S

by Lazydaily

Batman bat fam

5. Chapter 5

"Okay, what the hell is up with you?"

Jason flicks his swivel chair around to arch a confused eyebrow at Marco, who's staring at him with much the same expression as a dead fish. He's holding a pencil so tightly his knuckles are white; it's actually a little alarming.

"What do you mean?" Jason asks slowly, feigning confusion. It's not that he enjoys messing with Marco, it's just… He never says no to the opportunity, either.

Marco takes a deep breath. "Are you retiring?"

"What?" Jason says, some sort of cough-laugh amalgamation sputtering out of him at the thought. He's still got a long way to go until retirement, but it's cute that Marco thinks he could. "Just because I took a couple days off?"

(Although, he reasons, it would give him more time to spend with Tim…)

"You cannot," Marco says, very slowly and with a pitch to his voice that sounds a little like hysteria, "leave me here with these fucking people, Jay. You can't leave me with Jeff. I'll kill him. Fuck, I'll kill you. You cannot do that to me. Have I not been loyal for this long?"

"I mean, you're actively betraying me as we speak," Jason feels obligated to point out, highly entertained, and Marco snaps the pencil in two.

"Jason—"

Jason takes pity on him and hastily disguises his next laugh as a cough.

"I'm not retiring," he tells him. "I've just been having some, uh… Family issues, I guess you could say."

Marco's brow furrows as he leans back into his chair, and he purses his lips sympathetically. "Oh." He contemplates this for a moment, and then curiously says, "You don't really talk a lot about your family."

"There's a pretty good reason for that," Jason says shortly. He rummages around in one of the pouches of his belt for a moment before sliding a pack of cigarettes across the table to Marco. He'd gotten used to flinging things around thanks to Dick's increased presence; however, after the last item— a remote —had smacked an unfortunate Marco squarely in the side of the head, Jason had abruptly remembered that not everyone had his brother's reflexes. "Can you pass these on to Srishti?"

Marco's making a face like he's just eaten a whole lemon as he stares down at the cigarettes. "My God, you are retiring, aren't you? Is this some last memory shit that you want me to pass on?" He pales. "If this is like that one time you took off without saying anything and then sent me a blurry thumbs up from Germany two weeks later, I swear to God I'll—"

"I've apologized for that," Jason interjects, pointedly ignoring Marco's muttered "not fucking enough" under his breath. "And I'm not retiring. I just…" He rubs his eyes. "Look, I've been trying to kick the habit anyway, but I just got some pretty good motivation to drop them completely, and, I dunno, I don't want them around anymore."

Marco laces his fingers together and stares down at the cigarettes for a long moment. His eyes narrow, and his gaze flicks back up to Jason's face sharply.

"... What family issues did you say you were having?"

"I didn't," Jason says tersely. He shouldn't have given him so much information; though Marco's title has never been detective, per se, he's managed to be observant enough to survive this long in the heart of Crime Alley and raise a brood of his own at that. You don't really do that shit without learning keen survival and observation instincts. At the very least, at least he's reaping the benefits of Marco's quick mind. Or maybe Black Mask is. He may never know.

Marco taps the corner of the box against the table sharply, but his expression softens. "Is the kid yours?"

Jason groans. " No. I mean—" His brow furrows. "Yes? For now. I don't know, it's complicated, Marco, fuck. Just— Trust me on this, I know what I'm doing. I think."

"How? You can barely handle a spreadsheet," Marco mutters.

This time, when Jason smacks him in the side of the head with a pen, it's intentional .

Actually, falling into a rhythm for the weekdays is pretty easy. He just has to make sure he gets Tim to and from school on time; when he rolls up to the curb the first time, Tim looks so shocked to see him that Jason has to check to make sure he hadn't just pulled up to a school in full gear and armed to the teeth. He's glad he actually got a minute to change; prying away from Marco and his pleas to meet Tim had been near goddamn impossible.

"You're… actually here?" Tim asks, even though he'd been the one to tell Jason where to come to pick him up.

Jason leans forward on the handlebars of his bike and tilts his head. "... Why wouldn't I be?"

Tim's expression twists; Jason immediately backtracks. It's bad enough for the kid, but there's no quicker way to ignite the gunpowder in Jason's chest than Tim's visceral reactions to essentially the bare minimum. The kid even has his umbrella resting across his knees, as if he'd been prepared for the eventuality of being caught in the oncoming storm— as if he'd expected to be left here, alone. Jason's chest stings at the sight.

"I'll come get you every day," he says gruffly, reaching out to toss Tim's backpack over his shoulder; Tim watches in fascination. "Unless I'm, I dunno, dying. Or dead." He can't help a grim little smile. "Though, even if that happens, maybe I'll come get you as a zombie." The gallows humor is always on the tip of his tongue; for a moment, he wonders if he went too far with it, but there's an almost inquisitive gleam in Tim's eyes as he glances back at Jason.

"Hm. Okay," Tim says, almost thoughtfully, climbing onto the bike behind Jason and pulling his helmet on. At the feeling of the little arms wrapping around his midsection, Jason swallows an unexpected lump in his throat.

