AN: Final chapter time, peeps! Word count for the chapter per se is a bit over 5k, and then we have a pretty sizeable combo of footnotes & final author's notes for acknowledgements and such.

Trigger warnings are at the beginning of those final author's notes. They're in an all-bolded section, so easy to spot.

Enjoy!!


Not bothering to open his eyes, Jay shifted a little, trying to ease a little tension from the cramped position he'd had to keep for the past however many minutes.

Tim immediately stiffened and quieted in his hold, no doubt waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jay stilled at once and held back a sigh because of course this still wasn't going to be easy. And like hell was he gonna let the kid spin into a panic again. There was only so much stress either of them could manage before something went seriously sideways.

Baby steps, then. Not like he had the energy for much else either. "Tim?"

A sharp sniffle. "Yeah?" he rasped out quietly, his throat scraped raw but Jay still catching a sliver of steel in his voice as he fought to hold it steady.

"There's something I need to ask you."

The kid seemed to shrink slightly in his grasp and Jay halfway regretted making it sound so dramatic, but he had to be careful.

He didn't reply this time, just nodding instead.

"But I'm gonna need you to answer as Red Robin this time."

Tim seemed to try and clear his own throat here, but aborted the sound on a pained choke halfway through. "Listening," he finally said instead.

"Can you be okay here for two minutes—and I mean exactly a hundred and twenty seconds—by yourself?"

He felt the kid nod, but he needed to be surer than that. "Verbal confirmation, Baby Bird."

A deep, shuddering inhale. "I can. I'll—two minutes, right?" he added.

"Max. Hood's honor."

The kid let out a half scoff, half laugh. It was watery and faint, but still the sweetest sound Jay had heard in what felt like too long now. And as much of a Boy Scout as Jay wasn't, promises were something he didn't take lightly, and he knew Tim understood the strength behind the words.

"Okay," Tim said, this time muttering to himself. "Okay…two minutes, keep my breaths straight. Two minutes. I can do that.

"I can do that," he said again, a little louder this time.

Thank the Maker. Jay began to loosen his hold, only to be halted at once by Tim.

"Why?" he asked, almost sharply, the tension cutting through the rasp of his strained throat.

He let out a slight huff of laughter. "Because you're gonna be in a hell of a lot less pain once you get those damned pills in. Need the antibiotic dose, too. Missing anatomy and all."

"Oh. Oh." The kid's voice dropped to a hop above a whisper. "I'm—"

Oh, no you fucking don't. A slightly terrified impulse resulted in Jay covering the kid's mouth with his hand. He removed it almost as quickly, the kid sufficiently silenced in surprise.

Jay let his own head drop in exasperation, resting against Tim's a bit. "Oy shked helwa el horiya [Oh, how beautiful is freedom]. I think I've hit my apology limit for the week, kid. You really want to apologize, take the pills and we can call it even." [1]

Silence. He could damn-near hear the kid frowning at being let off so easily.

"Deal?" Jay pressed.

"Deal." And there was no hiding the weariness there.

"And Tim?"

"Yeah?"

He pressed a kiss to the crown of the younger boy's head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Thought you were about to leave." The snark probably would've been far more convincing without the suddenly brittle tone.

So? Still had to say it anyway. "Yep, for a whole hundred and twenty seconds, Timbo. Deal's a deal." He gave the kid a little squeeze before carefully releasing the hold, one limb at a time, watching like a fucking hawk for another wave of panic.

The kid probably would've looked more convincingly at ease if he'd been carved from granite, but the trembling didn't tick up and his breaths seemed reasonably steady now.

Jay peeled himself from the floor at long last and took a long moment to stretch—and contemplate how much his back and joints and various other bits were probably going to hate him tomorrow. Well…otro día, la misma mierda [Another day, same shit]. And it was as worthwhile as it had ever been. His brother had needed him, and he'd been there. Fuck regrets for that. He'd have to make sure to impress that upon the kid, too.

Once his back was complaining just a touch less, he helped Tim back into the pillow nest—yes, fine, it was definitely that; laugh it up, Dick—helped the kid clean himself up a bit, and mightily resisted the urge to add even more fucking pillows because that was definitely not needed. At all. Even if it was tempting. Not like the pillows could've actually warded off another panic attack, but there was still an irrational part of him that liked the visual reassurance.

