are certain times of the day when he just hates it here, hates everything this house is, and the people in it. And he hates Timothy-fucking-Drake who walked into the house twenty minutes ago when Jason was halfway into his scream-fest. He hasn't come upstairs yet. He always waits for Alfred to come up and then go back down before he feels safe enough to climb the stairs.
And Jason hates the fact that he's scared Tim to the point of not wanting to come upstairs. (And it's been three days since he went AWOL from his classes and Alfred brought him home. Tim hasn't even looked at him. At all. It's. Jason is. Confused.)
"Are you done for today, Master Jason?" Alfred enters after Jason made a raspy grunt at his knock. He is carrying a tray of chocolate chip cookies (and yes, Jason likes them, everyone does, so shut the fuck up). And. A CD. One that was obviously not bought, but made.
"Yeah, Alfred, I'm done." He sits up on his bed and points at the CD. "What's that?"
"Oh, just something that we're going to take a listen to, sir." He gestures to an old CD player (arbitrarily old, not old like a record player). He sets the tray down on the floor, close to the player, and puts the CD in. It starts playing something classical and beautiful, a cello at first, alone, then accompanied by—let Jason count for a second, Jesus, don't rush him—three violins and a string bass. Maybe another cello. Alfred points at the place where Jason is supposed to sit across from him, on the floor (this old man isn't old enough to complain about sitting on the floor or something).
Jason does. Protesting just gets him a look that says "I'm Alfred and you will not say no to me, sir." They eat cookies in silence (even Alfred eats a couple) and Jason is listening while milk chases the warm cookies into his stomach. This CD is obviously a recording with high-tech equipment that Bruce snuck it.
This. These songs are beautiful and—
This one. Hits something in him. Because this is sad. And something else. Painful. It's painful to listen to and tears prick and the back of his eyelids.
"This song, Master Jason, is for you. After—what happened." Alfred has always been hesitant about talking about his death.
"What?" Jason is sure he didn't know any cellists that personally so that they would write a song for him when he died. In fact, he doesn't think Bruce knew a cellist of that caliber to write a song for the death of Jason Todd. But then Jason hears not only his own death, but the death of Robin, a death of color.
It's really quite in depth.
"Master Timothy performed this song for you." A sad, small smile tugs at his laughlines. "Against the wishes of his parents, I assure you. He was feeling particularly sad. And this was even before he had asked to be Robin."
Anger stirs in his chest about Tim forcing himself into Robin. But it dies quickly as he processes what Alfred has just said. "...what?"
"Master Timothy is a cellist. A great cellist. He has been a great cellist since he was five years old. Though technically, most people would say it was ten. But it was closer to three. Five is as low as Master Bruce wants to say it was." Well duh, child prodigies who are found out that early (especially prodigies with defects because their parents are trying to cope) usually are fucking misera—oh. Man. (And Jason has assumed that Tim was just some deaf little rich kid who wanted to be Robin because—God, Jason's an asshole.)
"He can't hear, so how can he be a cellist?" This is fucking strange. Ignoring all the previous thoughts of child prodigies, how can a deaf boy hear music?
Alfred thinks for a moment. "Master Timothy felt it, he says. It has—had—lived in him. It was something that, and this is a direct quote, 'itched toward his fingers.' It was his life, his expression. It was how he spoke. A voice, if you will."
The next song is bright. And happy. But. There is something that Jason thinks he can hear. Love me. Love me.
"Past tense?" He's trying not to think about what he's hearing. He doesn't like sympathizing with people he can't stand. Didn't stand. (Ugh, he had been unable to stand him yesterday—or, rather, a couple months ago—or, rather, maybe he had stopped hating him even longer ago that than—fuck.)
"And that, Master Jason, is something you need to discuss with him." Alfred stands and picks up the empty tray. "You can keep the CD. Master Bruce has the sound file on the computer and many copies. He has CDs of every one of Mater Timothy's concerts. I am sure he would give you some if you asked." That's Alfred, trying to patch things up between Jason and Bruce even when he just sort of fucking annihilated everything Jason had once thought was Tim.
And even though Alfred did all that, Jason still has questions. About Tim's music, about Tim's childhood, about that plea that was hidden in that happy music but wasn't so happy at all.
Love me.
Alfred bows a little and walks out of the room. But he doesn't shut the door behind him. He hears Alfred walk downstairs and doesn't hear Tim come up the stairs until he hears the door of the room next to his open and shut. And then there is more silence. From Tim's room, not from Jason. Because Jason is still listening to Tim's music and holy fuck this kid is good.
Really good. Or. Was good. Past tense?
(His head hurts, throbbing at the temples because Tim was confusing before and now he's just fucking out there.)
Jason smacks the wall because—ah, hell, he thinks he hears Tim flinch—because he wants to.
Jason exits his room, walks the seven and a half feet to Tim's and knocks. It takes exactly fifty-three seconds for Tim to open the door and he looks tired. His cell phone is in his left hand, but he shoves it in his left pocket and holds his hands up.
"What do you need, Jason?"
(Is it weird that he likes the way his name looks in sign language? Because Tim just sort of arbitrarily assigned him a sign name, instead of spelling out Jason all the time, and Jason likes it. ...fuck. He likes it.)
"We need to talk, Babybird."
Might as well get that out there (because yes, he has a nickname for everyone and had given Tim this one he doesn't even know when). Tim's eyebrows go up. But he steps aside and gestures for Jason to enter.
They have a lot to talk about.