The responsibility feels unfathomable, all of a sudden— but Tim trusts him , and Jason isn't inclined to let that crumble.

"Hold tight," he says a little roughly, patting one of Tim's hands. "The storm winds are strong. I wouldn't want you to get blown off."

When they get back home, Jason works out some sort of schedule that makes sense with Marco and the rest of his underlings, and rumors start to fly immediately. Marco squashes most of them with the determination of a man possessed, and by the end of the week, the verdict is out: Red Hood, for the foreseeable future, is taking evenings off like any other average 9-5'er, and on the weekends, he's barely reachable at all. Marco takes point, muttering something like, "if you're here instead of at home with a kid on a weekend— "

Jason doesn't necessarily need the encouragement; with equal parts of thrill and fear, he's realizing that he's become the kind of person who waits restlessly for the day to pass so that he can place Tim back into his vicinity again.

He tells himself it's for no other reason than to keep an eye on the kid, but— it's more than that, and he only admits as much to himself.

Because maybe— maybe — there had been something a little lonely about the way he'd been living. He'd welcomed the solitude at first; it fit his lone wolf lifestyle to let his only company be the silence and the dark and the creak of the floorboards, but—

But there's that piece of him, that longing child inside of him that resurfaces when some nights seem to go on forever, and Tim's presence brings some sort of long-due peace to that memory.

"Did you know," Tim says, half-muffled through his toothbrush, and Jason blinks at him in the mirror. "The first toothpaste was a dental paste made of oxen hooves, myrrh, eggshells, pumice and water?"

"Gross," Jason says with feeling, and Tim grins a foamy grin at him. "I'll stick to Crest or whatever."

In just the few days since Jason's officially taken Tim under his wing (so to speak), he's learned not just about the most venomous creatures in the world, but also about the most gruesome unsolved mysteries in Gotham's history (and fuck, this is one messed-up city… Which he already knew, but still), gotten an extensive breakdown on the etymology of the word horseradish , heard the entire unabridged history of Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, and learned everything he could've ever possibly wanted to know about saffron.

It's frankly unbelievable how much information Tim's managed to gather into his head; every single day, over breakfast, Tim thinks of something new to tell him about, and, save for a few small breaks, he's hard-pressed to stop until sometime shortly before he goes to bed. Jason finds himself awash in the unobtrusive tidal wave of words, and finds himself lost in an unusually loud silence when Tim isn't around.

Every so often, the kid stops and blinks up at him and says, "is it okay if I keep going?" and Jason bumps him in the shoulder affectionately and says, "it's okay if you keep going."

In a way, it isn't until he sits down with Tim for Hamlet that Jason really learns how to say things. Dick finds it hilarious, because he's determined to annoy the hell out of Jason (and, for some reason, he likes to watch Jason turn into an English tutor).

Tim's writing his analysis of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's loyalty when Jason looks up and makes eye contact with his brother, who's once again folded up like a Twizzler at one of the dining chairs.

"What?" Jason asks, and even though it comes out defensive, Dick's smile doesn't diminish in the slightest.

"Missed your calling, Jay," Dick says affectionately, tipping his head down at the book tucked under Jason's arm. Jason just blinks at him, and then drops his gaze to the highlighted, annotated pages of Tim's book, to his handwriting in the margins with Tim's, memorialized in the pages.

Hm, he thinks, and his throat prickles slightly.

Dick says something like, "it's livelier now," when he leaves, and Jason…

Jason died. He came back to life. He came back to life, but he hadn't been living. This— with Tim, and sometimes with Dick, maybe, if he's ever willing to admit it to himself —feels like living. This feels like what he'd had before— when he'd been Robin .

Dick had known what it'd been like before, too. They hadn't actually talked much, per se; sometimes, it felt like Dick would come by to keep making sure Jason was alive, but they wouldn't talk— not like this. They were lucky if things didn't end in a bit of a scuffle, but— Jason hadn't been much in the mood to talk, really. He'd hardly spent time in the apartment; it certainly hadn't been much of a living quarter and even less a home. It'd been suffocating to stay in the apartment when he'd had so much residue anger to keep working off.

Now. Jason comes home with armfuls of little puzzles— hand-me-downs from Marco —that Tim likes to fiddle with, and they gather up on the counters and on the nightstands and on the coffee table. Tim's schoolwork is sprawled all over the floor where he likes to sit and ponder over things with that deep, determined little frown. There's twice the number of dishes— sometimes thrice, and when Dick sticks around, they make a game out of washing them. Jason finds that they're all surprisingly competitive; Tim pulls a frankly illegal move involving building a little contraption that dunks forks into soapy water and then pitches them high-speed into the drying rack. Jason looks up at Dick as forks fly around them and sees his own delight mirrored on his brother's face.