And, based on past experiences, he suspected the touch-starved secret cuddle fiend didn't exactly hate it either.

Once Tim was nestled safely in bed again, Jay started a timer on his phone and fled the room. He hit the bathroom, snatched up more meds, splashed water on his face and made it back with just over a minute to spare.

So he burned up some of the extra time leaning his forehead against the wall and trying very, very hard not to even think about why certain phrases seemed to come so easily to Tim. He was sure—he was pretty sure, at least—that Tim hadn't come by the words the same way he had. Jason hoped, he prayed the kid hadn't. He no longer feared throwing up all over his patient, but his stomach hadn't fully forgiven him yet, truth be told. So he just took a moment to breathe. And try to bury the fresh and too familiar memory of an agonized, panicked child spilling pleas and promises to be good while thrashing against the limbs of a man who could bring terrifying new dimensions to the word pain.


"Boss is gonna be happy. He's scrawny, but these exotic-looking brats fetch a good price."

"Yeah, doesn't McKamey have a thing for them? Might pay a pretty penny for some playtime with this one."

"Yeah, I'll bet. What's this one, Spanish? Think I heard him cussing in it earlier. There's a lot of them running around in that quarter."

"Who gives a fuck, long as he has the right look and we get our cut? Pretty sure Mick is gonna have him a little occupied to be yapping much, anyways."

"Rude to talk with your mouth full, right?"


Jay wondered, with a shudder, what nightmares he'd have that eve. Maybe his brain would feel inspired and flip the script—make him take his turn as guest-starring villain in a world that swirled and switched in snapshots of trash-strewn alleyways, mildew-scented carpeting, or even obscenely expensive cotton sheets stained with red, brown, and white.

Ten more seconds.

And then he pushed off the wall, plastered on a mask of his own living skin, and swaggered into the room—

Tim's eyes were closed, and he finally seemed at rest.

—and got skewered a moment later by eyes entirely too sharp and clear for someone who'd just spent that much time vacillating between panicked apologies and hyperventilating sobs.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked, weariness seeping out from every pore but his eyes hard and his frown undisguised.

Jay managed a scoff. "I think that's 'congratulations,' Timbo. Or at least a 'Welcome back, O Victorious Champion.' "

" 'At least'?" Tim repeated.

"At least. And I come bearing drugs," he added as he made his way back to bedside and reclaimed his seat in the office chair. "How're your hands?" he inquired after a moment, returning Tim's appraising gaze.

The younger Wayne looked down at his hands and flexed them a touch. "Better," he answered after a beat. "I'm still…I'm pretty tired, though." He flashed the briefest of glances at the bedside table. "I can handle the pills, I'm pretty sure, but.… Do you…think…?" he trailed off and turned his head a bit as a bright flush crept up his neck.

"Sure thing," Jay answered, making a point to keep his voice breezy as he picked up the water thermos before handing Tim the plastic cup that held the pills.

The kid's grateful relief was palpable, and then it redoubled when Jay made room so that Tim could still manage his own part of steadying the container of water while Jay simply supported it from underneath.

Jason honestly did get it. Tim had enough trouble accepting help, let alone trying to stomach being treated like he was more helpless right now than he actually was. Jay wouldn't have actually minded a damned bit if the kid had let himself be cared for a little more and not insisted on pushing himself so hard, but hey, baby steps. At least he was willing to ask for a literal hand this go-round instead of trying to serve himself in what probably would've been kundalini-contortionist style at this point.

Jay even managed to convince him to down a little more of the soup immediately afterwards, though he didn't have appetite for much.

Not hard to sympathize there.

And when all of this was done.…

"You don't have to stay."

Jay snapped his head over, but the younger bird wasn't looking at him.

"I know"—he chewed his lip—"you have stuff to do. You've already spent a ton of time here, helping me with everything. And I appreciate it, I really do."

And Jay strained to hear him, with how softly he was speaking and how much blood was now thundering in Jay's ears because what the actual, Goddamned, chicken-fried pretzel-coated fuck was this?

"You even gave me the soup Alfred made for you."

"Sweet of you to assume I used my own stuff and didn't just take Dickhead's share. Not like he appreciates it enough, anyways. Figure it's as good a time as any to teach him a lesson."

"No, it was yours." Tim got that little frown and that set to his jaw he always got when he knew he was right and didn't get how anyone else could even doubt it.

