Chapter Four: Jason's First Habit
(Week One)
Jason's a perfectionist.
He didn't used to be that way, but it's been twelve years since he came home and found Mom dead. The habit's been hard to kill ever since.
It'd been a mistake to leave her alone back then, but Jason doesn't do mistakes anymore, and he makes sure of it: The books on his apartment's shelf are lined up just so; the case files in his drawer are alphabetized and tabbed; and if the vehicle he's operating doesn't look like it just came off the lot, he's already there to buff out the scratches and touch up the paint.
They're weird things. He'll confess to that. But the people at the station have acclimated to him being meticulous over everything like the earth will give way if he doesn't. So, it's no surprise that the morning after Tim comes, Jason's opening the closet where they keep the spare uniforms to find them all folded neatly, arranged by size.
Tim's beside him, looking marginally impressed by the display, but there's still a question in his eyes while he watches Jason skim through the piles.
Detectives don't usually wear uniforms. That's something reserved for officers and press conferences, and it's obvious Tim's noticed. But as much as Jason wants the kid gone, he doesn't have the heart—or the stomach—to tell the story behind why everyone in their unit has mandated attire.
Dick's consistently bad fashion choices forced Bruce's hand.
That's as much of the tale as Jason's willing to share.
But he'll spare the kid that horror story, and with that decided, Jason dumps an all-black getup in Tim's arms with as little ceremony as possible. To be honest, Jason's just hoping it fits. It's the smallest size they have, the one reserved for Cass, and Tim should be counting his lucky stars that the uniforms are androgynous.
But it seems that's as far as the kid's luck goes.
"You know you can turn the fan off, right?"
They're sitting in the office now, Jason at his desk and Tim at Roy's behind him. The second desk has sat vacant for three years, and it still is in a way, save for the few papers Tim has strewn across its surface. The kid's messy—Jason caught on to that fast—and the oscillating fan in the office has wanted to help in that endeavor, as any time it turns, the papers are making a break for it.
The added wind helps stave off the heatstroke looming over everyone's heads, but it's not the end of the world if they lose it. (They're still suffering, even with the fan.) However, Jason's new "partner" is either too shy or—worse—too polite to do anything about it.
It's been twenty minutes of Jason observing the kid battle with the air before he's finally decided he's had enough.
"I'm fine," Tim squeaks in reply. He's lying; he's trying to keep a slip of paper grounded as they speak. "I've actually been looking over the Robinson case and, well… It'd be nice to go to the crime scenes. Just to get a feel for who we're dealing with."
There's nothing there to see—in more ways than one. Jason has already been to each of the locations, and he's combed them as thoroughly as he always does. The few things that haven't been blown to kingdom come are recorded in those reports.
Jason tells the kid as much. "The guy's a narcissist. Likes signing his work. That's all you need to know."
That's all they do know, and that sparse knowledge is thanks to Jason's good eye and bookworm tendencies.
The moment he got the case last month, Jason went to the scene, Robinson Park—or what was left of it, anyway. Back then, no one realized it was a serial case. That's what the officer previously in charge of it claimed. "An isolated event," he said. But Jason sniffed around the rubble anyway, charred park benches looking on while the swing sets sat all bent out of shape like a telekinetic had decided to cut loose.
Jason found the note tacked to a lamppost across from the park entrance. No one had thought anything of it: It'd been there days before the bombing ever happened, and they'd chalked it up to coincidence, the words not making sense. That is, until Jason saw it.
"I was born in the Year 1632," was all it said. It's the opening lines to Robinson Crusoe.
The bombing had happened on Friday, 4:32 p.m.*
By then, Jason was in too deep to pull out of the case, but checking the cameras only uncovered their guy is a man with an affinity for sweatshirt hoods and hiding his face, probably six foot by the way he measured up with the lamppost.
But there are thousands of people fitting that description in Gotham. Heck, Jason is one of them. And so, it's been four weeks and two more bombings, and as much as the paper notes left at the scenes are helpful, the help only comes in retrospect; there's been no break in the case.
To be honest, it's a surprise the FBI hasn't started sniffing around yet. Then again, Bruce probably had something to do with that, likely making a claim that the best of both the GCPD and MPD are more than capable of cracking the case...
