Jason has a headache.
Leslie proceeds to make it worse by absolutely eviscerating him without even raising her voice, in consideration to the kid laid up on the cot only a few feet away. Tim's scuffed-up sneakers had hovered painfully high off the ground before he laid down, and reckoning with his height gives Jason a little bit of a crisis. Get back to him on that when his brain isn't zipping along at about 123 miles per hour, thanks.
"Kidnapping, Hood?" Leslie asks him dryly as she ices Tim's ankle, and even though she's quiet, Jason notices Tim's head tilting slightly toward the two of them. He glowers heatlessly at her, and she stares back at him, unfazed.
"He's already plenty scared of me, don't make it worse." He says, aware that their susurration might be scaring Tim, and a complicated range of microexpressions flickers over Leslie's face. She glances up toward Tim's face, absently unrolling a length of bandage, and the pinch between her brow fades when Tim finally manages to make eye contact with her.
She sighs.
"You're lucky you got away with just a fractured ankle, young man," she says, too warm to be truly admonishing, and Tim silently watches, apparently allergic to blinking, as Leslie approaches him cautiously. Tim's breathing picks up ever so slightly as she does, and Jason hates it, because Leslie's a doctor, and Tim should feel safe here. He's pretty sure the only reason Tim doesn't feel safe is because Jason's here, but Jason's frankly not sure if he can take his eyes off Tim. He hasn't been able to stop thinking, stop— freaking out, frankly.
For half a beat— for just a second —he considers calling Dick. His older brother would come running, immediately; he'd be here annoyingly fast, actually. He'd mother Tim so effectively that Tim would probably forget he actually has parents. Dick would take care of everything — legal and not so legal alike.
Maybe Bruce would even catch wind of it, Jason thinks, and a dour, bleak chill settles finely over his skin like ice. Maybe he'd take Tim in. Maybe he'd give him a room upstairs. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Give it a few months, and maybe Jason would meet Tim again, in Robin colors, perched on a roof. Little bird bones prominent and knobby, eager to hit the streets for justice or die trying, emphasis on the die.
(The rage comes back with a vengeance, burns up into his face and scorches his fingertips. He resolves right then and there not to call Dick.)
"Thankfully, he doesn't need surgery," Leslie says once she's immobilized Tim's ankle with a splint, either unaware of Jason's reverie or unwilling to indulge in his thoughts. Her tone is still stern, but her hand against Tim's knee is gentle, and though Tim's laser-trained on it, he isn't shaking quite so badly anymore. "He'll need the splint for a while, and he'll definitely need to rest up for quite a while, but he'll be okay. I think I have a pair of crutches around here, somewhere, to help him get around..."
She bustles off to find them, leaving Jason alone with Tim. Tim's still staring at where Leslie's hand had been, but his gaze drifts further down his leg to land on the black splint.
"You ever... break a bone before, Tim?" Jason asks in an attempt to make conversation, straightening slightly up against the wall as he watches Tim examine the splint. The kid doesn't exactly turn to look at Jason, but his mouth trembles a little at the corners, and Jason tries to lower his voice even more until he's almost whispering. Fuck.
"Mhmm," Tim hums, tugging at one of the buttons on his jacket idly. "Sometimes I do ... dangerous things."
Jason snorts. "You don't need to convince me," he says, "Considering what I caught you doing today."
It's a joke. It's supposed to be a joke. It is. But Jason must be— out of practice, or just fucking stupid, shit, because at the words, Tim tenses so hard that Jason is amazed he doesn't break something else.
"Oh," Tim says, miserable and afraid, fingers frozen over his buttons, and Jason walks whatever he'd said back, not even sure where to start.
"You're not in trouble, Tim," is all he can think to say, but Tim resolutely stares up at the ceiling like the blade of a guillotine waits somewhere above his head. "Listen, I'm... I'm only here to help you, okay? I'm not going to... I don't know what your dad said," he says, largely through his teeth, "but I'm not going to do— whatever the fuck that is, okay."
Tim doesn't look convinced, but he at least goes back to his fiddling instead of lying there as if he's waiting to die by Jason's hand. Jason lets the silence sit for a minute, simmer for a minute longer, and then broaches conversation again. He has to, because if he doesn't, all of the pent up rage, all of the pressure in his chest that's been building since the kid's dad became a searing red point on Jason's kill radar, is going to swallow him whole. He needs somewhere to put it, and he can't exactly start breaking Leslie's equipment, so he rattles his leg and tries to talk through it.