"Oh?" Jay folded his arms. "And how would you know?" He gave not one solitary damn that the little brat had caught him out, but if he could keep him talking about just this, maybe he could burn through the sticky threads of self-denial the kid was starting to swathe himself in again.

"Because Alfred always puts extra cilantro in your lentil soup." And there was his check-friggin'-mate voice. "No one else's."

"How the hell do you even know that? You don't even cook."

"I notice things," he replied, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and defiant self-satisfaction. "Like how you're trying to distract me right now."

"And if I am?" Defiance, Jay could match easily. "All I heard earlier was you trying to come up with fifty reasons I should just leave your ass here and be on my merry way. And maybe I don't feel like having that fucking argument again," he snapped.

"I don't care how many times we have to argue about that; I still haven't changed my mind. You shouldn't have to lose a whole day here." He said the last bit with more conviction than before, and Jay found himself wondering if any of their med kits held prescription-strength anti-stupidity pills, because he really needed a handful right now.

"But"—and now his voice was suddenly much softer and he was worrying at his lip again and inspecting the apparently fascinating bedclothes—"I…I want…I'd also like it if you could stay. If you have time," he quickly added. "Not the whole day, but a little—Jay?"

On his feet, and there went the guns onto the bedside table and the jacket onto the chair and the knives onto the table again. Some of the knives. Compromise is essential to healthy relationships and possibly unhealthy coping habits, Jay reminded himself. Yup, he was doing perfectly well. And hey, if the guns were going to be a little outside of immediate reach, he had to have something, dammit.

"Jay…?" Tim looked faintly alarmed and rather unreasonably surprised for someone who'd literally just asked for this.

"Tim…?" Jason replied in a pointedly similar tone. In a flash he had—quite gracefully—vaulted pillow pile and mini-lante alike to land on the far side of the bed.

Tim's unreasonable look of alarm softened into a conflicted mix of guilt and relief as Jay scooched closer and set about stacking some pillows for his own spot in hopes of placating his still-complaining back.

Wedging into the furniture earlier had helped provide needed stability and support, but Jason was all the more certain by now that he would be paying for the day quite soon. Hell, he was already.

He looked up from his activities just in time to spot Tim wiping away a stray tear or two with his wrist.

Jay let himself sigh audibly this time around. "All right, that's enough." The distance already slight, he reached over and pulled the kid nearer, arm free to wrap around his shoulders in a proper hug—side hug, technically—this time. "And I know I've had a few memory issues over the years, Timmers, but I'm pretty sure I just made a promise to you less than 20 minutes ago."

"And you kept it. A hundred and ten seconds."

"Not that one. I said"—and he mirrored the gesture of before, pressing a kiss against his hair—"I'm not going anywhere." He then of course reached up to thoroughly and obnoxiously muss the kid's silky but sweat-dampened tresses.

Tim answered with a rather well-aimed jerk of his head, catching Jay square in the chin.

"Oww, that actually hurt a little, Tim-Tam."

"Good," Tim replied, even as he relaxed and nestled closer himself, eyes finally closing for more than just a second.

Jason held his breath and watched. He even made it halfway through a hallelujah before Tim's eyes slid back open.

"I burned my arm."

Jay's brain may or may not have short-circuited at that point, and his voice couldn't quite seem to find its way out of his throat, getting lost somewhere at the corner of Larynx Street & Am I a Blind-Ass Bitch Alley, because he hadn't seen a damned thing when he'd sliced open the sweatshirt and done an exam. He cleared his throat. "When?"

"Back when I was nine."

Sometimes it's good to lead with handy details like that, but hey, question answered. And the abrupt topic was actually less confusing than the prospect Jay had managed to miss a recent injury so glaring. When Tim didn't continue after too many long moments, maybe warring with himself over how much to say about his "parents," Jay decided to prompt but not press. He wasn't going to rush, but the kid had brought this up for a reason. He let his hand start a sleepy drift through Tim's locks, teasing out the occasional knot and hoping the impromptu scalp massage would make the kid feel less tense and more at ease.

It did the trick.

"It was stupid. My parents were away and they hadn't replaced the nanny, so I had to prepare my own food. I was just starting to learn then."

Jay held back some decidedly acerbic inner commentary about just how many of Tim's stories started with "My parents were away…" and whether the disclaimer was even necessary still. Hair pets, happy thoughts—that was his job right now.

