Timothy Jackson Drake.
That's Tim's name, Jason finds out when he goes to drop him off.
At first, it doesn't really click; Jason's mind had been utterly preoccupied, so much so that he'd essentially driven on autopilot for most of the ride. Tim's directions had sort of filtered in and out, slightly muffled behind the motorcycle helmet, and Jason hadn't been fully aware of the direction they were headed until he'd looked up and found himself in Crest Hill.
Figures, really, he thinks to himself; he'd been feeling an unusual, uneasy prickle for a few minutes now, as if his subconscious had been locking into the fact that he was getting closer and closer to Wayne Manor.
"Um, you can let me off here," Tim's voice pipes up behind him cautiously, and Jason glances around incredulously.
"Where is here? There's like, one house here." Jason says, gesturing to Drake Manor. And that isn't, perhaps, entirely true; there is another house, but he's determined not to acknowledge it, for personal… reasons (and perhaps to maintain his sanity).
"Um, yeah," Tim mutters from behind him, hands sliding away from Jason's waist as he struggles to get both feet onto the ground. "I— That's where I live."
Tim. Timothy.
Timothy Jackson Drake .
Fuck.
Jason stares blankly at Tim for a long moment, his hands going lax against the handlebars of his motorcycle, and a few things click into place. He remembers the kid's dad— he remembers Jack Drake, Tim's father. Bruce had gotten along with Jack the way a free-spirited family of four gets along with the local HOA; that is, he smiled in his face and exchanged pleasantries, and then muttered something about wanting to punt Jack Drake like a football the second he left his vicinity. There had been something distinctly unlikeable about the man, even then, Jason recalls, enough for Bruce to keep a half-protective, half-warning hand on Jason's shoulder when Jack came around.
Jack had been like that so long ago, Jason thinks, and angles his head slightly to look at Tim. Jack had been like that for so long, and Tim had been there the whole time. Bruce had guided Jason away from the fights he itched to pick with Jack, but nobody had guided Tim away. Drake Manor feels like a prison all of a sudden, bleak and hopeless, and Jason thinks this is how a farmer must feel when he leads a lamb to slaughter.
"Listen," Tim says, peering up at Jason, and Jason doesn't really have a choice in the matter, because something that feels distinctly like a burr is lodged firmly in his throat and preventing him from speaking. "My dad… He was, um. He was wrong. About you, I mean. And I was, too." He clears his throat, shifting his weight slightly as he leans up against the bike. "Just…thank you."
Acidic anger sears away the block in Jason's throat. "Don't thank me for it, kid," he says coldly, almost warningly, and when Tim tenses slightly, he tries to soften the edge. "I get the sentiment, but I don't want gratitude for not being the worst kind of person." He scoffs. "It's like the bare minimum."
Tim considers his words for a minute. "Okay," he says after a moment, almost thoughtfully. Jason isn't entirely sure what to make of the expression on the kid's face, almost like he's replaying Jason's words and trying to slot them into his worldview. They seem to actually find their place, somehow, because some of the tension leaks out of the kid's shoulders, and he straightens up slightly. "Then, um. I guess I'll go now."
"Okay," Jason says, like an idiot. "Listen, Tim, if you— That is, just. If you need anything, or you're in the area— which you shouldn't be, for the record —then just. You have my number. So."
Little rich kid, he thinks as he glances back at the manor, and it's not so much the insult he imagines it would be.
"I know," Tim says, and then the look he flicks toward Jason almost feels like the tilt of a smile. "Thanks, Hood."
"Jason," Jason corrects absently, in the middle of turning back to his bike, and then freezes. Fuck, he doesn't know why he— Well. Not that it matters, anyway. That is his name, and it's not like the kid knew Jason Todd was Robin. Jason's a common enough name.
"...Thanks, Jason," Tim says quietly, and Jason gets the hell out of there before he lets slip any more than he should.
For the record, Jason absolutely does not fret when Tim doesn't reach out for a couple of days.
