Post-Lazarus, Jason's nightmares always, without fail, feature Batman in some capacity.
It's just become one of those cornerstones of Jason's life, as certain as the sun rising and setting. He expects everything, down to what Bruce says to him, down to the flicker of black and blue in the far distance, half-shrouded by a dark building, down to the muted stench of burning flesh and blood.
Which is why he nearly has a fucking heart attack when he sees a child's form half-mired in darkness, seated on the edge of a bed that looks all-too familiar.
His stomach drops. On heavy feet, he pads his way over to the edge of the bed and sits down next to Tim, who isn't looking at him.
"This is new," he says, and chokes as he does.
"It has to be," the nightmare wearing Tim's face says evenly, doodling something undeterminable over the comforter with his pinky finger. "There's something new to be afraid of."
And that's hardly true, because there are about 130 new things for Jason to be afraid of, but he takes the generalization for what it is. This is a nightmare, anyway; it's not like there's much point in arguing with Tim here, in a world born in the depth of Jason's worst fears.
"What's that?" he ventures to ask warily, and Tim's finger pauses against the comforter.
"Me," the kid says bluntly, and that's just like Tim— never one to take the long way around if he doesn't have to. "You're afraid of what happened to me."
Jason's heart leaps, swells up in his throat. He struggles to swallow it back down long enough to speak. "I'm not—"
"Don't lie to me— or I suppose I should say, don't lie to you," Tim says, casually polite, as if he's asking for someone to hold the door or pass the potatoes. "You don't think you can fix this, Jason. You think you're not good enough to do this. You think you're incapable of handling me and all of the bad stuff that comes with me."
"Don't," Jason croaks. "It isn't like that—"
The kid ticks one shoulder up. "You are." He pauses, and frowns. "Sorry, I suppose that was a bit vague. I mean, you are incapable of this."
The goosebumps that litter his forearms have nothing to do with weather; all of a sudden, he so direly wishes this was just his average, run-of-the-mill, Bruce-tosses-him-into-hell-by-the-collar nightmare. He can almost revel in the fight he picks with Bruce, because even though he loses every time, it feels good to yell at Bruce to no end. There's nothing remotely salvageable about this situation, though; Tim's about to tear through Jason like light through a shadow, and all he can do is take it.
"I mean, you still don't get it," Tim says, and sighs imperiously. "Dick would've gotten it."
And it isn't like Jason hasn't been telling himself as much; for better or worse, Dick's always been on a pedestal so high Jason has to crane his neck back to look. He's always been of the opinion that his brother would do this, and do it right. But this didn't start with Dick; it started with Jason, and Jason's determined to follow through with what's best for Tim. He's determined to do this right for Tim— even if, every day, and especially after yesterday, Dick's starting to seem like what's best for Tim.
"Just tell me," he says, a worn-out plea.
Tim finally turns to look at him, and Jason pulls back slightly. There isn't anything particularly different about Tim's face; it's just Tim, as he's always been, and that somehow makes it a lot worse than Jason had thought it would.
With one notable difference.
One notable, terrifying difference.
Bruises, like pink and red flowers, bloom in a ring around Tim's throat. Like the song, Jason finds himself thinking a little hysterically. Tim casually lifts a slender, gloved hand to his throat and stares at Jason unflinchingly, not moving— so still, he could've been a doll. A corpse.
Wait.
Jason blinks.
Gloves?
His brain suddenly slams itself into the inside of his head; everything shifts out of place like he's watching everything through 3D glasses, and then snaps back jarringly. Gloves. Gloves. Jason reluctantly lets his gaze drift downward from the fingers over Tim's throat, down to the R-
Maybe he would've thrown up, if he could've moved. As it is, he just sits there uselessly. He just sits there uselessly and stares at Tim, at Robin, at Robin-Tim, in the same colors Jason died in. The costume sags on Tim slightly, a little too big, and Tim huffs almost impatiently as he looks down.
"I suppose I'll just tell you," Tim says, almost bored. "Like I have to do every time."
The barb would've landed, if Jason hadn't already cracked like a mirror and been rendered utterly speechless underneath the weight of the R emblazoned loosely over Tim's chest.
"What you're doing is no different," Tim continues, and picks at one of the large sleeves. They all but swallow his slender arms entirely; the costume was made for a different boy, after all. "From this, that is. Because let's be real, Jason, if you don't figure this out, you might just kill me."
He knows it's a nightmare. But it's Tim. He can't help but respond, even if he knows. Even if Tim might not be real, his words are.
"I'll do better," he says, and he feels like his chest is going to collapse in on itself.
Tim sighs, boosting himself up to hop onto his feet. The movement is so classically birdlike, so like Robin, that Jason's stomach actually flips uncomfortably when he sees it.
"Can you do better?" Tim asks, not without sympathy. It stings to hear it, it stings to hear so much understanding from Tim, who barely comes to Jason's hip, who isn't even old enough to ride in the front seat of a car in most places. Tim shouldn't have to be understanding. He should be happy and not have to worry about how to recover after being—
God. Fuck.
Tim sighs. "It's okay to give up, you know." He shrugs, and the suit shrugs with him. Jason isn't sure where to look— it's all bad. The bruises, the shadows stretching like oil over Tim's face, the R, the bird legs vanishing into too-big pixie boots. "What's one more abandoned child?"
The chasm in Jason's chest widens its maw further and howls.
"You aren't going to be a—"
"It'd be easier, Jason." Tim says gently, patting the R. "And you already took the easiest route out before."
The world comes into focus slowly— and with it, searing pain.
Jason lies there for a few moments, pulling himself together with monumental effort, and then hazily tilts his chin down to examine his arm. And like, it fucking hurts, just as he'd expected. It's carefully bandaged up, probably stitched as well— no doubt Dick's handiwork —and even as Jason sighs and tries to sit up ever so slightly, he can hear Dick's voice beyond the door. He's not ready to call his brother back in, considering he's already fucking annoyed he'd collapsed right into Dick's arms when he'd come home, so he just decides to lie back and overthink himself to death.