Okay, he could manage the hair pets, at least.

"They always made sure the house was stocked with stuff before they left, so I never had to worry about running out or anything," Tim continued, his tone taking on an edge of something that sounded distinctly like defensiveness.

"Glad to hear it, Timbit," Jay managed, though he almost hadn't trusted himself to speak just then.

Right move, apparently, because Tim relaxed a little further and snuggled closer with a tiny wriggle.

Jay was still pissed, but damn the kid was adorable. His blood pressure dropped just as quickly as it had risen and…yeah. Again: Drakes? Complete idiots who'd missed out on a kid they entirely hadn't deserved. …Silver lining, maybe?

And now he was once and forever a Wayne. Definite silver lining.

"And that time…they'd always stock the freezers back then, too, and that time I decided to try these frozen chicken strips. I knew you needed plenty of protein if you wanted to build muscle, and I knew I needed to if I wanted to get better at my martial-arts classes and the…nighttime stuff."

Jay managed to suppress a snort of amusement this time; the kid still tended to refer to his city-spanning photography adventures euphemistically out of sheer habit, despite now having exponentially more secretive and dangerous "nighttime activities" occupying his time.

"So I had them in the oven, and I was looking at stuff online, and I think I'd forgotten to set a timer for them, but then I smelled burning, and I went to see, and there was all this smoke when I opened the oven." He frowned, blinking hard as he revisited the memory. He swallowed. "I hadn't put them in the right kind of container, I don't think. I didn't know they had oil runoff like that, and some of it had spilled to the bottom of the oven and that's where all the smoke was coming from. But I didn't know what to do and I started panicking and I just tried to get the tray out and then I got a notification on my phone—I had them up really loud to make sure I could hear—and I got distracted. It was stupid," he said again, notes of bitter self-reproach lacing his tone.

Jason paused. He still wasn't sure how welcome his commentary would be, but he chose to hazard the risk this time. "You were nine. I'm pretty sure distraction is listed on the job description. Especially when you already have too much to manage on your own."

"I was nine, but I already knew better by then. I should've paid more attention."

"You should've had someone there to fix you breakfast, lunch, and dinner instead of making you become America's Next Top Chef before you hit puberty."

"Yeah, well, I think we both know I'd never win that competition." He huffed out a counterfeit sort of laugh, pure bitterness rather than humor. "Doesn't matter," he added with a mumble. "It happened, so whatever." He gave his head a small shake before settling again.

Jay counted it as a small but painfully real victory when the kid leaned against his hand ever so slightly in a tiny, cautious request. He wasted no time resuming the soothing efforts, and was rewarded by feeling the tension of the mini-argument seep from Tim's posture again.

"Anyways, I was already panicking plenty and then once the phone startled me, I lost my grip and dropped the edge of the pan. It bounced back against the oven rack and then hit my arm, and some of the oil caught me too, I think. Sort of sealed the heat in," he added, teeth clenched and voice grim. "I just freaked out even more, and it was hurting really bad and I didn't know what to do, so I called Mrs. MacIlvaine. I didn't even remember to turn the damn oven off until like a couple of minutes before she arrived." His lower lip trembled and he bit down hard—enough so that Jay faintly worried he'd draw blood—like he thought it would stop the trembling if he bit hard enough.

It didn't.

He took a deep breath. "I think that's what she was actually worried about mostly—the damage I did to the oven."

Of course. The lovely housekeeper Tim had always insisted was perfectly nice to him.

"I'd made a pretty big mess and some of the chicken had landed right on the heating elements, so that had burned the oil in even more. And she got really mad and started yelling and I was scared but I couldn't even think, because it just—it hurt, Jay." His voice cracked. "It hurt so much." And so very nearly did the emotional dam give way to cracks as well, except the kid had already cried his damned eyes out so much that day that nothing seemed to be left. So shuddering but dry-eyed breaths moonlit as sobs this time.

The kid shook his head again, a touch angrily. "Sorry. I'm—I won't cry again. I've been making you deal with me all day already."

"Timbit, you can cry for the next 12 fucking hours if you need to, and I'll bring you the Kleenex and Gatorade." Jay punctuated his point by wrapping the kid in a fuller hug, still mindful of his injured side, nestling Tim's head underneath his chin, much like before. "And how the fuck does this qualify as 'all day'? It's been like an hour, tops."