It makes sense, anyway; the kid had been absolutely terrified of Jason, so why on earth would he immediately reach out? He wouldn't, Jason tells himself, and moves on— or at least, he pretends he's moving on. Keeping busy is how he deals with— well, everything —and there's no real shortage of issues constantly plaguing him around the Alley.
It's while he's right in the middle of a shootout in a deal gone sideways that his phone buzzes. He ducks and rolls behind a small tower of crates as a bullet shatters the wood above his head and taps on the notification, because, well, he has priorities, this is boring, and he figures the dealers will get their hopes up before he buries them.
From: Unknown Number.
For your perusal, the following ingredients to add to your pancakes to try to replicate the ones you ate before: mayonnaise, beer, seltzer/soda water, malt powder, yogurt.
Jason's mouth twitches.
He ducks the next round of bullets and manages to kneecap one of the dealers from a sizable gap between two of the crates. Amidst the anguished howling, he taps out his own message.
From: Me
Why are you talking like an English teacher?
From: Unknown Number
Why are YOU talking like an English teacher?
Touche , Jason thinks. He swerves out of the path of a falling crate and quietly slithers behind a beam.
From: Me
Mayonnaise, really?
The ricochet takes out one of the two remaining dealers, and Jason mutters some sort of belated prayer to natural selection as he takes aim and finishes the last one off. The one he kneecapped is starfished out on the ground in agony, gurgling pitifully, and that might have jarred Jason if he was the pitying sort. He isn't.
From: Unknown Number
Vinegar reacts with baking soda, making them puffier. Egg whites trap air and the yolks make it softer. The oil keeps it from drying out.
Okay, Jason thinks, unable to help an amused little huff, wasn't expecting a mini science lesson today, but whatever.
From: Me
Okay, I'll give it a try. How's your leg?
There's a longer pause before the answer this time; Jason takes the opportunity to text a couple underlings about the situation and loot the guys for any information on the new drug. He doesn't find much, other than an ambiguous, clear baggie with a few pills inside, but he supposes it's something he can work with, at least. Starfish doesn't say anything much, either, other than admitting that he's too low on the food chain to really be told important information; Jason assumes he's telling the truth, because he'd had one of his boots on one of the guy's knees the whole time, and that pressure is usually pretty conducive to honesty.
By the time he's back at his apartment, Tim's responded again.
From: Unknown Number
It's ok. Boring. Can't do anything. Wanna be done with the crutches.
Jason tsks, changing Tim's name in his phone before answering.
From: Me
Should've thought of that before you rolled off a roof. What the hell were you thinking, anyway?
From: Tim
I wasn't, really. Obviously I wouldn't have done it if I was thinking.
It sounds so sullen that Jason can't help but grin, if only for a brief moment; on the downside, it abruptly reminds him of Tim's age, and he isn't sure what to do with the discomfort that follows.
From: Me
You managing at home?
Here's the thing; it's okay if Tim lies to him, for now. The kid's not obligated to tell Jason the truth— they barely know each other, after all, and Tim has plenty of reasons to be afraid of Jason or not want to tell him the whole truth. When it comes to Jack Drake, though… he's a total wild card. Tim hasn't let slip exactly what his dad has or hasn't done, and the only knowledge Jason has is that Jack is, at the very least, underhanded and cruel enough to threaten Tim with something as low as— Well. Leaving a kid in that environment, with a loose cannon parental figure like that, ranks far, far higher on the priority list to Jason than leaving the kid with a babysitter. So he doesn't exactly know what he will do if Jack's back in town, but he did have one of his guys look into Jack Drake's travel plans, just as a precaution— he isn't due back for almost two months , which leaves Jason wondering how often Tim actually sees the man at all. He doesn't know fuck-all about archaeological digs past the digging he's done himself over the last few days, but leaving a kid with a babysitter for that long feels… wrong. Very wrong.
From: Tim
You do know I managed for a long time without needing anyone to check in, right?