The nightmare had been haunting enough; the conversation he hears from outside doesn't soothe his nerves.
They're talking. About Sicilian lemons, of all things— Tim says, "they're special because of the volcanic soil," and Dick says, "I want to try them some time" and laughs. An ugly, needling sort of jealousy threatens to burst through Jason's chest like teeth and devour him whole. It comes easily to Dick— of course it comes easily to Dick, and maybe Jason's just too angry, too bitter, too jaded to connect with Tim the way he had before. Maybe Jason had one shot, and he fucked it up, and now it's over, and Tim's voice in his head says " you took the easiest route out before—"
He jerks slightly, and the bed creaks. The conversation outside stills, and then a chair scrapes back.
"Jay, you okay?" Dick calls out, and Jason hears his voice getting louder as he approaches the door. "Can I come in to check your wound?"
"No," Jason grumbles, knowing Dick's going to come in anyway to make sure he hasn't popped his stitches or some shit and resigning himself to the fact. "Fuck off."
Dick just laughs at the cranky response, light and relieved, but just as the doorknob twists, Jason hears another chair screech back from the table sharply.
"He said no," Tim says, and there's something unusually shrill in his voice that has Jason spiking up from his bed in concern. "You're going to go in anyway?"
Dick breathes out, sharp and quick, and Jason hears him step back from the door. He drops his head back down and closes his eyes, and the agony in his chest resolves itself into something cold and daunting. He has to fucking fix this.
Tossing back the covers, he effortfully rolls out of bed and crosses the floor to open the door. His entire side throbs with agony, but it's nothing compared to cracking the door slightly to see Tim, white-faced and petrified, staring at Dick as if his entire perception of Nightwing had just come crumbling to the ground like a house made of sugar and lace. Dick's frozen only a foot away from Jason, but the surprise is thawing away quickly, and his gaze flicks from Tim to Jason urgently.
What do we do? Dick's face asks, and something about the way he's deferring to Jason melts some of his tension away.
Let me, Jason thinks at him, and Dick tips his head into a nod and moves back, letting Jason take over the conversation.
"Can I talk to you about this, Tim?" he asks carefully, leaning against the table. Tim's little fists, curled against the table, draw back slightly as he examines Jason's face first, and then his bandaged shoulder. His mouth pinches up ever so slightly, and then he nods, stilted and jerky.
"Okay," Jason says, and then gingerly lowers himself into one of the chairs. "Okay. Alright, um. This is a little difficult for me, Tim, so just… Bear with me, okay?"
Tim's looking between the two of them warily, his expression guarded, but he nods again. Jason figures that's the best confirmation he's going to get from the kid for now, and powers on.
Jason glances to the side where Dick's almost melted back into the shadows, but the twinkle of his mask still gleams in the dim light.
"Are you okay if Nightwing stays, too?"
"I don't mind leaving if it makes it easier for you, Tim," Dick adds kindly. It's why Jason had sat down; it's why Dick's trying to make himself as small as possible. They have years and physique and ability over one scared kid, and the scale is by no means balanced.
And, if Jason's being really honest, and only to himself, the nightmare had rattled him enough that he isn't sure what he'll do if Dick does leave.
Tim chews on this for a moment, studying both of them carefully, and then sits back down. "He can stay," he says quietly, lowering his eyes to the table and thumbing at the thin cracks in the wood.
"Okay," Jason says. "But if you need either of us to leave, you can just say so, okay?"
Another nod.
Jason takes a deep breath. "Tim," he says steadily, "I'm sorry for what I did to you the other night. I heard something from inside your room, and I panicked. You said no, and you asked me not to come in, and— I did, anyway. You must have been terrified. Given— everything you told me," he says carefully, and doesn't let himself rise to his own bait. "I came in, I— I touched you, I." He exhales shakily. "I bet you were really scared of me right then, huh?"
"I'm not scared of you now," Tim says quickly, his voice almost muted, and when Jason looks up at him, the kid's eyes are swimming. Fuck. "I know you were doing it to help me. It's wrong to be upset."
Jason might actually be sick for real, now. He miraculously manages to keep that— and the burgeoning rage —down. Somehow. Tim's fractured expression has plenty to do with it.
"Tim," Jason says gently. "That doesn't make it okay. I know better what to do now, I think." He leans in a little, and although Tim's breath hitches slightly, he doesn't move back. "If I'd known better, I would've tried to calm you down from outside before I came in. Maybe that way, it wouldn't have made you panic even worse. And I will do that from now on."
His chest squeezes even harder, and he finds his words welling up with emotion when he speaks again. "You were in your safe space under the bed, and I came in, I pulled you out. I thought what I was doing was helping you, but I should have thought more about you."
Tim's breath hitches, like the way it does when he's crying and trying not to make a spectacle.
"Is it," Tim says and gasps out a little hiccup. "Is it okay if I'm s— still upset for a while?"
Jason exhales out, and smiles a little. Physically, he's a fucking wreck; he can feel the rings under his eyes, dark and vivid, he can feel the throbbing ache of his arm viscerally, and he's so tired he wants to crawl right back under the covers and sleep for four years. But at Tim's question, something hopeful unfurls in his chest despite.
"Yeah, dude," he says carefully. "You can be upset as long as you need to."
"And," Tim adds hastily, scrubbing his sleeve over his cheeks, "you— you won't hate me?"
Jason's first instinct is to laugh at the absurdity of him ever possibly hating Tim, but he bites his tongue just in time to prevent a misunderstanding.
"No. Never," Jason assures him. "I won't hate you for being upset, Tim. Everyone gets upset and needs some time, including you. It's okay."