Tim rewarded him with a small, hoarse laugh. "Maybe the toxin went to your brain, too."

"Well, then, I definitely have to stay. You're the first Guinea pig and I need to keep you under observation for at least twenty-four hours so I'll know what to expect."

Tim snorted and Jay flicked his ear before the two rustled their way back into their prior resting places, Tim turning to lean against his elder brother a little more now, no longer fighting the exhaustion as stubbornly. But he wasn't done with the story quite so soon. "The burns already hurt a lot, but I guess they were even worse than I realized, because after Mrs. Mac finally took a good look at my arm—"

"Finally."

"—she called my parents."

"Please tell me they took you to the hospital. And how long did it fucking take them to get there in the first place?"

"I…they didn't…come home." His voice shrank in volume with each fragment of the sentence.

"They didn't?" Jay asked, forcing his voice to stay almost completely even, barely even inflecting the question. He could do this; he just had to think flat thoughts. Kukenán Tepui. 2-D animation. Janet Drake's affect in a family photo.

"They did call the doctor, though." Normally Tim would've made the protest with more vehemence, but his tone this time around sounded just slightly less convinced that this was a sufficient explanation. "He used to provide concierge medical services for us before he retired."

"And your parents?"

"They set up a call since he still needed permission for the actual treatments and Mrs. Mac couldn't give it."

Jay pushed down the temptation to give a very Batman-esque Grumble of Deep Disapproval at that. …Fortunately the horrifying thought lasted only a microsecond before being terminated with extreme prejudice. See, sometimes lethal force was just necessary.

"Diagnosis?" Jay asked, hoping to keep things on track.

"Burns…?"

Jay wasn't sure if he was just being stubborn or genuinely sleep-drunk. Probably both. "I meant how severe."

"Not sure," Tim mumbled.

Yeah, they were definitely coming back to that later.

"I just remember the part after," he added, voice quieter but also clearer now. "After Doctor Prentiss left, my parents and I had a…talk. D—Jack was pretty mad, kinda like Mrs. Mac. He yelled and said that the oven wasn't a toy, and that if I was just going to play around with the appliances, then I needed to stay out of the kitchen entirely before I burned the fucking house down and they had to spend their time back at home house hunting. Mom…she was a lot nicer. She just said that they'd thought I could handle it but that she and Jack really should've known that nine years old was far too young to use something like an oven unsupervised."

Jay set aside the blatant dig at her own son and appreciated the shock of Janet Drake's having come to a conclusion that actually made fucking sense for once in her life. For once in Tim's life.

"So they told me not to use the oven again, and they had Mrs. Mac clear out the freezer that night so they wouldn't have to worry about it again."

And never fucking mind. Because what? "Timbo.…"

"I said that they didn't need to—that they could donate it, at least, but they said that I'd already given Mrs. MacIlvaine more than enough work with having to clean out the oven and the freezer and surely I wasn't childish enough to ask them to fly back to Gotham for something like that right in the middle of an important excavation, just so I could feel better. So she just threw out whatever stuff she didn't want to take home herself."

Jay damn near short-circuited for a second time.

"They ordered more food so I wouldn't go hungry or anything, but after that they only kept stuff that didn't need to be heated up on the stove or in the oven. Or microwave."

Jay…well, didn't even have time to enjoy the Mystery Fucking Solved as to how folks of their means had ended up with a malnourished child, because Tim had of course saved the best part for last.

"They didn't need to do that, Jay," he said again, almost as though he thought Jason blamed him for all this.

Well, fuck that. Jay murmured assurances as best he could, though he knew by now how Tim got, especially when he started getting caught up in the memories.

"I wouldn't have tried again. Not after what they said. I didn't even care about the food. I just felt bad I had messed up. But I didn't really get upset until they told me…until they said that they'd have to stay abroad longer. They said it was because they'd had to miss really important consultations to schedule the stuff with Doctor Prentiss, and they'd have to stay longer and work extra hours in order to make up for it.

"…I guess they never caught up." And there at the end was a small, but all too knowing, touch of the sardonic. "Or maybe they were just mad," he breathed. "I messed up, Jay. And…I couldn't fix it."