"Listen, I…" Jason doesn't know how to ask. Fuck, but it's hard, especially with the content, especially with the way Tim still isn't looking at him. It's hard, but if he wants any chance of understanding Tim's position, he has to ask. "What were you doing out in the streets today, tailing me around? That shit's dangerous, kid."
Tim lowers his hands to his stomach, pressing his lips together as he stares up at the white ceiling. "I wanted to know more," he says, his voice wavering slightly. "Just in case I… Just in case you… I wanted to be prepared." His words fall away entirely by the end, ginger and almost delicate, and Jason really is going to be sick, now, he can feel it. He knows kids do this shit, right, where they do exactly the opposite of what they're told, where they run right into the situation they're advised against, but Tim had been told about what some bastardized idea of Jason would do to him and he still—
He glances down, and his knuckles are white.
At some point, Jason had come to terms with the fact that anger was just going to be a part of him forever, always jacking up his blood like adrenaline. Moments like this remind him that he can be so, so much more than just base-level angry.
When Leslie comes back, she rests the crutches against the cot before turning to Jason and balking. "What on earth happened to you?"
Jason effortfully schools his expression, trying to come down from the fight or flight— no, definitely fight — that had overtaken him entirely for a moment. "I was just thinking about something," he says, the edge of his words a little rough. "Is he good to go with the splint and the crutches?"
"I have to ask," Leslie says, sighing, and Jason knows what's coming, but he really wishes he didn't. "What… Are you planning on doing next?"
Tim's breath hitches; they both hear him, even though he quickly tries to make it seem like that hadn't happened. He doesn't particularly succeed. For all the kid knows, Jason's horrifying plan is about to unfold now, and … And— He can't send the kid back home. The kid's terrified of Jason speaking to his dad, and the last thing Jason wants is to scare Tim more. He could dump the kid on Dick, somehow, and run, but—
Well. Suffice to say, Jason's a little lost, and Tim unexpectedly comes to his rescue— or tries to.
"I-I've inconvenienced you a lot." The kid mutters through bloodless lips, effortfully lifting himself up onto his elbows. He sways a little, and Jason half-extends a hand in case the kid teeters right over the edge of the cot and face-first onto the linoleum floor below. "I think I should go home, I-I can catch a cab. I'll be gone, I'll… I won't say anything about what I saw." He whispers, flicking half a glance at Jason before looking away again.
"Tim," Jason says.
I'm fairly certain your dad is abusing you, even though I don't exactly know how, yet. I'm afraid of what'll happen to you if I send you back home. I can't let you go like this, thinking some horrible fate at my hands awaits you if you misbehave. If I don't have something to do tonight, I might commit homicide.
"I can't… I don't think your home is a very safe environment." he settles with saying, because it's the least accusatory way of phrasing it that he can think of.
"Neither is Crime Alley," Tim points out, but now his breathing is a little faster, and the words come out a little breathless, as if Tim has to grasp at them to get them out. "A-Are you not going to let me go home? Are you g-going to make me— Are you going t-to—"
He wheezes, like full on wheezes. Jason's frozen.
This isn't what it seems like is on the tip of his tongue, but his tongue is numb, and so is his entire mouth.
Leslie steps in to cast Jason a line and reel him back out.
"You need rest, Tim," she says gently, reaching out to rest her fingertips against Tim's knee, just as she'd done earlier. "You've been through quite an ordeal today. And I can vouch for this young man, here. Do you trust me?"
Tim examines her for a moment, his chest still rising and falling sharply as he does. He doesn't look entirely like he believes her about Jason (which stings, but— well, understandable), yet calms down long enough to give her a jerky nod, which is at least progress.
"Good, Tim, that's good," she praises. "He has a nice little place, and you know what? He makes some damn good pancakes."
There's another moment of silence, during which Jason just stays still, not protesting, not arguing, even though he would've grumbled in any other circumstance. He just waits, lets Tim mull over his words, and he can practically feel the kid's brain going into overdrive and billowing smoke out of his ears.
"Mhmm," Tim sort of hums eventually, his face pinched and tired. It's not exactly consent. Jason isn't sure what to do with it, but Tim continues, lethargically letting his gaze drift over to Jason. "And… And I can leave t-tomorrow?"
"If you want to," Jason says quietly, because he doesn't have the mental fortitude to contemplate tomorrow, yet.
So, he acquires a kid. Temporarily.
And fuck, Jason's apartment is so not equipped for a child. Tim stands in his doorway with the red-padded crutches awkwardly as Jason runs around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to unsubtly quickly stow away anything knife-shaped, gun-shaped, and bomb-shaped. And fuck, he has a lot of knife-shaped, gun-shaped, bomb-shaped shit.