Tim hums, then lowers his now-damp sleeve and shifts his attention from Jason to Dick.
"Right," Jason says, and clears his throat. This is going to be embarrassing, mostly because he now has to admit, to some degree, that he cares about Dick. But Tim's watching him expectantly, more open than he's been over the last day, and Jason can't miss the opportunity to fix this, so he powers through. "Right. Okay. So… Yeah, sometimes, when, uh… When two people have some level of trust," he says, partially mumbling the words into his hand. "Or— Fuck." He groans. "I trust him. Sometimes I tell him to fuck off, and I don't mean it. And sometimes I tell him to fuck off, and I do mean it. I… trust him and his stupid fingerstripes to tell the difference." he says gruffly, and then folds his arms (and immediately regrets it, because fuck, ow, but now he can't unfold them, because of the dramatic tension). "We've known each other for a long time. He knows when I don't want him around."
"It's very easy to tell," Dick says pleasantly. "Jason wears his heart on his sleeve."
"Keep it up," Jason grumbles, and can feel Dick smiling brightly behind him like a fuckin' incandescent lightbulb.
"I'm sorry I alarmed you, Tim," Dick adds. "I should've realized you might not know about some aspects of our relationship. Jason and I… we have a lot of history in knowing these kinds of things about each other."
"It's okay," Tim says cautiously. His eyes, rimmed with pink, flick sleepily between the two of them. "I like to know things. That makes sense. So, sometimes, if someone knows you really well, then they make an inference about what you need?"
"Sometimes," Jason says gently. "Sometimes, someone could know you for a very long time and still not be allowed to make judgments for you. That's okay, too."
"Really?" Tim asks, his voice small as he picks at the threads in the sleeve.
"Really," Jason says, and is proud that his voice doesn't shake at the look on Tim's face. "So you can be as upset as you want for a very long time. And if you never want me to come into your room, that's okay, too. It won't make me want you around here any less, Tim."
Tim's expression crumples like a paper flower. He takes a deep breath, and then releases his little palmful of threads. "I was really scared," he says. "I was really, really…." He shivers a little, teeth clicking together quietly as he stares down at the table. "And sometimes, when I— When I get really scared, my, my breathing… So I know why you did it, I. I just have a hard time."
"No one is going to rush you, Tim," Jason says, and raps his knuckles lightly against the table. The restless energy thrums underneath his skin, responding unfavorably to Tim's words; he's trying not to be pissed, because he has to maintain some modicum of self-control to be there for the kid. "Take as much time as you need."
Tim surveys Jason for a long moment, and then glances down at his arm. "You were bleeding a lot," he says, almost shyly. "Are you okay?"
"This? It's just a flesh wound. I've gotten much—" much, much, "—Much worse," Jason says reassuringly, and Tim's expression opens into something cautiously curious.
"Yeah, he has," Dick says, and Jason can almost hear the cheery malice bathe his words. "Once, he tripped on the treadmill—"
The bullet wound doesn't stop him from pitching a butterknife at Dick.
Things don't exactly return to normal, but Jason finds an odd sort of comfort in that.
He finds that he much prefers it to Tim trying to act like everything is fine. The kid still hasn't gone back to his usual stream of chatter, but he'd idly let slip something about the evolution of cookie cutters, almost absently, while he'd helped Jason cut shapes out of the cookie dough; hearing the little factoid had caused something with a vice-like grip in Jason's chest to unclench marginally.
Little by little, Tim's wall comes down; a few days pass, and Jason finds himself awash in Tim's absent mutters about Crystal Red Shrimp and their candy cane stripes. Tim scoots his chair closer to Jason's when they eat breakfast. He crouches on the ground beside Jason to curiously watch him do push-ups. He takes pictures of the first snowfall over Gotham.
When Jason picks Tim up after school a week later, the kid actually grins up at him from underneath a small mountain of puffy scarves. Jason can't exactly see the curve of his smile, but he can see the crinkles at the corners of Tim's eyes, the bright pink flush blooming bright in his cheeks.
"We're officially on break from school," Tim says, full of glee as he scrambles up onto the bike. His little elbow-macaroni arms wind around Jason's waist and sit snug. "No more Hamlet."
"Oi. No Hamlet disrespect, " Jason says warningly, no heat in his words. "So you're going to be stuck with me for the next few weeks, huh?" he drawls, glancing back down at the little pompom on Tim's fluffy hat. It bobs as Tim tilts his head up to look at Jason; there's snow flecked in the kid's fringe and in his dark eyelashes.
He needs a better jacket, Jason thinks. He'd been meaning to buy Tim a better jacket since he first saw the kid; based on the fabric and design, it's not a jacket much meant for the cold, anyway, much more fashion than function, and he can feel the kid shivering.
"I suppose," Tim says, a little bashfully. "Can we— um. Do you think we could make a gingerbread house?"
Unexpectedly, Jason finds himself recalling something— a different costume, a different name. Robin, legs swinging over Gotham's cityscape, high above the twinkling lights and the dark buildings jutting up from the ink-black streets, and Batman perched next to him, as quiet and seamless as a shadow.
The same question, posed to Bruce— and though Bruce had been half-shrouded in the darkness, Jason had seen the slightest tilt of his mouth.
"Alfred loves gingerbread houses."
It had become tremendously evident, too; Alfred had pulled out every stop that year to recreate Wayne Manor out of gingerbread with Jason, in all its glory. Carefully piped icing roofs, peppermint-lined sidewalks, shortbread chimneys wrapped in delicate rings of chocolate— Bruce, Dick, and Jason had ended up demolishing Alfred's handiwork in a matter of hours, but it had been a proud sight while it had lasted.
(They had made gingerbread men for Alfred as an apology for demolishing the gingerbread Manor; to Bruce's chagrin, Batman had not made an appearance, although Wonder Woman and Superman certainly had. Alfred had found them most charming, moderately burned though they were.)