"There wasn't anything for you to fix, Tim. You weren't the one who messed up. Not really. And how many fucking years do you get to stay mad at a kid for getting hurt in an accident that's your own damned fault? The only people your folks had any right to be mad at were themselves." And maybe that Goddamned housekeeper you've somehow conferred sainthood upon. Jay wasn't sure where the words had even come from because he hardly felt capable of thought, let alone speech. But the little bird was fading fast and Jay felt a burning need to fix this somehow before he slipped into a 'scape of whatever nightmares the Drakes had planted in his mind.

It was all too easy to picture what the aftermath of the "discussion" had looked like. Tim huddled in some corner of that too-big house, a mess of aching loneliness and silent tears. He was nearly always silent when he cried, because of course that had been an essential skill to learn at the Drakes' place: How not to upset the parents who were rarely even there to hear your cries. But on the 3% chance that they might? Quiet as a grave. A normal grave, at least. Couldn't afford to risk having anyone notice that he existed and that he might be experiencing emotions like a normal human being, like a normal child. Erase all evidence of that. Heck, cut to the chase and just erase yourself…whatever interpretation that idea might have at a given moment. It left a lot of opportunity for creative application.

Jay didn't want this to be the last thing on Tim's mind as sleep wrapped its shadowed vines around him.

He tried to think what Dick might do. What sort of off-kilter but somehow perfect idea Roy would've sprung if Jason had shared a memory like this with him.

He filtered through his own memories from more recent days, trying to recall the rare times he or Dick had been able to nag the kid into getting a bite to eat on breaks from patrol, fast food if they couldn't drag him to the Manor for a proper meal. There wasn't much to go on. And he was certain either of his elder brothers could've come up with something better. But, he was pretty sure.… "You still eat stuff like that, though, right?"[2]

"Mm?" Tim furrowed his brow but his eyes remained shut.

"Like, they didn't ruin actually eating foods like that, yeah?"

"…No?"

"All right, then next time we go out on patrol—or hell, as civvies—I'm buying, and you are eating as many chicken tenders as you Goddamned want, got it?"

A beat passed and Jay had to hold back a nervous swallow, abruptly wondering how ridiculous the offer might've sounded to Tim. Sure, nothing like a small bucket of oil to make up for years of fucking neglect. Fast food: The ultimate panacea. Can't afford therapy? Get some waffle fries instead! Nine out of ten psychiatrists recommend!

It wasn't even about the Goddamned food, and they both knew it.

But Tim's lips twitched in a tiny smile, and at length came the answer. "Got it.

"And, Jay? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. About…earlier?" A tiny wrinkle slipped between his brows, and his voice sounded small, unsure. "But, if you ever want to…I'll bring the Gatorade?" He chanced a cautious half-smile at the end.

Jay's breath seized in his chest for a long moment before finally escaping in a barked-out laugh. "What, no Kleenex? Okay, I see how it is. I get the budget therapy session." He gave Tim a little jostle. "Unbelievable."

Tim gave a little chuckle in response. "All right, I'll get Kleenex."

"And it better not be the cheap knockoff stuff, either," he added with a pointed sniff. "I demand premium." He poked Tim in the ribs on his good side, eliciting full-blown laughter this time.

"Okay! Geez, sorry!"

And there was an apology Jason could've listened to a few times more…it was damned good to hear the kid laugh.

"Anyways, 'preciate it, kiddo," Jay added as the laughter died down, knowing to say it before things got too quiet and his voice got too choked up, and before he could remind himself of all the scarring secrets that had lain burnt into his flesh for far too long.

Tim cracked an eye open and Jay cleared his throat. "Long as you don't cheap out, of course. Now, uh, get some sleep already."

" 'Kay," he mumbled, both eyes closed again and a small, shy smile on his lips.

No arguments, no hesitation. Just contentment.

"And…Jason?"

"Timothy…?"

"Thank you." A bigger smile. "I'm glad you're here. And I'm glad I asked."

"So am I, Little Red. So am I." [3]


END NOTES

[Trigger Warnings, Footnotes, Acknowledgements]


TW: Similar to Chapter 2, but it's lighter on the present anxiety and heavier on the past childhood trauma:

—Aftermath of panic attack, lingering elevated anxiety

—discussion of a previous physical injury and the accompanying pain

—flashbacks to abuse—CSA & trafficking/exploitation, referenced (crudely, at times) rather than explicitly shown

—recounting of abandonment/emotional abuse, manipulation, and neglect

—forcible restraint (absolutely benign in nature, but causing flashbacks to very non-benign parallels)


Footnotes:

1. Arabic phrase used in moments of irritation or frustration. Correct me if I'm off here, but I feel like the English equivalent would be a combo of: "Boy, I can't wait until this is over" "Lord, deliver me from this ish" "Think happy thoughts." That's the vibe I was going for here with Jason, in any case.