Jason had swung by Drake manor to pick up some of Tim's things, too— namely, and most importantly, Tim's camera, which he'd been very vocal about —so the kid's been taking pictures of anything and everything he sees. Hearing the little click-snap had given Jason a bit of a shock at first; when he'd turned to see that it was just Tim taking a picture of a bird on the windowsill, he'd relaxed significantly. It'd been a good picture, too, which had Jason wondering if he ought to dedicate a wall to Tim's photos.

Tim talks and laughs and gets on his hands and knees to take pictures of ladybugs and breathes, and when Jason watches him, something inside of him feels full and heavy and warm with life in a way he hasn't felt in so long. He feels like he's watching himself catch fireflies in the backyard of the Manor. He feels like he's watching himself fly when he sweeps Tim up and onto his bike.

They're getting better at making things work; Jason mentally compiles triggers in his head just as easily as he compiles anything else, and any time Tim flinches back or freezes or holds his breath, Jason scribbles out a mental note and also imagines himself punching Jack Drake square in the face for his own sanity.

Tim blooms in the soil of Jason's ratty little apartment, and for just a moment, for one precious and easy moment, everything makes the most sense it ever had since the days when Jason leapt off rooftops in a traffic-light blur, right into the embrace of the night. Their peace holds.

Their peace holds, until it doesn't.

The storm cracks through the night sky like the earth fracturing open, and Jason jolts awake on a gasp as the inside of his apartment lights up white.

He jerks up and off the couch, stumbling over to the windows. The lightning vanishes behind the curtains as he yanks them shut, but the rolling, violent clap of thunder that follows rocks the apartment undeterred.

It's not quite loud enough to hide the tiny scrape he hears from the bedroom.

Jason straightens, an uneasy prickle thrilling up his spine and pulling his shoulders tight as he turns to glance at the bedroom door. The kid should be asleep, but the storm is loud, and he easily could've been awoken by it. He's probably just readjusting, he thinks, even though his mind nearly trips in its leap to the worst conclusions possible.

Another scrape, and a thump this time. The prickly uneasiness in Jason's stomach resolves itself into sharp, bright fear as any last vestiges of sleep shed away like snakeskin.

"Tim?" he asks, keeping his voice as light and level as possible, just in case the kid is asleep, and this is just paranoia.

There's a sound from inside the bedroom that Jason does recognize— the hitch of breath, shaky and riddled with fear. Fuck. He closes his fist around the doorknob and twists.

"No." Tim pleads. "Don't come in. Please, don't come in, I—" He stops, and Jason—

And Jason doesn't know what the fuck to do.

Because he fucking promised this kid— he promised Tim he wouldn't come in if he asked. And this is Tim, hurting and afraid and asking, and what, is Jason just supposed to— let him suffer? Even if it's a run of the mill nightmare and not one of Tim's trauma responses, he still shouldn't have to suffer alone; he could get hurt. And Jason isn't about to let that happen only ten feet away from him, even if—

Even if that means he has to let Tim down on this.

"Tim, I," he says numbly, at a complete loss. No training in all the world could've prepared him for this moment. "I promise— I promise I won't do anything to hurt you. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm afraid," Tim sobs, and his voice all but shambles apart into nothing. "I'm afraid."

Me fucking too, Jason thinks, his chest compressing inward like a car getting crushed in a compactor. "I promise I won't hurt you, Tim," he swears, and he can hear the waver in his own voice. "I swear. Pinky p-promise." He's cold through and through by now, and none of it has to do with the weather; fear curls icy fingers into Jason's lungs, and the frost quickly creeps up into his throat as he waits.

Tim makes a sound like the keening wail of a threatened rabbit, all pure fear and distress, and the sound makes Jason's teeth ache.

"Tim," he pleads, but there's no answer this time.

And—

And Jason breaks his promise.

He'd rather Tim be furious with him later than lose him when he's only an arm's reach away. He only hopes Tim will forgive him for it.

He twists the knob, cracking the door open slightly, and his blurry vision needs a second to adjust to the darkness of the room. The bed is empty, but all of the blankets are bunched up on the floor. Jason drops to the floor, gently moving the bunched blankets aside, and when he lifts the bedskirt, he realizes with dawning horror that Tim's wedged himself tightly underneath the slats of the bed and tucked himself into a ball.

He's crying like Jason's never heard a child cry before, these gasping, uncontrollable, chest-rattling sobs that shake the entire bed. They're quickly hurtling toward hysterics; Jason can hear the way the pitch changes, and his stomach twists, threatens to turn completely inside out.

Jason isn't even sure what the fuck to do first. Coax Tim out? Calm him down? Crawl right under there with him?

"Tim, kiddo, it's just me, it's Jason, I'm right here," he says as gently as humanly possible (he says like Robin), his breath hitching. He reaches a careful hand out, and when his fingertips brush along Tim's back, Tim stills and falls eerily silent.

And then he goes completely limp.

Jason only just manages to catch Tim's head as it lolls and tips; Tim's legs slide out from underneath him, and the rest of his body follows him down like a ragdoll. Jason tenses, one hand still cupping Tim's head. It isn't what he feels that alerts him— it's what he doesn't feel:

The rise and fall of Tim's chest, the tick of a pulse.