Jason tenses. Wait, what the fuck?
He stares down at the phone blankly for a moment, and his lack of response seems to spook Tim into sending another message.
From: Tim
I mean, outsiders. Like, people like you.
It's too late; Jason has a sudden, uneasy feeling again, and he tries to be as careful as he can when he broaches the topic. If he isn't careful, Tim might retreat completely again, and Jason will be SOL until he can get the kid to warm up to him again.
From: Me
Yeah, you seem pretty independent, considering your dad's trips.
According to Jason's research, Janet Drake had passed away a year and a half ago. It'd caused a tremendous stir in the community; Bruce had made a touching statement, there had been a lavish, enormous funeral, and Jack had gone on TV to cry about it on three separate occasions. Tim hadn't had much of a media presence during the ordeal; he hadn't shown up during the press statements and hadn't even been seen during the funeral. He'd had exactly one solemn-faced photo snapped of him as he and his father had exited the courthouse a few days after her passing. Jason's hardly an expert on human behavior, but there'd been something far more sincere about the quiet, pinched exhaustion on Tim's face as he'd stood on the courthouse steps next to his father than Jack's camera-ready tears.
From: Tim
I've always been independent.
The kid slips out of Jason's grasp for a while, then— not in the sort of way that he won't answer anything Jason asks over the next week or so, but more in the sense that he's careful about what he lets slip. It's practiced to the point where it leaves Jason fuming, when he has the time to sit down and really be pissed about it. Ambiguous and vague, purposely avoidant; it's a lazy careworker's dream, Jason thinks angrily, no checking needed. Tim has the bases covered to make sure nobody figures out how dismal his situation really is. It's practically political.
The positive, though, is that he learns— well, quite a lot else about Tim.
From: Tim
[picture attached]
Jason clicks the message open during a particularly boring meeting with his underlings about how chaotic Jason's spreadsheets are. They do this often— gather him into a conference room intervention-style and bitch about how Jason's spreadsheets are impossible to read, and look, Jason can read them, and that's what matters, in the end.
Tim's sent him a picture of a page from what Jason immediately recognizes as Hamlet, and at the familiar sight, Jason reminisces a little fondly.
From: Me
Thanks, I guess, but why are you sending me this?
From: Tim
I don't get the line that goes "I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw." The metaphor is going over my head, I think.
"Look, Jason, if you'd just use a consistent color scheme-"
"I already told you," Jason says, a little distracted, "The pastels are for the weapons, and the sky colors are for the unchecked shipments."
From: Me
What makes you think I can help?
"Jay, that's a terrible category of colors to pair with pastel . There are too many colors that overlap—"
From: Tim
Books in your bedroom. Dog-eared pages. Covers wearing off. I know you read. Can you help me?
Jason snorts. Clever little shit, he thinks, entertained.
"It's not funny, Jason," Marco says, his voice cracking from stress, and Jason effortfully tries not to roll his eyes. "Do you know how many times sky blue crosses categories? It counts as a pastel, a sky color, and a summer palette color. And you use abbreviations only you understand. What the fuck does—" He looks down at his clipboard, "Pift mean? You've written it in like ten different places with increasing amounts of angry faces."
"Poison Ivy's pollen mixed with fear toxin," Jason says idly, tapping away on his phone. "It's for the latest iteration of the drug that's circulating now. I just add an extra angry face every time there's a new one."
From: Me
Fine. Hamlet's just being dramatic, as always. He's suggesting that he's only situationally 'mad,' per se. If you look at the second part, he's saying that when it counts, he knows what's what.
From: Tim
Oh.
From: Tim
I get it, I think.
"Jason," Marco says through his teeth, long-suffering. "Consider finding a better way to label the iterations instead of via angry faces. They take up a considerable amount of space on the spreadsheet."
Jason stares at him for a long moment, his mind elsewhere. "I'll get on that," he says absently.