Jason twirls his pen once. Yeah, this has got Bruce's name written all over it.
"Just humor him, Jay," Dick suddenly pipes in from his own desk, reeling Jason's attention back in. As expected, the guy's fond of Tim, almost giddy, like he's got a new baby brother and he can't wait to build Legos with him. "It's only a ten-minute drive. Can't hurt you any to let him take a look."
Thanks, Dick, Jason groans, because the kid's looking at him with hopeful eyes now and Jason can't say no without looking bad. But it's better than watching Tim duke it out with the fan, so he stands up and grabs his keys. "Alright. But I'm driving."
Tim seems happy at the agreement—first time all day, and he lets Jason lead the way. When they get to the parking lot, though, there's something more that needs to be said.
"Look," Jason begins, turning around in front of the car as if it's something that needs protecting. "This car here, they say it's the station's, but it's really mine. No one touches it, no one breathes on it, without a signed permission slip from yours truly. So, if you're thinking you'll ever get behind the wheel, stop thinking it now. Because you dent it, you die. Am I clear?"
The last time Jason sat shotgun was years ago, and it's an experience he's still trying to live down. Tim must get it, because he gives a nervous nod of understanding, slipping into the passenger seat without complaint.
And just like that, ten minutes go by.
They spend a good two hours poking around the park, and Tim looks serious, almost grave. He must be good to be so patient, wanting to check everything—even the surrounding streets, as if he can imagine their perp walking down them. But they don't find anything more than what's already in the file.
Tim is quiet when they pull out.
Jason would say the kid's still considering the crime scene, but there's a darkness about him that says otherwise. He's looking out the window for a change, a glazed expression on his face. Things are passing them by, people and shops and trees, but Jason's sure Tim's not taking any of them in, just staring straight past them. It's a weird realization. Somehow, the man knows it's true anyway.
It's only been eight hours, but Jason is used to the kid's eyes being on him, like he's a jigsaw puzzle and Tim's checking to see if all the pieces are in the box. It's been that way all day, and that fact has been playing up Jason's paranoia. But not having the attention makes his nerves worse. Silence always makes them worse.
Jason steals a glance at the compartment between the seats.
It's another habit. An old one actually. He picked it up when he was young, watching Mom fall apart in front of him, because it was the only thing that made it better.
His childhood wasn't a normal one, not by a long shot, and Jason's come to understand that over his years of policing. His tenure at the department has involved interviewing hundreds of people: suspects, victim's families, witnesses. No one's exempt, and every person reveals small tidbits of their lives, details that Jason takes and compares with his own life—just to see the extent of the damage.
So, he knows that parents leaving on trips is not uncommon. But they're never the kind of trips his parents took.
For the person Jason refuses to call "Dad," it meant trips to prison, in and out. The sentences were always just short enough for Mom to stick it out with him. She shouldn't have, but she did, because Mom always had to take him back. Anything for cash.
Mom's trips were of a different variety, but they were always worse. "Dad" vanished from Jason's life, lost to the system, so he didn't really know him. But Mom… She was there but not there at all.
Her trips meant bursts of happiness, pulling him into hugs and chattering for hours about whatever came to mind. She'd pet his hair and talk and talk until he'd practically be asleep in her lap. He never could fall asleep, though, the hammering of her heart against his ears always too fast, too loud. But he listened to its beating anyway, because he knew it wouldn't be long before it changed. It was a shift that was audible to him, a gradual thing that tugged her down to the point where she couldn't walk or stand.
Jason genuinely enjoyed those spurts of joy, that rush Mom got, but he always felt guilty afterward because of what followed them.
He was six when he figured out why she was like that, so present for a while before she'd retreat back into herself, eyes glazed, heartbeat slow. He'd sit next to her and watch as she stared at the floor. She couldn't help it; the pull was too strong. And Jason couldn't help it either, because he was terrified she'd get pulled down too low, down to a place that she couldn't come back from.
He didn't fully understand it, but he knew. He knew what was making her sick.
Because Mom's trips were drug trips, shakes on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m.—possessed by demons or the high, Jason could never tell—and hours of sitting beside her. Always next to her. Watching her breathe, watching her twitch, watching her eyes trace the rotting floorboards.