Jason keeps his tone light, even though his words end up reluctantly warm with nostalgia. "Sure we can." Alfred would absolutely eviscerate Jason if he ever dared to buy a kit to make a gingerbread house, and Jason can't trust Dick not to snitch on him, so he supposes they'll be making a proper fuckton of gingerbread over the next few weeks.
Tim wriggles with excitement behind him like a minnow, and— it's easy. And Jason's thinking, sometimes it's so easy to make kids happy. A gingerbread house, an answer to their questions, an acknowledgement. It leaves him feeling light, unexpectedly springy— wondering, had it been that easy to make me happy?
"Hey, Tim," he says, "how would you feel about a new jacket?"
"Why did you think I needed a new jacket?"
Jason peers out from behind the rack to glance down at Tim, who's all but hidden behind a pile of puffy black jackets. The kid pushes the band of his hat up slightly to look up at Jason better, and Jason hums thoughtfully as he slides one of the jackets back into place. The movement causes his upper arm to twinge painfully.
"That one isn't yours, is it?" Jason asks mildly. "It's clearly too big for you, and more of a fashion accessory than anything. It's not even keeping you warm, because you're always in three extra scarves."
Tim tilts his head. "You're observant."
Jason snorts. "I've had a lot of time to figure out how to be," he says. Add a stint with Batman…
"I observe things sometimes, too." Tim murmurs, trailing his thumb over the sleeves of one of the jackets. Jason had figured they wouldn't be buying one until Tim had thoroughly felt his way through it anyway, so he lets the kid do his thing until he's feeling good about one of them.
"Oh yeah?" Jason cocks an indulgent grin at Tim as he rests his arm on top of the rack. "Like what?"
Famous last words.
"The traitor in your organization." Tim leans in close, his expression bright with curiosity. "It's Marco, right? But he's not actually a traitor— or, you know he's one, and you're either acting like you don't or are okay with it, because you're letting him stick around. I know, because of the puzzles… They belong to him. I could see the little M written on it… Unless, he has siblings, or a kid whose name starts with M. A few of them actually had his full name scribbled on them, but it was crossed out, so either he handed them down to his siblings, or his kids. I assume siblings, because judging by the amount of time he spends on the spreadsheet, he either doesn't have kids or doesn't spend time with them. The app tracks the amount of time each visitor spends on the site, and the M— which I assume is for Marco —spends hours there every day. He knows he doesn't have to, right? There's a way to automate quite a lot of the stuff he spends fixing. Of course, he wouldn't have to fix it if you didn't go in and change the colors very subtly every so often. Your naming system is also inefficient—" Tim pauses to catch his breath, and Jason stares at him, gobsmacked.
"Hold on a second," Jason says, and huffs out an incredulous laugh. "I— How did you even hear that name?"
"You mention him a lot," Tim says pointedly, frowning as he pets one of the fluffy hoods. "By my estimation, you mention him at least twice an hour. Mostly muttering his name angrily or threatening him, so I thought that you disliked him greatly, but you also do that with Nightwing, and you said you trusted Nightwing, so—"
"I need to sit down." Jason mutters faintly, slumping slightly. After a moment, he narrows his eyes and straightens. "Wait a second, you were checking my spreadsheets?"
"No, not intentionally," Tim says casually, as if he hasn't just completely blown Jason's mind. "I was trying to look up what a word in Hamlet meant, and then I just happened to see them. You know, Jason, your color-coding really leaves a lot of room for human error…"
"Hold on, hold on," Jason says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I— Okay. What else have you figured out?"
Tim studies him for a long moment, and then drops his gaze to Jason's chest. He flicks his eyes right back up just as quickly and shrugs.
"Nothing." Too casual for Tim, who always has more to say, Jason thinks suspiciously.
His eyebrows arch, and keep arching until they flirt with his hairline.
"Oh, really."
"Mhm," Tim hums, and returns his determined gaze to the coats. Jason casually loops around the rack and reaches out to tug on the pom-pom on top of Tim's hat.
"You know what else I use my observational skills for?" Jason continues breezily, reaching down to wiggle his fingers over Tim's ribs. The kid chirps out a little laugh and ducks back, away from Jason. "Picking out liars."
"Okay, okay," Tim says, his voice squeaking a little at the end as he ducks behind a rack almost timidly. "I know other stuff. But it's a secret for now." His words trail into a little whisper at the end as he blinks at Jason between the gaps in the coats. "If that's okay."
Jason straightens, resting his chin in his hand contemplatively— and winces, because it tugs at his wound. "I suppose that's okay," he drawls, pretending to consider it. "But only if it's not a dangerous secret that could hurt you."
"It isn't," Tim says, resting his cheek on the rack and lifting himself up onto his toes. Like Dick, Jason thinks, unbidden, and draws back from the rack. When he turns, Tim hop-skips back to his side and bumps up against Jason's side, and Jason finds it hard to swallow all of a sudden. The kid's clutching a puffy, dark red jacket with a fluff-lined hood and he proudly holds it up for Jason to see.
"Red," Jason says as he takes the jacket and folds it over his arm. "Interesting choice."
"Red," Tim says, and when he turns, there's an expression on his face that Jason can't place— something hazy and warm and soft at the edges. "Like Red Hood."
Admittedly, Jason goes a little overboard with buying things.
It has nothing to do with what Tim had said— not at all. He just— unexpectedly —finds himself needing to overcompensate for what the fuck ever surge of emotion he just found himself drowning in.
"I don't think I need three pairs of shoes, Jason," Tim says, boxes stacked precariously in his arms as he tilts his head back to look up at Jason.
"Sure you do," Jason, proud owner of exactly one pair of boots, says gruffly as he searches through a rack full of pajama sets. "Now hand me those boxes and go try these on."