Tim isn't breathing.

Tim. Isn't. Fucking. Breathing.

Something primal and instinctual seizes control of Jason's limbs. On autopilot, he props his hand up against one of the slats and, in some sort of adrenaline-fueled frenzy, launches the whole fucking bed so that he can gather Tim up with one arm and free him from the wooden prison.

Years of training spur him into starting CPR while his brain rattles along uselessly, screaming shit like what the fuck, why the fuck, please let me still be dead because this can't be real, and if it is real, and if it is real, and if it is real and Tim just fucking died, then just let me stop breathing too because I can't, I cannot, I cannot fucking do this, and—

Is this how Bruce felt? he thinks dimly as he tries to coax air back into Tim's lungs.

Compressions first, rescue breaths second. He doesn't even think; these are just motions, and Robin's taken over completely at this point. Robin breathes air into Tim's mouth. Robin presses his palms down against Tim's little chest. Robin does the heavy lifting, and Jason lets him, so he can focus on not unraveling entirely.

And then—

And then.

Tim sputters out a wheezing little gasp.

Jason shudders out a gasp himself , curls over him, and holds onto him like he's never going to let go of him again.

From: Me

code red

From: Dickface

omw

Tim doesn't speak for at least ten minutes after he starts breathing again.

Jason's absolutely wrecked. He hasn't let it creep into his expression, but he feels like if someone doesn't physically keep him pressed together, he'll fall right apart. And he hates feeling like that— he hates that crutch of vulnerability, but there's some part of him that's latched onto the idea that maybe he can't do this, maybe… Maybe he isn't equipped to take care of Tim. Maybe he's doing more harm than good.

But then, he wouldn't even know who…

Well, that's not true.

Dick would do it, he thinks vaguely, resting a hand loosely under Tim's arm and over his heart so he can feel him breathing. The kid's somewhat haphazardly sprawled half over Jason's leg, half-against his hip, and other than the quiet breaths, he's silent like a grave. Jason can feel Tim's fingertip tracing over the edge of his sock absently; a fault line splits through his heart at the careful, shaky motion, and he takes in a trembling, low breath before he cautiously pats Tim's side. Dick would get it fucking right.

"Listen," he kind of croaks, and Tim's finger stutters to a stop. "You don't have to … tell me what he did to you. But maybe I can help you, if I— If you do tell me. And I know it was…" He doesn't even know what to say; words feel entirely inadequate. Where's the fucking parenting article on this one? "I know it was really fucking bad, Tim." Yeah. That's the fucking word, Jason, you goddamn idiot. "But it won't happen to you again. Not on my watch. Whether you tell me or not."

Tim's finger retreats, and he manages to unfurl himself into some semblance of a sitting position up against Jason's side. One of Jason's hands hovers, but he doesn't dare make any other sudden motions.

The kid studies Jason for a moment; there's something guarded in his expression now, something almost wooden, that has Jason wondering how aware Tim actually is of his situation.

"It wasn't my dad. It was— someone he made a deal with. I don't," Tim says, stilted. He sounds awful, hoarse from screaming, and he's staring at the space under the bed as if he wants nothing more than to crawl back underneath. "I don't re— really remember."

Gentle, Robin says, over the howl of the Pit.

"I know it was raining," Tim says flatly as he reaches out to trail his fingertips over the cuff of Jason's sock again. He hesitates for a moment, fingers hovering over the fabric, before he pets it with trembling, cold fingers and shrugs. "I know it hurt. I remember that it hurt."

Gentle, Robin whispers. The Pit roars in Jason's ears. He has to strain to hear Tim.

"Sometimes, my dad said— they could. I dunno," Tim says, and either the volume of his voice drops away, or the rush of helpless fury deafens Jason, searing and agonizingly bright. Even if he wanted to say anything, he— he can't. All he can do is stare at Tim wordlessly. "I guess— they liked me. Because they— A lot of them wanted to, to." He makes a sort of motion that Jason can't interpret, because everything's moving through a layer of syrup. "But this time was really b—" His breath hitches, his face white like the moon, round and young. Only eleven, Jason's mind supplies. "This time was really, really bad."

Gentle.

"My dad let him come into my bedroom," Tim murmurs, curling his fingers into the cuff of Jason's sock tightly. Cold, little fingers, each one smaller than the head of a daisy. "I thought he'd— be like anyone else. The rest of them just— touch. And my dad said I was doing good. I was being g- good," he slurs, half through his sleeve. "I was helping. They just wanted to— but then. This one, I— I guess he was different."

Gentle.

"And—" Tim says flatly, in barely a whisper, "then I don't remember. I think—" He shakes his head. His face is wet against the skin of Jason's bare arm. Jason thinks his own face might be wet, too. He isn't sure. "I think I woke up, and then it was sunny. And there were— there was blood, a lot of. Blood. Then… Bruises around my throat. Like a necklace," he says, with a laugh that isn't a laugh at all, just a terrible, wavering exhale. "Sometimes I think about it, and it hurts to breathe. I can't breathe. I can't … Sleeping is so hard sometimes. When I close my eyes, I." His fingernails press hard into Jason's ankle. "I think he'll come in again. I think I'm going to get hurt. And it's scary. And on the days it rains, it's—"

He tilts his face up toward Jason's.