"You can go to the bedroom," he says without thinking, and Tim, whose gaze hasn't strayed from the floor, goes very, very still.
Jason doesn't even notice for a moment, because he's too busy examining the sheets and the furniture to make sure there aren't any remnants of blood from nights prior, and then he looks up because he hears a strange, erratic clicking—
It's Tim. His teeth are clattering together violently . He's staring dead at the floor, hands wobbling ever-so-slightly against the pads of the crutches.
"—Tim," Jason says, feeling woefully inadequate. He isn't sure if he's quite managing to keep the edge of panic out of his voice. "Tim, what's wrong?"
Tim opens his mouth almost sluggishly, but doesn't say anything.
"Is it something I said?" Jason asks carefully, mulling the words over in his head. What had he said? It's been a blur of autopilot stress and rage for the last couple hours, it's—
You can go to the bedroom.
Oh.
Fuck. Motherfucker.
He puts aside the rage for a minute, because it's completely useless in the situation, and takes a few steps back and away from Tim. The kid still doesn't look up, but the more distance Jason puts between the two of them, the less Tim's teeth chatter.
"... I won't be in there," Jason says after he gives Tim a beat to decompress, to breathe. "With you, I mean. I'll sleep out here on the couch tonight. That space… It's just for you, and you alone, for as long as you need."
The couch is fucking horrible; Jason's been meaning to replace the craggy, puke-green pincushion with something better for ages, but he'd never gotten around to it. Now, looking at it and feeling his neck and back pinch in apprehension, Jason wishes he'd replaced it earlier.
On the plus side, Tim finally fully unclenches, his shoulders slumping slightly. He doesn't say anything, but his chin wobbles into a little nod as he painstakingly shuffles his way toward the bedroom. Jason watches him go, and it occurs to him, suddenly, that Tim really is quite short. He's forgotten… How tiny kids are. Tim hardly comes to above Jason's waist, and when he curls into himself like a pillbug, he's even tinier.
Fuck, Jason thinks.
He operates around Tim in the wake of that horrifying exchange, keeping himself busy in the kitchen so that he has something to do, so he has something to direct the rage toward. He beats the everloving shit out of the eggs, he whips the batter until it's all but water, he flips the pancakes with a vengeance. They come out looking fucking fantastic, but seeing the perfectly-shaped, bake-off worthy stack doesn't at all detract from the maelstrom of frustration and rage whirling in his head. Leslie's right; he does make some damn good pancakes, but they're not good enough to soothe the knife-edge of stress that feels like it's perpetually digging into Jason's brain.
"Hey, kid," he calls out. "You like syrup?"
No response.
Jason cocks his head slightly, listening. "Tim?"
He walks back a few steps from the stove, glancing over at the bedroom door. When he peers in, he realizes Tim's completely conked out; the kid must have passed out the second he hit the bed, because he's in a haphazard state. He hasn't even gotten under the covers fully. The splint's dangling partially off the edge of the bed, and after dithering back and forth for a minute, hesitating, Jason lifts Tim's ankle up onto the bed and pulls the sheet fully over the kid.
There's still a pinch between Tim's brows. He must've been exhausted, Jason thinks, to have been able to fall asleep given how afraid he was.
He ends up eating the pancakes by himself on the couch.
Jason isn't sure when he actually falls asleep, but when he wakes up, it's still dark outside. Not night-dark, per se, but more like an early-morning dark, and sure enough, when he checks his phone, it's about 4:30 in the morning. He mutters a curse under his breath as he wriggles around on the couch to find a spot where the springs don't threaten to perform acupuncture on him.
It's a futile effort. No matter how much he tries to get comfortable, he just can't, so he decides to stay up and go over the list of dealers he still has to track down and question. It kind of sucks, but Jason hasn't gone to the School of Sleeping Well for quite a while now, so he resolves to put the early hours toward something productive instead of fighting a losing battle with his couch.
Something in him tells him to check on the kid before he does, though.
On careful, quiet feet, Jason pads over to his bedroom door. It's partially cracked open, and when he lightly nudges it open, he actually startles.
Tim's awake. He's not just awake; he's sat somewhat upright in bed, one of his crutches laid across his midsection like a shield as he stares, unblinking at Jason.