Besides, he thinks, I'm not going overboard. Tim should have a few pairs of shoes and new pajamas at least. First of all, if he doesn't have good shoes, he might slip and hurt himself on the ice. And second of all… Most of the kid's clothes are still back in Drake Manor, and Jason can't bring himself to bring them over for Tim, not when he knows what he knows. The kid deserves a fresh start with some of his clothes, at least.
Jason pauses in the middle of rifling through the pajamas when he comes upon a black, gray, and yellow set; the fuzzy yellow pants are plastered all over with little black bats. He runs his thumb over one of the fluffy little bats, sighs, and draws back.
The Tim of his nightmares had been right about a few things. Jason doesn't think he can fix this— not alone, anyway. He's tried to do it for himself, for years. He's tried to get past the cold prickle of unease that flares in his chest when he catches a glimpse of gold-plated teeth and chunky, silver rings— the tiniest chills still quiver up and down his spine at the sight of the street corner he used to hover around. He never recovered, not fully— and neither will Tim, unless someone helps guide him through.
He draws back, and tilts his head toward the fitting rooms.
"Tim?" he calls out, making his way over and glancing inside. It's quiet— too quiet. Every door is cracked ever so slightly open.
Jason isn't expecting his entire upper half to go cold, but it does, and it's the bleak sort of cold that punches holes right through him.
And it's like this: there's an instinct underneath, deep inside of him, that tells him to be normal about this. Tim might have just wandered out the other entrance to the fitting room. He might have seen a piece of clothing he liked and meandered off to go pick it up. He may have gone searching for a sales associate to get a different size. These are all very normal, very rational thoughts.
Unfortunately, there's a much more vocal, newly-minted Tim instinct that plugs itself right into Jason's lizard brain and takes over entirely. Oh my fucking god, the kid's been kidnapped. The kid's been kidnapped from right underneath my nose. It could be anyone. It could be his dad—
Jason jerks back from the visceral impact of that specific fear and sucks in a sharp breath as he searches the racks for any hint of the kid and his fluffy little hat. There's no sign of Tim; it's like he simply vanished entirely, and at this point, Jason is so very fucking far from even pretending to be normal about it. His heart is practically inside his ears. He's fairly certain he accidentally scares the shit out of a sales associate when he descends on her in a panic. He's ready to call in the cavalry— Dick, Marco if he has to, shit, why not even some extra lackeys to really spread out and get eyes everywhere— he could have this place locked down in seconds, really—
"Jason?"
Tim's voice yanks him out of his panic so hard he gets whiplash. He thinks he nearly pops a stitch with how quickly he turns around.
"Sorry I wandered off," Tim says, apparently oblivious to how close Jason had come to flatlining in a department store, and fuck, that would've been embarrassing. Give him death by homicidal clown any fucking day. "I thought I saw one of my friends from school, but—"
Jason wordlessly leans forward, winds his arms around Tim's neck, and presses his forehead against the kid's. He himself isn't sure why; maybe he just has to reassure himself, somehow, that the kid is there, but he doesn't want to fully embrace the kid out of fear of scaring him. Tim's breath hitches, and then Jason feels the kid tentatively pat his chest with one small hand— and pause.
"Jason, your heart is beating really fast," Tim says, awe in his voice, and Jason draws back.
"That's because you scared the fuck out of me, Tim," he says, but can't keep the relief out of his voice. "And for future reference, tell me before you wander off. Otherwise—" Jason points to his hair sternly. "You're going to turn me completely white."
Tim purses his lips as if he's trying not to laugh and nods very seriously. "You have a reputation to uphold," the kid says sagely. "And you can't do that if you look like discount Danny Phantom."
Jason sputters. "Low blow, Tim."
"So, when you said a fuckton of gingerbread…" Dick says, amused, and Jason, who's been absolutely sweating in the kitchen for the last three hours, glares at him warningly. Two sheet pans full of gingerbread are baking in the oven, two are out to cool on the counter, and Jason's already mixing the dough for what he assumes is the sixth batch.
"What are you doing here again?" he asks flatly, and Dick just offers him a flippant shrug. It's a largely rhetorical question; Dick had been a more frequent visitor to the apartment ever since the events of that night, and knowing his brother, he's feeling a little more sensitive about leaving the two of them alone in the aftermath. Jason begrudges him for it aloud, but he's starting to adjust to Dick's presence, just as he'd adjusted to Tim's. He's certainly made too much gingerbread for two people, that's for sure, and he's annoyed that he did it automatically.
"Can't I just enjoy hanging out with my little brothers?" Dick says breezily, scooping up a dollop of dough onto his pinky.
Jason's words freeze in his throat, and out of his periphery, he can see Tim's head tilt up.
"We're brothers?" The kid asks, and the slightest fracture of his voice might not have been obvious, if Jason hadn't been looking for the signs. Jason lets his spatula plop down into the bowl of dough, his voice a little rough when he speaks.
"If that's what you want," he ventures cautiously, and Tim's fingers twitch against the metal prongs of his latest puzzle.
Dick clears his throat. "I see both of you as little brothers," he says unapologetically, and then uses the spatula to catapult a small blob of dough at Jason. "And that means I get tormenting rights."
It hits him with a splat, right in middle of his forehead, and Jason immediately goes on the offense.
He snatches one of the bowls of dough into one arm, scoops Tim up by the collar, and dives behind the couch to establish a vantage point. Dick grins, a bright, shark-like grin that's all teeth.
"This is a matter of life or death, Tim," Jason says very seriously, and holds up a rubber-band. "The goal? Get him right in the chest."
" Good luck," Dick calls out smugly, and Jason scowls when he realizes Dick is definitely not on the ground anymore. Bendy little shit. "You never could manage before."