"I don't think I'll ever be normal again," Tim says like he's stunned, cheeks glossy with tears, heart beating unsteadily, quick like the wing-flutter of a hummingbird.

(the grip of fingers around his chin. a stranger burying his fingers into Jason's hair and saying, "this is what I paid for. you'd better not flake on me."

the slam of a crowbar against his back. the heat of the fire swallowing him whole.

Jason's on his knees in front of Robin's grave and through a mouthful of dirt and ash, he's saying "I don't think I'll ever be normal again.")

Jason doesn't know— what to do.

Robin is quiet. The Pit is quiet. Everything is just. Quiet.

All he can think to do— all that makes sense —is to carefully fold Tim back against himself. His hand's shaking, or Tim's shaking, or—

Or they're both. Shaking.

That's how Dick finds them.

Jason goes on the defensive immediately. His breath hitches as he locks up around Tim, but the flash of black and blue reaches deep into his consciousness, past the roiling Pit, past the protective blur of green, yellow, red.

"Dick," he says, and then freezes like he's been shocked. Tim lolls against him, asleep, and Jason's shoulders lower slightly. He hadn't realized Tim had fallen asleep; he must've been exhausted. Mostly, he's glad he hadn't just outed Dick's identity to Tim, but—

Well. Nightwing may be the hero on paper, but Jason needs Dick Grayson.

"Is there someone else here?" Dick asks, hushed, the whites of his mask almost luminous. He's armed, Jason realizes; one of his escrima sticks sits loosely in his hand, but Jason can hear a sharp squeak as Dick's grip tightens. Jason shakes his head slightly. He wants to get up and close the gap between them, but he finds that he doesn't want to— can't let go of Tim. Not right now, anyway.

Thunder rumbles again, and his brother tenses slightly. Dick isn't fond of rainy days as far as Jason can tell; nevertheless, he's soaked, and he's breathing a little harshly as though he had sprinted the moment he'd seen Jason's message.

Tim doesn't like them either.

He doesn't realize he's said as much out loud until Dick's brow furrows. He approaches them carefully, glancing around the dark room hesitantly before crouching lightly in front of them.

"What do you mean, Little Wing? Are you both okay?" Dick asks gently; the lines of his face are drawn tight with tension and worry, and Jason's eyes sting when he hears Dick say both.

There's still a place for me in Dick's concern, he thinks, and wraps his arms around Tim in a way that nearly engulfs the kid's little birdlike body entirely.

"Define okay," he says, and a crack splits his voice clean through like a fault line.

The rage has by no means subsided; it's bubbling just underneath a layer of if I get mad now, I might hold too hard, I might be too rough, I might go too far. He can't risk that; he doesn't even know where to begin. Tim had laughed last night. He had stayed up late with his feet burrowed into Jason's lap and fallen asleep face-first into his book and Jason had carried him to the bed, the same bed Tim stopped breathing under only a few hours later, and it had been good, it had been good, so why, why, why did everything always have to —

The earth meets him again as he becomes aware of Dick's hand on his shoulder. He gasps like he's breaking through the surface of the ocean and coming up for air, and Dick's grip doesn't waver.

"It's okay, Wing, I'm here," Dick is saying, low and easy, even though Jason rattles like a livewire. "Deep breaths, okay? It's okay, just— one step at a time, Jay, it's going to be okay."

"It's not," Jason says, and when he finally has the wherewithal to look up at Dick, Dick tenses at the look on his face. "Nothing is okay. I don't know how to fix this. I can't. I can't think of anything but how much I want to kill," he says, and chokes at the wave of sharp-edged fury that sears the inside of his throat. "No. That would be— too easy. They— You don't…"

Dick stares at him for a moment, and then down at Tim. His expression shutters into something devastated.

That's what you get with a family of detectives, Jason thinks bitterly.

"Oh." Dick says. His mouth moves, but nothing comes out, and his shoulders tremble a little as he takes a low, shaky breath. "Okay. Fuck. Okay." His face is white. There's a look on his face that Jason's never seen, haunting, like Dick actually doesn't know what to do for a second, and something about the lost expression leaves Jason feeling deeply unsettled.

Another boom from outside. Dick flinches. Dick— flinches. He jerks up by almost a whole inch, wild-eyed gaze snapping to the windows before returning to Jason.

"Okay," Dick says again, and his teeth grind together. Lightning fractures the sky again, but it somehow pales in comparison to the almost unreal, crackling blaze of energy that Jason feels thrumming from just the hand Dick still has on his shoulder. "Tim— he's asleep?"

Gravity jerks Jason's head into a nod.

"And he isn't hurt—" Dick's voice cracks slightly. "That is… Physically, in a way we need to treat immediately?"