It might not be the most fine-tuned detective work Jason's ever seen— fuck, he worked with Batman — but Tim hadn't exactly been in the most stable of mindsets, that night. Jason's surprised the kid had the wherewithal to make observations about Jason regardless of his unease that night.
Or maybe Jason just underestimates the hell out of the average civilian, these days (though, he can't really be blamed for that, considering how foolhardy the average civilian can be with no skills to back up the bravado. Case in point, the many civilians who've drunkenly swung at Hood).
There's potential there. Which makes it all the more important that Bruce never finds out about this kid, Jason thinks sourly.
From: Me
Not an English nerd, then?
From: Tim
I just don't get it sometimes. They just… say so much, sometimes. It confuses me.
From: Tim
But I like everything else. Like physics. The physics of pancakes, for example.
Jason arches an eyebrow curiously, corner of his mouth twitching. Interesting.
Tim stays in the back of Jason's mind over the next few weeks, and before he knows it, the crisp chill of autumn has given away to a dreary, frosty winter.
And still, Jack hasn't returned.
From: Me
How are you managing with your crutches in the weather?
From: Tim
I'm off the crutches. But I keep slipping with my splint.
There's something distinctly grumpy about it that's wildly entertaining to Jason, and he grins as he smacks at his shitty heater a few times; when it reluctantly hums back to life, he pads over to his now newly-upgraded couch. It's the same shade of hideous green the last one had been, but it at least isn't an absolute hazard to sit on. It also, conveniently, doubles as a sofa bed.
Tim had kickstarted something reluctantly excited in Jason when he'd asked about Hamlet, and Jason had quickly found himself spiraling down the rabbit hole of Shakespearean tragedies with little warning. He sprawls out over the length of the couch with his well-loved copy of Titus Andronicus and taps out a quick message.
From: Me
Careful, or you're going to fracture your other ankle, too.
Tim doesn't respond after that; in the meantime, Jason finishes Titus (again), starts on Midsummer, updates the spreadsheet by changing the sky blue cells to baby blue just to mess with Marco a little bit, and then determinedly doesn't stare at his phone between rifling through the ingredients in his fridge unenthusiastically.
Tim's off the crutches. And it's pretty fucking icy outside, like— it's everywhere, and Jason hadn't gotten the inclination that Tim was particularly clumsy, but it's treacherous terrain for anyone, let alone a kid with a bad ankle.
To be clear, he isn't fretting.
…Or, well, he wasn't fretting at first. But as the hours drag on, he for some reason gets it in his head that Tim has injured himself somehow. He texts the kid a few sparse messages— just checking in, nothing overbearing, but as the quickly-fading day stretches into an early, bitter-cold night with not even a peep from a usually-prompt Tim, Jason starts to approach what some might consider fretting… Maybe.
In the end, he gets his answer from Leslie.
From: Leslie
Got a visitor here to see you.
Jason's not sure what he's expecting when he makes his way to the clinic, but it certainly isn't Tim, bundled in a huge, slightly puffier jacket and enough scarves to hide the majority of his little face.
Jason blinks at him, relieved to see him, but he immediately tenses as he takes in the environment. "Are you hurt?"
Tim jerks up slightly, as though surprised Jason is asking, and then shakes his head. "I came to drop off the crutches," the kid says through the scarves, his words muffled. "Since I don't need them anymore, and I can put weight on my ankle again, you know?"
The kid's a little more talkative, this time, Jason can already tell; maybe it's the result of their texting, or the fact that the kid's dad isn't home, but there's something marginally more open about the way Tim speaks, about the way he's seated on the cot with his arms at his side instead of curled around his midsection. Seeing him like that— almost relaxed —somehow unexpectedly loosens some of the tension in Jason's shoulders, too. It's a far cry from the trepidation Tim had shown upon their first meeting.
"That's good," he says, going for brusque, but Leslie looks over at him with her eyebrows raised as if she isn't buying it. He clears his throat, averting his eyes from her assessing gaze— it feels too personal, too knowing, and Jason acutely and abruptly feels like an insect under a microscope.