Tim immediately brightens, excitement glittering in his eyes like starlight. "Are there any rules?"
"Preferably no maiming," Jason says as he forms a ball of sticky dough, "But we can be flexible on that."
"As if you could reach me," Dick says, his voice somewhere right above them, and a barrage of dough rains down on them like hail. Jason all but throws himself over Tim to protect him from the gingerbread torrent, and grimaces when one splats right into his hair.
Tim peers out from underneath the cage of Jason's arms and reaches out for the dough. "Ceiling fan."
Jason reaches out to smack the switch, catching onto Tim's train of thought immediately, and Dick bubbles out a merry laugh.
"Good idea, but that won't stop me," he taunts as the blades whip up into a frenzy. Jason hears a little thump as his brother hits the ground and immediately takes aim, only missing Dick by a hair as Dick twists agilely out of the way. The gingerbread hits the wall behind Dick, and Jason swears.
"Jason, he dodged a bullet," Tim murmurs skeptically. "I don't think you're gonna manage to shoot him."
Jason grumbles, all but hoisting Tim out of the way of a doughy projectile. "Well, what's your plan, smart guy?"
"Nightwing has a fondness for hugs. Go in for one and..." Tim shrugs. "Sit on him."
Jason's mouth twitches.
"Okay, okay, truce!" he calls, waving the mostly-empty bowl like a flag. It tugs at his stitches, but he finds it tremendously hard to care in the adrenaline rush. "Tim's getting hungry, and I still have gingerbread to make."
He can feel Dick thinking, like he's holding his breath. Tim seems undeterred by Jason's underhanded tactics. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah, Fingerstripes, come on." Jason says as he leans out. Dick's perched only a few feet away on the table, the whites of his eyes narrowed as he watches them crawl out from behind the couch, but he relaxes and eases to his feet with a little grin. Jason doesn't exactly go in for a hug— he knows Dick would be more than willing to indulge, but he isn't there yet —but he does wiggle his fingers for a shake, and when Dick grabs it, Jason goes for the flip.
Dick could've gotten out of it easily; there's absolutely no way his brother hadn't seen the dirty move coming. He could've gotten out of it, but he goes down instead with an oomph , and Jason takes the opportunity to sit right down on him with no small amount of relish.
"Your ass is fucking heavy," Dick sort of wheezes, smacking halfheartedly at Jason's thigh. "I can't believe you'd pull such a dirty move." Tim eagerly takes the opportunity to splat a blob of dough right over Dick's heart, and Dick makes a dramatic, wounded noise and starfishes out like he's dying.
Jason could've sworn he saw something knowing, almost analytical in the kid's expression for just a second before Tim twists back to beam triumphantly at him . From under Jason's leg, Dick makes a noise like a cat in heat, and Jason makes sure to smear some more dough on his face just for the hell of it.
"That's for calling my ass heavy," he says smugly, and then also makes sure to flick some dough at Tim, too. They're all properly caked in the stuff by now, but Jason finds it sort of hard to care when he sees the momentarily unburdened delight in Tim's expression.
As he rolls off of Dick and offers his brother an arm to get back onto his feet, he notices some of the gingerbread dough's all tangled up in the hair along Tim's neck. The kid's hair had gotten decently long in the past couple months, and is now somewhat curling up against his nape. Jason reaches out to ruffle it, and Tim blinks up at Jason from underneath his hand.
"Your hair's getting long, kid," he says thoughtfully. "Did you want to get it cut? I could do it here in the apartment."
Tim tenses, his expression dimming, and his eyes drift from Jason's hand to the floor. "If that's what you want," he says blandly, almost like a reflex.
Jason pauses, turning the words over in his head, and draws his hand back. "Do you want it?"
Tim shrugs. "I never had much of a say," he admits, his voice pinched, and— fuck. There's the catch. Because it doesn't matter how much he tries to distract Tim or make him feel safe— there's always going to be something fucked up, like this, that pops up like the world's worst whackamole to freak the kid out.
He exhales and grabs a wet cloth, gesturing for Tim to come closer. When the kid tentatively shuffles into Jason's space, Jason gets to work, scrubbing gently at the quickly-drying dough caking Tim's cheeks as he tries to figure out what to say. He can feel Dick glancing back at him, but he doesn't let the careful gaze psych him out.
"You don't have to cut your hair if you don't want to, Tim," he says after a moment, working on a stubborn patch just above Tim's eyebrow. "I mean, it's probably good to get a trim now and again to keep your hair healthy or whatever, but— do you like it long?"
Tim's staring at him, now, in the manner of someone who's never heard the question before, and Jason— Jason knows Jack Drake's done so, so much worse than a haircut. Even still, there's something so fucking vile about it, so absolutely despicable about forcing Tim to cut his hair without even asking what the kid wanted, knowing it'd cause him distress… Fuck. Fuck, but he wants to strangle the fucker, and that'd be the easy way out.
"Tim?" he wheedles, and Tim startles slightly. The kid reaches up to ruffle his own hair, and then nods shyly.
"I like it long," Tim says quietly. "But can I change my mind later about cutting it?"
"'Course," Jason says easily, and tugs at one of Tim's bangs lightly. "I can't say the same for if you cut it short, though. I can do all kinds of stuff, but even I haven't figured out how to make hair grow back."
This does coax a smile out of the kid. He twists a little more of his hair around his fingertip, and then blinks up at Jason.
"Maybe I could dye a little bit of it white. Like yours," Tim says, open and quietly sincere, and something that feels a lot like a fist closes around Jason's heart and squeezes.
"Hm," he says, his voice strained. He fucking doesn't know what to do with himself. A puffy little jacket with a red hood, a shock of white hair— the pieces of the puzzle are there, but they don't make any sense. Jason isn't a hero by any means, and he certainly isn't much of a role model, but even still— here Tim is, playing hopscotch in his footprints. Jury's still out as to whether that's a good thing for the kid or not.