"I gave him CPR, so he might have bruises," Jason says tonelessly, his breath hitching at the memory. Dick's hand tightens against his shoulder, but if his brother has any more questions, he doesn't ask— not yet, anyway. "I had to— I had to come in," he says, rubbing at his eyes with his wrist. "I broke my promise. I told him I wouldn't come in if he said no. He said no. He was so— So upset." Jason sort of wheezes, and the breath comes out in a thin stream between his teeth. "I— I panicked. I just came in. Just like—" He stops.

"Okay," Dick says softly, and his thumb brushes lightly over the side of Jason's face reassuringly. It's oddly more grounding than Jason would've anticipated, and he finds himself tilting his head slightly toward the gesture. "It's okay, Jay. You can apologize and talk to him about it later. Tim's— He'll understand that you were worried for his safety."

"You don't understand," Jason croaks, heart pounding in his ears. "If I just come in when he says no— I'm no different than any of those— those." He can't think of a word strong enough, venomous enough. He can't think.

"Stop." Dick says darkly. Jason's gaze drifts back up to his brother's shadowed face. "You are nothing…" He takes a deep, controlled breath. "...Like them."

Jason's shoulders hitch, and he makes a watery sound as he gathers Tim's loose limbs up against his arm. "You didn't see how scared he was," he says thinly.

Some of the pressure seems to lift. Dick has an expression on his face somewhere between hurt and a little sad.

"I'm sure he was," Dick says carefully. "And so were you."

Jason's vision blurs slightly.

"Can I…" Dick holds out his arms. Jason doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want to let go until Tim has to be prized out of his dead-again arms, but he also wants Tim to lie comfortably, now that he's asleep. So, against his better judgment and every screaming instinct, he slowly unknots his limbs from around the kid and lets Dick take over.

He's in no condition to leave Tim's room— or even really let the kid out of his sight —so they both just sit against the door after Dick puts Tim back to bed. Dick's still tense, and just gets more tense as the storm continues to rage outside.

"Tim doesn't like them either," Jason says again, quietly, his eyes fixed on Tim's form under the covers.

"You said that earlier," Dick says absently, gaze fixed on the windows. The rain's picked up; it almost drowns him out entirely. "What doesn't he like?"

"Rainy days," Jason mutters, and he's at the perfect angle to feel Dick slide into deliberate stillness.

"Oh," Dick says, strained. He's quiet for a moment before he straightens, lacing his fingers together against his ankles. Jason wonders if he should ask, but Dick's expression smooths over into something impenetrable, and he's already speaking again as if trying to move past his own discomfort. "... You know," he says, "he probably needs professional help, beyond either of us. This is really serious, Jay."

"It's fucked up," Jason whispers, half into his wrist. "It's so— fucked up. I can't even understand. I saw him smiling yesterday. I watched him do his homework. He was humming something while he worked. You could've thought nothing was wrong. And all this time, he," he stops, throat prickling. "All this time, he was holed up in here, scared for his life. Carrying this around. He's just a kid, Dick." He scrubs a hand over his face, his stomach twisting up with nausea and the sort of burning, howling need to do something ( put this right to fix this to reach down into their throats and pull everything out slowly. Alphabetically.), but it won't undo what they did. It won't undo what they fucking did. "He's just a fucking kid who was next door to us. "

"Yeah, I— I know." Dick says. His hands are pressed up against his face, and his words come out muffled through the gaps between his fingers. "Okay. God. And his dad…?"

Fury like nothing Jason's ever known boils him away into smoke from the inside out.

"His dad?" he echoes numbly, gripping his arm so tightly that he's fairly certain he nearly carves crescent-shaped gouges out of his skin. "He fucking sent him into this, knowing what they'd do to him, Dick. He sold off his own kid."

"What?" Dick whispers, and there's that pressure again, bearing down on the both of them as if the sky's slowly collapsing down on their shoulders. His rage is so palpable that Jason feels like he's trapped in a pressure cooker that's set to blow, and there's no way out apart from just exploding.

But Dick, in a way Jason's struggled with since coming back, manages to bring himself back down. He draws in a long breath, his shoulders heaving with effort, and then pulls away from the fuse. The fury is still in each breath— it's still in his shoulders, in his curled fists. But he won't lose his hold on it— not now. Jason won't admit it, but he's glad; if Dick had flown off the handle, he isn't sure he wouldn't also have followed him right down. It's hard enough to stop himself from laying absolute waste to the kitchen, and if he hadn't been determined not to let Tim out of his sight, he probably would've.

"You know," Jason says hollowly, and feels Dick's gaze flick to his face. "I'm still pissed at B. But if he'd have fuckin' known about this. If he'd just— known. He wouldn't have let this happen. The kid would've been out of there years ago."

"Yeah," Dick sort of chokes, like his throat's tightening by the second. "I wish we'd figured it out."

And hearing that— hearing the wound of regret split and bleed under Dick's words —nearly breaks Jason.

Neither of them sleep.