Silence, then— awkward and a little smothering. Jason wants to say more but isn't sure what to divulge in Leslie's presence, so he just stands there, out of his element and stiff, feeling a new, unexpected sort of uncertainty that feels like he's throwing himself into the deep end without a life vest.
"Are you … Going to leave?" Tim pipes up after a moment, and Jason feels something in his chest tighten reflexively.
Don't take it personally, he thinks. Just because they'd texted, doesn't mean Tim isn't still afraid of Jason.
"Do you want me to?" Jason asks levelly, refusing to let his expression betray the sudden, unexpected sting.
"No!" Tim says a little too quickly, and Jason feels a weight lift off of him, somehow. "I mean— I was thinking, I could. I brought some of my allowance, and I wanted to, um…" He glances shyly at Leslie, and then flicks those bright eyes back to Jason's face cautiously. "I thought I could get you dinner this time. Because you made me pancakes. And helped with my English homework. And…"
Oh. The squeeze in Jason's chest feels a little different now. Leslie's eyebrows furrow in confusion, and she mouths English homework? half into her palm. Jason ignores her for the sake of his mental health, mostly.
"You don't have to," he starts gruffly, and Tim's expression stills carefully in that hopeful picture, his eyes widening slightly.
"Oh," the kid says, and Jason nearly winces at the pitch of his voice.
"—But," he continues hastily, backtracking so fast he almost trips, "I could always eat, so maybe I'll take you up on that offer."
Tim brightens.
So that's how the two of them end up meandering around the streets of the Alley.
They're really not a place for kids, and Jason becomes acutely aware of that the longer they walk.
He'd already known, to some extent, but the seedy back-alley deals taking place under the cover of the night, and a distinct, obvious disdain for Batman as depicted by some particularly vulgar graffiti scribbled over the brick walls and splattered over the sides of the buildings they pass really cement the obvious. Tim doesn't seem deterred, though; he does stick close to Jason's side, weight a little awkward on his ankle, but overall looks more curious than put-off. Besides, the kid has nothing to fear with Jason there, anyway; anyone who tries anything with him would have to actually be an idiot.
He's not entirely sure where they're going, yet; his head is buzzing, blurry thoughts ping-ponging back and forth in his brain messily. Is someone gonna think I kidnapped this kid? Did I kidnap this kid? What the fuck am I doing with him, anyway? Can I even find something for him to eat around here? He's probably used to better— rich people food, or whatever, so I can't just give him anything. What if he gets sick? What if—
A tug on his sleeve catches his attention. Jason jerks, glancing down (and down, and down), and even though the upper half of Tim's body twitches back slightly, he seems to fight the impulse and stays in place.
"Sorry, I— I said your name, but you seemed kind of out of it," Tim says, and then gestures ahead with a sleeve that hangs mostly over his arm. "Do you wanna go there?"
Jason's gaze flicks ahead. A Batburger looms vibrantly in the darkness, the lights of the R flickering pathetically so it sort of alternates rapidly between Batburger and Batburge.
Fuck. No.
He fights to compose whatever murderous expression he's sure has just crossed his face back into neutrality and squares his shoulders, glancing down at Tim. It's— He would go, if the kid asked. Kids love Batburgers. Kids love Night-wings. Kids love their action figures, they love seeing statues of their heroes, they love the commodity of heroism. And why wouldn't Tim want to be surrounded by his heroes, too?
"Sure," is what he wants to say, but it sticks in his throat.
He—
Maybe he can't, actually.
"I got a better idea," he suggests, grasping Tim's shoulder lightly and steering the kid gently past the Batburger. The bright lights and stink of the deep fryer waft after them, tempting, but Jason shoos Tim past it hastily. In his periphery, he feels the kid peering up at him, and then past him at the Batman logo, but he determinedly avoids making eye contact with both. Because frankly, fuck that noise. He's not ready for that, yet, not ready to come face to face with the flagrant, over-the-top, what-the-fuck-ever-
"Jason, you're holding, um- a little tightly," Tim says quietly, sounding a little flustered. Jason jerks, glancing down with no small amount of horror to see his hand clasped over Tim's shoulder, and immediately pulls back.