"You, uh. If that's what you want, Tim," he says, and isn't able to keep the warmth from bleeding into his voice.
It becomes evident to Jason that the only reason the first gingerbread Wayne Manor stood had been entirely because of Alfred.
Dick's smiling at the drooping Manor helplessly, and Jason doesn't really know what to say, so he occupies himself by lining the walkway with peppermints just the way Alfred used to. The sides stand okay, but the middle sags inward dramatically as though a meteor had slammed right into it.
"It's charming," Dick says through his fingers. "In a very demolished-chic sort of way."
Tim's intensely focused on creating the elaborate front doors, his expression focused and razor sharp, and Jason realizes with a pang that Tim must also be creating the Manor from memory. He wonders how often the kid had passed the front door— how often he'd watched from his window— how often he'd been within shouting reach of Bruce, of Batman—
Crumbs trickle out from his closed palm as he absolutely disintegrates an unfortunate piece of gingerbread. Fuck.
It'd been Tim who'd suggested Wayne Manor, surprisingly; Jason isn't exactly surprised he hadn't picked his own house, but Tim hadn't divulged why he'd wanted to make the Manor, and Jason had feared losing the kid again if he pressed too much on the subject.
"How is it?" Tim asks, and displays the doors to Jason proudly.
Jason looks down at them; once, he'd have done anything to push those very doors open and return home.
"Dead-on," he says, and the pang in his chest is as familiar as breathing. He props it up against the collapsing doorway and ruffles Tim's hair affectionately. "Nice work, kid."
"I'm going to take a picture," Tim announces, and then wiggles his hand toward Dick and Jason.
"You guys have to get in it too," he says shyly, and Dick looks over at Jason and does some stupid thing with his eyebrows that almost earns him another faceful of dough. The picture comes out blurry, but Tim looks down at it and just about glows. He moves back slightly, but Jason shoots a hand out and hooks his finger in the kid's collar, tugging him back.
He clears his throat. "Where are you going?"
Tim twists back to look at him. "To put my camera away," he says, puzzled.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Jason asks him flatly. "Like, I dunno, you? In the picture?"
The kid just stares at Jason like he's speaking fucking Kryptonese or something. It'd be hilarious if it weren't so unbelievably sad.
"Oh," Tim says after a moment, and looks down at his camera. "I— I didn't think about that."
"And that's what you have me for," Jason says, and tilts his chin toward the camera. "Can I?" When the kid nods his assent, Jason carefully takes the camera and turns it to face the collapsing Manor and its three unfortunate builders. He notices Dick edging back slightly and narrows his eyes. "You too, dumbass," he says, tossing a gumdrop that boinks off of Dick's shoulder harmlessly. "You helped build the thing, didn't you?"
Dick gives him an unmistakably fond look. Jason ignores it, because he has a reputation to maintain, and extends his arm to take the picture.
This one comes out blurry, too, but Tim's bright smile is crystal clear.
"Jason?"
"Hm?" Jason slots the last silicone baking sheet into the tray and tosses the dish towel over the oven rack before turning to Tim, who's sleepily curled up in his usual corner on the couch. The kid had been adamant about not wanting to eat pieces from the gingerbread Manor, but they'd still had plenty of leftover pieces left. Jason had sent a baggie off with Dick, knowing some of it would eventually make it back to Alfred, and Tim had delighted in dipping what was left in icing and scarfing them down.
The kid's all properly sugar coma'd out on the couch, and he lifts his head effortfully to blink sleepily at Jason. Even though they'd gotten Tim a sweatshirt at the store that day, the kid had still chosen to burrow himself in one of Jason's. It's about three times too big for him; the sleeves hang well past his hands, and he looks like a seal when he lifts his arms.
"How come you know so much about the Manor?" Tim asks lethargically, his expression open and unguarded.
Jason pauses with a piece of gingerbread halfway to his mouth. "I, uh." He says intelligently, racking his brain for an excuse and drawing a blank.
Except Tim must be tired, or have lowered his filter entirely, because he looks dead at him and sluggishly says, "Is it because you're Robin?"
The gingerbread slips out of Jason's hand and boinks across the floor, and Tim goes white.
Dimly, Jason hears ringing in his ears. He might be going into fight or flight, actually, or maybe he's just straight up dying again, because it feels like every cell in his body locks down and reboots.
"Did Nightwing," he starts, harpoon locked and loaded and aimed right for Dick's heart.
"No, I—" Tim's breath hitches.
"It was a fucking mistake to let him in," Jason says through his teeth, the anger rearing behind his teeth. Control, control, something in the back of his mind pleads, but the name's done its damage, the name's dissolved like poison into Jason's blood and wreaked havoc that he can't undo. "He knew I gave that name up, he knew—"
He stops.
Tim's pressed back against the couch, and he looks horrified. His fear reaches down, deep past the anger, deep past the grave and the crowbar and the charred pieces of what was left of him—
"Fuck, shit ," Jason swears, and presses his hands against his face. With monumental effort, he tries to reel the anger back, and— nothing about it is easy. It doesn't want to settle; it wants to thrash and slam into the walls of his body until it disintegrates him into nothing but ashes and bones. But this isn't just about Jason anymore, it's about Jason and Tim . Two of them. Two of them.
So he does reel it back. He digs hooks in and holds and reels his anger back. And when he can think again, he turns back to the kid— without the scary eyes, this time.
"Tim?"
"I'm sorry," Tim says in a sort-of whimper behind his hands, his breath hitching. Something unpleasant and tight twists up in Jason's stomach. "Please don't be angry at him, it's— It's my fault, with the chili dogs, and the gymnastics, and the, the—"
What? Jason rubs at his forehead and tries to navigate through the locust-buzz of fury and fear to make sense of Tim's words.