2. Just to avoid any confusion (Lord knows comics are confusing enough on their own, ha!), Roy Harper isn't one of Bruce's children the way Dick, Cass, Jason, Tim, and Damian are. BUT he's Jason's best friend, and I feel he's as deeply and intimately his brother by bond as any of our other boys here. (And let's not forget Jay's big sis/sister-in-law, Kori!). It's funny, because Roy's manic, mischievous energy tends to make him come off as the younger one often enough. But then we have other moments where you are reminded that Roy is older and you see Jay benefit from his steadiness and sense of self there. In any case, figured I should clarify why I have Jay think of himself as having two elder brothers rather than one.


[NOTE: strips out links, so you'll need to either view the Archive version of the fic or just manually search YT yourself here. But I wanted to at least leave the song-related commentary in place here.

Also, feel free to imagine how much fun I had having to manually format all the italics in this chapter (and the rest of the story!) since FFN also strips out the HTML tags already in place.]


3. I wanted the emotional resonance of this chapter to essentially stand on its own, so I decided not to put this link at its beginning. But I think of this song, "Walk You Home," by Karmina, as sort of an end-credits theme, as well as being the overall theme for this fic.

Fell in love with the song from the first time I heard it—on a gritty and very moving series called "The Cleaner," starring Benjamin Bratt—and it wasn't easy to find (my other favorite song from the show is even more obscure!), but it was worth the trouble. It really reminds me of my best friend and how we've each been there for the other through rough years and moments, and it definitely represents a crucial theme for the Batfamily.

P.S. The linked lyric video is the best one I've found so far, all things considered, and bravo/brava to the creator! Now that I've said that…between listening to the line repeatedly and looking at the context, I'm fairly confident the line written as "Your song is best to company" should instead be "Your song is best accompanied," as that would be musical terminology. Since I'm directing y'all to it, I felt I ought to mention that.


Acknowledgements:

Well, folks, that brings us to the end of my very first Archive fic! Thank you so much for the reads, bookmarks, comments, kudos, downloads, and other activity. I was honestly stunned by the level and rapidity of encouragement here, and as much as I love these characters and want to do them justice—and as maddening-slash-challenging as it's been trying to edit and revise different parts—it's been a huge relief to see how the story has gone over.

A lot of teary-eyed thanks were sent Heavenwards these past several weeks, you can bet that much, haha!

And there are a few more specific thank-yous I must provide here:

—To guest user Curiosity for his or her comment on another work, describing Jason as a "pissy mother hen." That's one of the best explanations and summaries I've seen of Jason and who he is at core, and I definitely had to make a tag of that one! Despite the external grumpiness, he's actually a devoted and meticulous caretaker, and it's actually very relatable when you're dealing with the nitty-gritty of taking care of people—especially if your charges tend to be stubborn! I kinda think of him as Alfred's protégé/right-hand man when it comes to the stern motherhenning!

—To Cdelphiki/Cait for particularly inspiring my characterization of Jack & Janet, a.k.a. The Frosty Flakes (I did coin that cereal-inspired nickname, though. Haha!). To see what I mean, you'll need to read her still in-progress book, The Best Things. Although, oops, it's actually a sequel story, so you may just have to read the whole gorgeous series. …What a struggle, I know. Heh-heh.

—To my best friend and beta reader, A_Fandom_Related_Name. The things I can thank her for go far beyond this, but for our current scope, I must thank her for introducing me to the wealth and depth of Batfamily material on Archive. I'd read a little Batfam material on other places, but it was her reading recommendations that revealed to me the repository of touching, profound, heartbreaking, humorous, beautiful, and exquisitely crafted works to be found here showcasing the familial bonds and friendships of the Batfamily and their close friends. Watching people actually address the myriad traumas the characters have been through and the mental and physical challenges that come with those, and the complicated yet powerful and difficult yet redemptive bonds of family and friends…it's brought such joy—it truly has (take notes, official DC!). It's also highly cathartic to see the characters' pain acknowledged where canon has tended to brush it off.

And our countless conversations about the material in question are what prompted me to write a story of my own in these niches.