"Fuck, I'm sorry," he says immediately, awash with guilt. "I got— Lost in thought for a second there. Did I hurt you?"
"Not really. It was just— Like one of those blood pressure cuffs," Tim says, rotating his shoulder a little. "You must really hate burgers. Or Batman. Or both?" he adds offhandedly, and Jason sighs.
"Don't worry about it," he says shortly, because if he opens that can of worms, he'll also have to open the doors to a worm-infested kitchen, and probably open up a whole worm-infested restaurant, or something. A whole worm-infested restaurant called Batburger. "I'll tell you what. There's a great food truck I used to stop at all the time when I was— Er. When I'm working around here. Great food. Chili dogs, churros— if you can handle it, rich kid," he adds, ribbing at Tim lightly.
Tim's cheeks puff up in response. "I can handle it," he says stubbornly, eyebrows furrowing defensively. "I can handle anything."
"Right, right." Jason says, amused, but then recalls what he'd actually wanted to ask Tim earlier, when he'd first seen him in the clinic. "Listen, Tim, uh. There's no good way to ask this, but how the fuck did you get out here anyhow? You sneak out or something?"
Tim's demeanor changes; he tenses immediately, his shoulders drawing in defensively, and Jason hastens to reassure him.
"I'm not— going to rat you out or anything. It's just, you're just a kid, Tim, fuck. This is still a dangerous place." He hears himself and winces; fuck, he sounds like— Well. "Also, what if someone reports you missing or something?"
The kid stays silent. His gaze flicks to Jason's face, and then away toward the dark, slick street. He looks trapped, Jason realizes, and his stomach all but sinks.
Okay.
Jason abandons that train of questioning hastily and curls a hand around Tim's head, tugging at one of his scarves lightly.
"Okay, don't worry about it, Tim." he says, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. "Besides, I know something better to talk about."
Tim, who'd buried himself deeper into his fluffy scarves as if physically trying to hide from the questioning, carefully starts to poke his head out like a turtle. Now that Jason's looking, the coat doesn't even look like it belongs to the kid; it's several sizes too big for Tim, and all but dwarfs him. And if that jacket belongs to Jack, then does Tim not have a proper jacket of his own?
"What is it?" Tim asks hesitantly, his weight shifting awkwardly against his splint.
"Chili dogs," Jason says triumphantly.
Chili dogs and churros are a weird combination for a food truck in the area, admittedly.
Even still, Jason is oh-so-thankful for its existence.
First of all, he and Doug aren't just paltry acquaintances; no, Jason and Doug are pals. They're close. Everything Jason gets at the truck is on the house, and in turn, Jason makes sure Doug, his wife, and his newborn daughter never come to any sort of harm in Crime Alley. It's an easy enough job; barely anyone has a bone to pick with Doug, the Chili Dog Guy, but Jason's always just a phone call away if Doug ever needs him. There had been one incident where a drunk guy had picked a fight with Doug after trying to reach into his cash register, but he had very quickly changed courses when the Red Hood strolled nonchalantly around the corner. Smart man…. Unlike so many others, sadly.
Doug doesn't know that Jason knew of the truck long before Doug took over, though; this had been a frequent post-patrol stop when Jason had been Robin, too, back when Doug's brother owned the truck. Jason hadn't been able to let go of it, even though the wound itches every time he lays eyes on it.
"Wow, so many options," Tim whispers in awe, teetering all the way back to look at the expansive menu.
"You brought a friend this time, huh, Hood?" Doug booms cheerfully, resting his arms against the counter of his truck and leaning out of the window slightly. "Well, you know what I always say. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Go crazy, little man."