"You don't have to pity me," is the first thing out of Tim's mouth the next morning. "I'm okay now."

Jason just stares at him from across the table and feels distinctly like he's been shot.

"Tim," he says, and it already feels inadequate. Everything about what he'd just said— just, what the fuck. He finds himself somewhat wishing Dick were still here, but they'd both been concerned that the added presence would overwhelm Tim, so he'd promised to come back later under a more innocuous pretense. "It's not… I'm not pitying you."

Tim doesn't meet his eyes, gaze instead fixated on the table. The change from yesterday is profound; gone is the boy who'd cheerfully fidgeted about with his puzzle at Jason's dining table, and in his place is a wooden, eerily-polite echo. All their fragile, hopeful progress, gone up in smoke, just— gone.

It's so terrifying that it makes Jason's chest tighten.

"Tim, I," Jason says. "I know that I messed up last night. I was worried, and I… I didn't listen to you when you…" He clears his throat. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Tim says evenly, cutting him off. "I'm used to it."

The world falls out from underneath Jason's feet.

He thinks he's going to be sick; his throat closes up almost entirely as Tim, the table, and the wallpaper dissolve into a blur around him. His palm hits the table with a sharp little thud, and the bright pain that lances up his wrist is all he has to keep himself upright so he doesn't actually hit the floor.

"I need to go to school," Tim says politely, oblivious to Jason's crisis. "You're still going to drop me off, right?"

Jason, struck dumb, pulls himself together a little bit. "Yeah, I mean, I can, but I— Tim, you had a rough night. Are you sure you want to go today?"

Tim finally looks up at him, his expression flat. "Why wouldn't I? I've done it before."

Jason's veins fill with pure rage.

With effort, he says, "You shouldn't have to. I'll call off for you today." He hesitates, then, not wanting the kid to feel forced— again. "Of course, if you want to stay home, that is."

Tim shrugs and goes back to staring at his uneaten pancakes, his hand curled around his ribs almost absently. "I guess."

Jason takes a deep breath, scrubs his hands down his face, and goes to make the call.

This might actually be hell, a little bit.

Jason isn't actually sure what Tim is thinking; the stonewalling stings, but Tim isn't quite giving him the silent treatment, either. Mostly, the kid's spending his time staring down at his book, but Jason hasn't seen a page flip in hours. He doesn't think Tim's actually reading at all.

The talking's stopped, too. Tim's chatter, usually so abundant, used to fill the room as easily as air. Its absence leaves Jason feeling untethered, somehow; he tries to ask Tim questions, but he's lucky if he coaxes a one or two word response out of Tim at all. He doesn't dare to open up the earlier can of worms again, especially with the chance of Tim going unresponsive again.

He catches himself thinking, pleading— what was I supposed to do? Let you get hurt? But he doesn't dare say as much to Tim, for fear of causing him to pull back even further. The tension is already pulled taut like a rubber band, and if it snaps— he could lose Tim forever. And that, that isn't an option.

He doesn't know how to help him.

He offers Tim an ice pack for his ribs just in case the CPR had left bruises, and although the kid does take it, he doesn't make eye contact while he does, and Jason doesn't actually see him using it. In the evening, he reaches out to take Tim's plate after they've finished eating, and the kid pulls away.

Jason stills, and Tim's gaze flicks up to his.

It hadn't been a sharp movement by any means; it'd been barely anything at all, just Tim twisting a quarter to the right to maneuver his plate away from Jason, but it'd been enough. Tim ducks around Jason's frozen arm to put the plate in the sink himself, and then tucks himself into the farthest chair, and— the way he contorts himself is painfully familiar.

And then it occurs to him, with a twist in his chest that's a little agonizing: maybe Tim is scared of him. Maybe Jason being here, being around him— Maybe it's keeping the kid from being able to feel safe.

So when Dick gets there, Jason asks if he can stay with Tim for the rest of the night.

"Of course, Jay," Dick says with no hesitation— without even asking why —even though he looks just as exhausted as Jason feels. Jason doesn't think Dick got any sleep after the events of last night either, and it shows in the dark circles seared underneath his eyes (not that Jason could imagine being able to sleep after what he'd heard Tim say). Even still, Dick has an affectionate smile for Tim, who blinks back at him owlishly and thaws almost instantly.

And Jason— He knows why. Dick hadn't been the one to betray Tim, after all; Jason had. Jason had been the one to make a promise and then fuck up, and he knows that. He knows that, even if his chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself, even if his head is spinning wildly, even if his mouth feels like it's full of cotton.

Tim's rejection hurts, but it isn't about Jason, so he needs to let the kid have time to himself. And for once, Jason thinks he actually understands how Bruce felt about something.

It's a terrifying thought in its own right.

Marco takes one look at Jason's face and doesn't ask.

But later on, while Jason's perched on a fire escape and watching a truck struggle and pull a 23-point-turn to try to park itself into an alley, he happens to find three chili-watermelon lollipops tucked into the pocket of his jacket.

He stares down at them for a long moment until he hears shuffling from below, and then he quickly tucks them back into his pocket as he hops on top of the truck lightly.