And fuck. Jason isn't prepared for this, he isn't prepared for this at all. He— fuck. For a minute, he forgets he's Hood and pinwheels all the way back to Robin, unsteady on his feet and still lost, trying to find his footing. He kind of feels like he's falling, now, and has to hold onto the doorframe to make sure his legs don't actually go out from underneath him.
"I— I wasn't going to," Jason says, and his whole mouth is suddenly dry, so dry that he almost croaks the words out. "I was just checking on you."
Tim's fingers curl tighter around the crutch, his posture defensive and tense. He doesn't actually seem like he's totally listening to Jason… Or, well, even totally there, to be honest. There's something about the glassy vacancy of the kid's gaze that gives Jason chills. This is so fucked up, he thinks, and doesn't know what to do next. He doesn't know how long Tim's been in his own head.
"My pancake recipe," he says abruptly, and almost startles upon hearing his own voice. "It's got a secret ingredient, and people are always asking me about it. Most of it is just the usual stuff, you know— milk, sugar, eggs, flour, vanilla extract, baking powder, salt. That's all just classic. Most people use that stuff, right?" He doesn't move from his place in the doorway, keeps both of his hands in view of Tim, and though Tim doesn't respond, his grip on the crutch loosens slightly. "I, uh, find this woman's missing son one time. Bring him back home, and she's thankful, you know, giving me hugs, insisting I stay for a snack. Dunno why, but she wanted to make me pancakes as a snack. She knew what she was doing, though, those fucking pancakes should've been— world-famous, if you ask me. I think I'm gonna spend the rest of my life trying to replicate her pancakes. She gave me something to work off of, a secret ingredient she put in her pancakes." Something almost a little fond colors his tone, unbidden. "Another friend of mine who also makes great pancakes would be a little insulted."
Tim tilts his head slightly, lowering the crutch all the way so that it lays over his thighs instead.
"...What's the secret ingredient?" he asks, his voice rasping slightly, and this time he almost manages to meet Jason's eyes.
Jason smiles slightly. "Sour cream," he says, and considers Tim warily. "You, uh… You back with me again, kid?"
Tim looks startled, but fortunately not afraid. "You… noticed that?"
And that, that is so fucked up, Jason doesn't even know how to respond to that for a second. "Yeah, I noticed it," he says after a beat, exhaling so harshly that he thinks he nearly jostles a lung. "Does that happen often?"
Tim ticks one shoulder up, non-committal, and places the crutch at his side awkwardly. "I guess," he says quietly. "I'm not really sure, though. It … It helps, when I'm… When things become a lot. When I'm …"
He goes quiet again, after that, and Jason doesn't dare to pry more out of him, not tonight. The kid looks exhausted again, eyelids already at half-mast, so Jason just nods woodenly and clears his throat, filing the information away for later.
"Okay. Try to get some rest," Jason says. He dithers around the doorway for a moment, and then clears his throat. "If you want, Tim, you can, uh, lock the door. If it'll make you feel safe, I mean."
Tim ponders this for a moment. Jason's starting to get used to it, he thinks, starting to get used to the way Tim thinks about things. The way he takes the time to parse apart Jason's words, searching for what they might mean, thinking about the implications before he answers.
"Don't you know how to pick locks?" He asks after a second, picking at Jason's sheets, and for a moment, Jason flounders, unsure of how to answer— unsure of if he should lie —but then, Tim finally glances up to meet Jason's eyes, and there's some sort of levity in his expression. A twitch at the corner of his mouth that hints at a smile, or something that could be a smile, and Jason realizes it's a joke. He can work with jokes, he can work with that.
"Hmm, you're right," Jason says, mock-thoughtfully. "But if I'm being honest, I'm really bad at it." He isn't. "I'd probably clatter around so loudly that it'd wake you up, and then you can smack me with one of your crutches, if you want."
"You'd still win." Tim says, but this time, it's more solemn and almost distracted. Jason isn't certain if it's fully directed at him. In the pit of his stomach, ice takes root and threatens to freeze him from the inside out. "So it doesn't matter, anyway."
"That isn't true," Jason says reflexively— and a little too loudly, because Tim jolts slightly. He lowers his voice, chagrined. "I mean— you saying no, it matters, Tim. So if you say no, I won't come in anymore. I'll knock on the door in the morning, but I won't come into the room."
The answering look of skepticism feels like a throat punch.
"I mean it," Jason says, and doesn't cross the threshold. "Tell me you don't want me to come in without knocking."
Tim's glance flickers down to Jason's feet, just past the doorway, and then returns to Jason's face. Muted and cautious, with the confidence of a small, furry animal cowering in the shadow of a wolf, the kid says, "I… I don't want you to come in without knocking."