"Tim," he says quietly. "I'm— I'm not angry at you." And it's true, really. He isn't angry at Tim— he's just. Angry. And he feels like he's always been at least a little angry since. Since— "I'm just… I haven't. Fuck. It's complicated, Tim. But I promise I'm not angry at you."
"I'm sorry," the kid burbles again. "You— You were Robin, and it was so cool, and I wanted to know everything about you, and then that's how I figured out who you were, and then it all made sense because you were Jason Todd and you were Bruce Wayne's kid, and—"
When he stops to breathe, Jason crouches in front of him. His head is spinning from hearing Jason Todd and Bruce and Robin in the same rush of words, but he somehow manages to keep his voice from shambling apart when he says, "Okay, deep breaths, Tim. Can you— start over?"
It takes another long moment, during which Jason can almost hear Tim thinking— and then, with trepidation, he speaks.
"I. I was. I liked to watch Batman and Robin sometimes, a-at night." Tim's brow furrows. "No—" he says, this time more glumly. "Actually, I was at the circus—"
"Hold on," Jason says, because he already has about a thousand questions. "You liked to do what?"
Tim's expression abruptly shifts from anxious to mortified, as if Jason's just caught him out on something he definitely shouldn't have admitted. "I— I took pictures."
Jason stares at him. "You… Took pictures," he echoes. "Of Batman and Robin. Where?"
Tim shrugs miserably, his face half-hidden behind Jason's sleeves. "Just— around."
"Oh no," Jason says, and reaches out to gently lower the sleeves hiding Tim's face. "You're not getting away that easily. Around where, Tim?"
Another shrug, this one just as miserable. "Anywhere they— you— patrolled," he says, tense. "I just wanted to see, I— I just wanted to— and then." Tim twists a strand of hair between his fingers and lowers his gaze. "And then I saw something I wasn't supposed to see… And I remembered something I wasn't supposed to remember."
And that's a phrase that strikes an almost ungodly amount of fear into Jason. He can only imagine what horrors this kid must have seen when he was out roaming around on the streets of Gotham— for fun, apparently. Suddenly, the tailing from when they first met makes a hell of a lot more sense. No wonder this kid doesn't have any fucking fear of the streets, apparently.
"What did you see, Tim?" he asks, trying so very fucking hard to keep his tone level.
"A quadruple somersault," Tim says, hushed. "I saw Robin do a quadruple somersault online."
And then— it all clicks together. Something slots right into place. Dick Grayson, boy wonder, performs the quadruple somersault in Haly's Circus. Robin and his flips, his one-of-a-kind flips, fuck. Dick is going to lose his mind. It must have been after Jason had adopted the name.
"Let me get this straight," Jason says plaintively, trying not to let his voice rise with incredulity. "You've known— this entire time —that Nightwing was Dick, that I was R-" He pauses. "Robin?" He's so stunned he actually manages to say the name without his teeth hurting.
"Your order, at the food truck…" Tim says, gaze flitting searchingly over Jason's face. Mechanically, he adds, "A classic hot dog piled on with Doug's secret chili sauce, cheese, and pickles. A churro with raspberry sauce. Your order never changed…" He hesitates. "...From when you were Robin. And then, Batman... It had to have been him."
Jason just stares at him. "You," he says, and doesn't even know what to say after that. "When you made that sound at the truck. When you said you had a secret. You—"
"It didn't make sense, at first ," Tim says anxiously, his voice pitchy with frustration. "Everything else— Batman. Nightwing… I knew. But then you, Red Hood . You were… I didn't think you would. I didn't know that you'd—"
Somewhere in the jumbled word salad, Jason gets it. He'd died. Nobody had expected him to come back, but he had come back, and he'd come back as definitively-not-Robin , and it had thrown Tim's deductions off.
"I think I knew," Tim says softly, and reaches out slightly. Jason blinks at the fingertips against his chest, and looks down. "I knew you were related somehow. I just… Didn't know how. And when I don't know, I … I can't help myself. I'm sorry, Jason, are you—" He withdraws his hand and hiccups out a little sound, eyes going a little glossy. "Are you mad at me?"
Jason doesn't know what the fuck to say, actually; the bombshell had rattled him so badly he hardly even feels like he's in his body anymore. Tim had accidentally reached in and pulled him inside out, laying him bare, exposed, and Dick isn't even here to— to step in. Some part of Jason just wants to fucking dissociate right out of this situation, but he can't, because he has a kid, and the kid is waiting for an answer, and he needs to have that answer.
It's okay to give up, you know, the voice in the back of his head says, almost gently.
—And, well, even if Jason's not exactly the pinnacle of emotional stability, he does have one thing going for him: he's fucking spiteful, and he's not going to let some vision that doesn't even exist tell him he's incapable of emotionally handling anything. He doesn't need Dick, and he isn't going to fucking give up, either.
So he compartmentalizes the shit out of his emotions. Deal with the freaked-out kid first; freak completely the hell out about Robin later.
"I wouldn't be mad at you for being clever, Tim," he manages to say around his heart in his throat. He presses clammy palms against his thighs to hide the way they're shaking and clears his throat. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I wish I could turn it off, sometimes," Tim whispers, almost pleadingly. "I didn't want to— I didn't mean to. It just became— something I couldn't help but think about, and I was. At home, it was so— It gave me something to. To do…" He trails off, a little white in the cheeks, and fuck, how could Jason ever be mad at this kid?
"It's okay, Tim," he says a little shakily, and means it. "You were just a little kid." He leans in to bump his head gently against the kid's, and Tim makes a watery little sound. "We're going to figure this out." And by that he means he's going to figure out how to navigate through this, preferably without scaring the shit out of the kid with all the unbridled rage behind the Robin mantle.
There is one tiny bright spot in this mess, though: Dick is going to absolutely lose his shit.