"Thanks, Doug," Jason relaxes a little, resting his weight against the truck and tapping one gloved finger against the counter. "You think you could get me the usual?"
"It's already cooking, Hoodie," Doug says brightly, turning his effusive attention to Tim. "And what about you, champ?"
"What do you usually get, Hood?" Tim asks almost absently, gaze still trained on the menu.
"Me?" Jason blanks for a second. He's been saying the usual for so long, he's almost damn-near forgotten his own preferences. "A classic hot dog piled on with Doug's secret chili sauce, cheese, and pickles. Oh, and—" He grins. "Can't forget the churro with raspberry sauce, too."
Tim makes a sharp sound, all of a sudden, like air being sucked in through his teeth, and snaps his gaze up to look at Jason. Just as quickly as he does it, he looks away.
"Can I have the same thing?" he asks, and his voice is almost shaky. Jason feels his eyebrows knit together in confusion, but he's so baffled he doesn't even know what to say. Maybe the kid had been overwhelmed by the amount of choices, or…
He nods at Doug's questioning glance. "Yeah, uh. Get him the same thing as me."
Jason had figured they'd hold onto the food until they got back to his place, where he could set Tim up with a paper plate and some leftover soda or something; by the time they're back at Jason's place, however, Tim's inhaled half the chili dog already. And it isn't weird, obviously, because Tim's a growing kid, but paired with everything else, it feels … unsettling, somehow. And, fuck, all these unsettling things just keep piling up like a Jenga tower in the back of Jason's head, wobbly, one loose block away from tumbling down.
Doug had piled Tim's churro with so much powdered sugar that it looks like a white, fluffy little mountain on top of the pastry; Jason watches in amusement as the kid demolishes the churro in neat order as well, leaving so much powdered sugar around him that he looks like he got caught in the middle of a fuckin' drug bust.
In a rare moment of triumph, Jason discovers that he actually does have half a bottle of soda leftover from ordering pizza a few nights before.
"Jason?" Tim asks, his voice warm with the sort of content lethargy that comes with eating a lot of very good food. Jason would know, because he's feeling just about the same way as he props himself up against his couch and smothers a yawn into his hand.
"What's up, Tim?" he asks.
"Um." Tim lifts his head, half his hair spiking up ridiculously from where it'd been squashed awkwardly against the arm of the couch. "You— I know this is weird, especially because of—" He lowers his gaze, picking at a loose thread on Jason's couch and twisting it around his pinky finger until it starts to cut off his circulation.
Jason examines him, this little pint-sized kid in his father's coat, a kid who'd rather spend his time in goddamn Crime Alley with a goddamn crime lord instead of in the safety and security of fucking Crest Hill , and doesn't have the slightest inclination nor desire to make Tim go back home.
He clears his throat loudly, and Tim tenses.
"I probably have a shirt or two you can use as pajamas," he says lightly. "— If you wanted to stay, that is. If you don't want to, I can take you h—"
"I want to," Tim blurts out. "I— Um, if that's. Okay with you, that is." He glances toward the bedroom, and then back at Jason. "I— I can take the couch this time."
Jason waves that off, because no fucking way. "Take the bed, Tim. I'll grab you a shirt, okay?"
So. Either Tim's babysitter's been asleep all day, doesn't give a single fuck about Tim, is straight up dead— or, they don't exist at all, and Tim is just. Alone. At home. All. Day. Jack's been gone for fucking. Weeks. According to his itinerary, he'll be gone for at least a month and a half more.
Jason goes through the motions of getting Tim ready for sleep almost on autopilot, lost in thought; it doesn't take long, once the kid wrangles himself into one of Jason's shirts and crawls under the covers.
He's about to leave and let Tim get some much-deserved rest, but he pauses in the doorway and glances back. Tim's sleepy-eyed gaze follows him.
"Is there anything else you want from me?" he asks, arching his eyebrows as he rests a hand against the doorframe. Tim props himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing in confusion as his gaze drifts from Jason's hand to the doorknob.