They'll work on it, Jason thinks, and tries not to think about the implications. For now, he says, "I won't. For now, you should get some rest, okay? It's still early."
When he gets another guarded nod he finally closes the door, waiting until he's closed it all the way before he pulls in a slightly shaky breath. He's in over his head, he is, he's in over his head with a kid who's terrified of him and the worst part is, he doesn't actually think he can just let Tim go now. Now that he's had a glimpse of the kid's home life, sending him back would be— No. He can't. But then again, he can't force Tim to stay, and he can't imagine the kid would take kindly to being uprooted from everything he knows.
So the next morning, when Tim asks him if he can go home, Jason bluescreens.
Concerningly, Tim pitches the idea like a CEO, practiced and efficient. "You see, my father won't be home for a while," he says smoothly, and his glibness would've been convincing if his fingers weren't almost-white against the pads of his crutches. "He left yesterday morning for a business trip, and I'm good at taking care of myself, so I think it'll be fine for me to go back. I realize you have concerns, but he really is a good dad, a-and…" He trails off, kind of cowering back, and Jason doesn't realize he's seething until his face starts to burn.
He walks himself back with effort, realizing what that anger must look like to Tim— to the kid Jason promised he would let go, if he wanted to go.
"So you'd be home alone?" Jason asks flatly, occupying himself with his second attempt at pancakes for Tim. He fucking occupies himself so he doesn't have to think about the way Tim had said it like a recitation, like he'd had that waiting in his back pocket for anyone who asked. And who had asked? Cops? CPS? Teachers?
"I- I have someone who comes in to check on me. And even if I didn't, I can take care of myself," Tim says mulishly. "And even if something goes wrong, I've cleared absences with my teachers a-and… and the appropriate," he clears his throat, "authorities."
And that. That right there, is the straw that absolutely decimates the back of whatever poor fucking camel that had been carrying this mess.
"So you're telling me," Jason says, so furious that he's now almost come full-circle and plateaued off into deceptive tranquility, "that when things go sideways, there's a script you have to follow to ward off authorities when they come asking after your wellbeing?"
"What?" Tim asks, and panic flashes across his face, fleeting and intense. "No, that's— Look, I figured out what to say myself. I know what I'm doing, I. I've been doing it for so long, and you said you would let me go home, if I wanted. You said it, and— and you have to stick to that." But he sounds uncertain, and there's something like defeat already threading through his words, as if he's reconciling with the idea that Jason's just going to go back on what he said and force Tim to stay regardless.
And fuck, that... That does actually cut Jason deep, deeper than he's willing to admit.
He turns back to the pancake on the stove, angrily jabbing his spatula underneath it as he contemplates his next move.
"You … are going to let me go, right?" the small voice behind him asks, and Jason stops attacking the pancake.
"Yeah, I will," he says roughly after a moment, defeated. Fuck. "But I do want you to eat up, first."
He sets the stack in front of Tim, and while the kid digs in (no syrup- too sticky, Tim says), Jason resolves that he's going to check in, at least. At least the kid's dad won't be around for a while (or maybe that's a negative, Jason thinks humorlessly, because he still hasn't decided whether he's going to kill on sight or not, and the more he hears, the more that needle is swinging toward murder).
"I like your pancakes," Tim says quietly once he's finished, and there's something in his voice— something pleased —-that actually does bring a half-smile to Jason's face… And also has him wondering, idly, how often the kid actually does have proper, warm meals. It's one of many dangerous rabbit holes that guarantee a freefall into rage, though, so Jason doesn't dare to venture closer for now.
"Well, if you ever want more," Jason says, "I might be able to hook you up. You got a phone? Maybe you can call me, if you're ever craving some." C'mon, kid, he thinks, take the olive branch, please. Let me try to do something good.
Tim glances up from the plate, eyeing Jason thoughtfully from underneath a messy fringe of hair.
"It's dead," he says haltingly. "It— died, yesterday, when I was following you. Um, but if you tell me your number, I'll… remember. I have a good memory."
Jason doesn't doubt it, even though the thought of Tim running around in Crime Alley without any means to contact anyone to potentially help him makes him feel a bit lightheaded. Child genius or not, the kid's self-preservation instincts leave too much to be desired. He rattles off his number, hoping Tim actually does store it somewhere on his phone, hoping Tim's idea of him's been altered enough, just enough, for Tim to know he has at least one more ally.
And then, true to his word and against his better judgment, Jason takes Tim home.