Maybe coming out here while he's hopped up on adrenaline and residual fury and frustration isn't actually the best plan, but Jason's hard-pressed to think too much about it at the moment. Too much is swirling around in his head, and he just needs this, the fresh air, the night breeze, the inevitability of people doing stupid shit and the knowledge that this, this is something he can fix.

That's something that Robin and the Pit can agree on, at least— scaring the shit out of low-level drug dealers in the Alley and watching them run in circles —or in this case, try to rope him into the deal for some reason.

Jason crouches on the edge of the truck and, with all the false curiosity he can possibly muster, drawls out a, "so, run this plan by me again, fellas?" It comes out warped and edged with something a little cruel through the modulator, just the way Jason intends.

"W-Well, Red Hood— Er, Mr. Hood, Sir." Idiot One clears his throat while Idiot Two provides what Jason can only assume is emotional support by standing shoulder to shoulder with him. "Maybe you could let us continue with our distribution if— uh, if you, uh, you got a cut of the shipment?" Even at this angle, Jason can see sweat bead up at the corner of his head and trickle out of sight into his collar. He's shaking so badly that Jason wants to fill him up with dried beans and start a party.

"Now, what makes you think it's a good idea to suggest that to me? Genuinely, I'm curious." Jason asks, keeping his tone disingenuously light. He's curious, alright. Curious to know how these two manage to have a combined brain cell count of zero.

"Er, well— This stuff is really potent! Already in vials, loaded and ready to go— we, uh, already have plenty of buyers. It would be a great investment for you, Mr. Hood." Idiot Two supplies. "You could control the whole Alley with this stuff!"

Keeping someone fearful and pliant to his whims? Yeah, he fucking bets.

"Here's the thing, fellas…" Jason says (or maybe sort of snarls, because fuck, he's feeling a little sensitive right now). "I don't need that shit to control the Alley."

Out here, the call of the Pit rises above Robin. He doesn't have to worry about hurting Tim, because he's out here to hurt. He's out to maim, threaten, fight, and kill if he has to, and nothing, nothing is going to stop him.

"You could do so much with it!" Idiot One says smoothly, wiping his palms down on his jeans. "If you want to uh, get lucky—" He tilts his head slightly and smiles. "This would make it pretty easy, uh. Y'know? Trust me, I've, uh." He sort of laughs. "I've given it a few tries myself."

Jason's limited self control, which had been pulled to its ultimate limit the night before, snaps.

All of the badwrong inside of him twists up something sharp and violent as he descends on the two dealers, both of whom barely react fast enough to do much of anything at all.

"If I wanted to get lucky?" he grinds out through his teeth, his words a harsh, furious hiss. He thinks he breaks something— bones, and more than a few of them, but all he wants to do is keep going and keep hurting and at some point the face of the dealer underneath him morphs into Jack Drake's and his vision tunnels completely until all there is the bruised, bloody face beneath him, and—

He realizes he may have sacrificed his situational awareness for the sake of his rage, just a little bit, because the moment at which the bullet tears through his upper arm is the first time he actually becomes aware of a gun.

Instincts take over at that point; pure adrenaline lights him up like a pinball machine, and he immediately abandons the unresponsive body underneath him in favor of rolling behind a brick wall to take cover.

Fuck, he thinks, because— ow.

It has to have been the second guy; Jason had been whaling on his friend, and the guy had clearly taken some umbrage with that. When Jason tries to lean out to take a look again, two more bullets fly past him, and he's forced to duck..

When he leans out for the second time, he aims for the kneecap.

The guy goes down immediately with a wailing scream, and Jason gets blood all over his goddamn phone as he awkwardly and one-handedly texts Marco the location of the truck and garbled instructions that he hopes the man can decipher.

He gets a look at the first guy as he passes the two bodies, and it's bad. He isn't dead yet, but Jason had done a fucking number on him, and the way his knuckles feel pretty much confirms as much to him. The guy's a mess of blood and broken bones and nasty, bleeding gashes, and the sounds he's making, these little wheezes—

Something sick and quiet twists up in Jason's stomach.

It's weird, he thinks as he makes his way back to the apartment. Something about this time— he can't help but think of Tim, and wonder what the kid would think if he saw Jason absolutely tenderize a guy who bore about 1/16th of Jason's strength— even if the guy was a scumbag. It doesn't make him feel good, that's for sure; Tim's already scared of Jason, had started all of this scared of Jason, and—

It leaves him feeling uneasy, which doesn't pair well with the wooziness, the blood loss, the sleep deprivation, and definitely not the pain as he finally manages to hobble his way to the front door.

He thinks he knocks. Maybe he just says something loudly at the door. Or maybe he just stands there bleeding and fumbling with the doorknob until it magically twists the right way and gives.

Nothing's certain, except for the fact that when a puzzled Dick meets him at the door, there's a pretty good, unfortunately non-zero chance that Jason may have ended up collapsing right into his arms.

He can't wait for that to bite him later.