Realization dawns over his face.
"Oh, um. Um, if you— It would be nice, if you…" he fiddles and hesitates, but Jason waits patiently. "If you— Could knock, that is. Before coming in. Maybe." It's like pulling teeth, but it's still something, and it's leagues better than where Tim had been the first time they'd met.
"Yeah, I can do that." Jason says conversationally, and flicks the light off. Tim slumps slightly in relief, wriggling his way down into a comforter cocoon, and Jason clicks the door closed before pressing his back to the wood and sighing.
Fuck.
For once, he's totally at a loss. He doesn't even know where to start. Well— no, there is at least one certainty. He really— morally —can't just let Tim waltz back home without getting a better account of his home situation. At this point, he's almost positive that there isn't really anyone checking in on the kid, but he might as well confirm it.
He scrubs a hand over his face as he collapses down into the couch.
From: Me
I'm taking a day to uhh.
From: Me
Deal with some stuff.
From: Me
Can you hold down the fort until I get back?
From: Marco
?
From: Marco
Stuff? What stuff? You literally have no stuff outside CRIME
From: Marco
Seriously, what stuff? You don't even have hobbies. You are obsessed with work
From: Marco
don't ignore me Jay I know where you live
From: Marco
Is this because I told you to change the colors on the Excel sheet because you know as well as I do that I did that for US, jay
From: Marco
One day you're gonna come in and I'm gonna have quit and you're gonna be like "omg where's marco? He's the only one that could put up with my stupid insufferable ass and i didn't appreciate him enough and now he's gone and i'm all alone" and i will be thriving on an island in the bahamas like i deserve
Jason rolls his eyes.
From: Me
Have you considered joining a theater class? I think you'd get paid a lot more to act than what I pay you.
From: Marco
First of all you could pay me all the money in the world and it still wouldn't be enough and second of all, YOU'RE one to talk abt being a theater kid, Mr. Decapitation
From: Marco
Seriously, are you okay? I don't think you've ever taken a day off. Like ever. Remember that time you basically crawled into the meeting with pneumonia like an idiot
From: Me
Fuck you, I still managed to stay upright for 45 minutes. And yes, I'm okay, and yes, you will be the first to know once everything is sorted.
From: Marco
re: I do not get paid enough!
Jason grins.
He isn't sure when he falls asleep this time, either, but he wakes up to the sound of wood shattering.
It only takes him four seconds to evaluate the situation.
Second one: The gun he'd set up beside the kitchen window just went off.
Second two: In order for that gun to go off, someone had to have set off the tripwire right next to the kitchen window.
Second three: The bullet had missed the intruder since it hit the wall, which means the intruder is either very lucky, the size of a Smurf, or has excellent reflexes and is therefore probably trained.
Second four: He really needs to carefully disarm every booby trap in his house before Tim accidentally activates one of them.
Years of his own reflexes immediately take over, all but serving as a sharp kick in the ass. Jason immediately snatches his gun up off the floor, swings his leg over the couch, and drops down behind it in one swift motion. He leans out slightly to squint into the darkness, trying to make sense of the dark shape stumbling around his kitchen, and—
"Fuck, Little Wing, that almost hit me in a really important place."
Motherfuck—
Tim's door cracks open, and before Jason can yell at the kid to save himself and get back in the bedroom, the hallway light clicks on.
"Oh, much better." Dick says, and smiles so brightly that Jason's surprised the lightbulb above his head doesn't shatter out of shame and inferiority. He stares Dick down in disbelief, and then tenses, his shoulders prickling as a puzzled, sleepy Tim shuffles fully out into the hallway.
"Tim—" Jason starts, but it's too late, because Dick zeroes in on the kid like a heat-seeking missile and goes so rigid that Jason could've pushed him over and broken him into thousands of pieces (and fuck if he isn't sorely tempted to do just that).
"Oh," Dick says, very softly, and Jason gets a sudden, sharp, Very Bad Feeling.
Fuck.