Jason was young, but even back then, he knew it wasn't normal. Kids hold their parent's hands, not their wrists. They feel warm fingers and warm palms and love.
Jason was just feeling for a pulse.
That's about the time he picked up his very first habit, the one that started it all. He knew he shouldn't have, but the cigarette smoke was the only thing strong enough to mask the stench of vomit, always from Mom's episodes. It was something to take the edge off while he waited for her to come back—to come to—and soon, he found he couldn't quit.
So, Mom had her addiction. And he had his.
Their crumbling apartment became occupied by two addicts, sitting side by side on the floor against the wall, one breathing smoke and the other just breathing. Jason always made sure she was. Until one day, he checked on her to find that she wasn't.
In the end, Mom's addiction killed her, but Jason still kept his. He didn't break it for a long time—couldn't, not until he started working for Bruce. It'd been the end of it for years.
But then, he was undercover, back with people always on a high, either from drugs or a kill, back to living in squalor with rotting floorboards littered by hypodermic needles. The habit revived, and ever since Jason came back, there's been a pack of cigarettes stashed in the console of his car.
He tries not to, but sometimes, one of the sticks finds its way into his hand anyway, the tip always lit.
It only happens when things get stressful, and if Jason's good at anything, it's handling stress. But he's in the car and Tim's across from him, looking like he's coming down from something, eyes glazed over in thought as he looks out the window.
Tim's not a user. Jason would've noticed. But Jason's looking at the kid's chest anyway, just to make sure that there's still air there, that he's still breathing, and the comparison nearly knocks him over in his seat.
"What are you doing?" Tim asks suddenly, awakened from his reverie when he spots the cigarette and lighter Jason's got in his hands. They're at a red light, so Jason tells himself it's fine.
"Smoking," he replies, flicking the lighter, and he surprises himself with how slick the answer came.
A trail of white is quick to snake through the car. It's searching the upper layers beneath the ceiling, and Jason thinks he should put down the windows before it starts getting dense. He almost presses the button when he thinks better of it.
Tim sits quiet, but he's snapped his attention back on the window. It's not because the kid's trying to zone out again. It's because he doesn't like cigarettes. He doesn't say it, but Jason can tell.
Tim is the kind of person who doesn't speak up when something is inconveniencing him. It's apparent by the way he couldn't bring himself to turn off the office fan earlier. He's too shy or too polite or too self-sacrificial, and Jason is curious what will happen if he's a bit rude to the kid. It's like a science experiment, Jason left wondering what will happen, if the results will line up with his hypothesis.
So, he leaves the windows shut, and he waits to see if the kid has it in him to do something as simple as press a button.
They turn onto another street, and all Tim has done is let out a small cough, reluctant, like his lungs have betrayed him. It's obvious the smoke's bothering him, but he's stubbornly silent.
Jason's stubborn too.
After a while, though, the white wisps thicken into clouds, and it'll start to bother their eyes if it keeps up—a driving hazard if Jason ever saw one. He waits just another second, just to see. But Tim doesn't budge.
Disappointed, Jason sighs and hits the button himself, smoke traded with street air the moment the windows roll down.
Tim failed his test.
It was a mean one. Jason knows it. But it was easy, and he was hoping Tim could pass, could break out of his shell for one second and be selfish. That's what Roy would've done: He would've pitched a fit about the smoke and chucked the cigarette clear out the window, because in all honesty, that would be fair.
But Jason's learning quickly that Tim is the opposite of Roy.
Tim is the kind of person who needs a partner who's gentle and considerate. Things Jason isn't. And Jason is the type who needs a partner with guts and just enough unpredictability to keep him on his toes. It's not hard to find the discrepancy there.
Jason blows out another cloud of smoke before flicking the cigarette out the window himself.
He's gained some insight into his new partner, for better or for worse, because it hints at a truth that's been dawning on him all day.
This partner thing he and Tim have—It just isn't going to work out.
*Robinson Crusoe is written by Daniel Defoe (1719). Aside from the book's title mirroring that of Robinson Park (which exists in canon Gotham), in the novel itself, the protagonist befriends a man who he names "Friday." The years given in the opening lines can be read in army time as 16:32 which equates to 4:32 p.m.