As a crime lord, Jason doesn't really do take-your-child-to-work-day. Firstly, because he'd had no child to speak of, before Tim (and he can't imagine that taking Nightwing would've flown over well with either Dick or his lackeys), and secondly… Well. His work, as it goes, involves a fuckton of gore, dangerous substances, weapons, and the occasional coffee-related crime. It's a lot, and it's especially a lot for a kid— but, it's also a part of his life, and Tim's a part of his life, too, and Jason would rather have control over the point where the two come into contact with each other than have it happen unexpectedly.
That, and Marco's been driving Jason a little crazy.
Usually, Jason lets Tim hang out at his place if he does have to go take care of business, under the stipulation that Dick checks in on him every so often, but … The conversation from last night had left Jason a little sensitive. He hadn't really thought about it the night before, because he'd been too busy checking way the hell out of the situation, but in hindsight, it's fucking haunting.
Tim hadn't had much of a verbal response when Jason had first told him that Dick would be checking in on him; actually, Jason had expected resistance from a kid who'd all but admitted he'd never had anyone check in on him, but Tim had honestly looked so fuckin' bewildered that Jason hadn't been sure he'd fully grasped that he and Dick cared enough about him to perpetually make sure he was doing okay. Jason's positive Tim's relied on himself and himself alone to make it for eleven horrifying years, and it shows.
Tim had been a stone's throw from the Manor, where he knew Batman and Robin were. He'd figured out their identities when he was so young, but even still, he hadn't been able to come to them.
So. Jason's not feeling great about leaving Tim alone— not right now, anyway.
Tim's proven himself to be rather unflappable, in a way, at least when it comes to the crime aspect of Jason's life. It's fucking sad, in its own right; Jason's seen the kid absolutely shut down over receiving a compliment, but when it comes to blood and guts and guns, Tim's utterly unmoved. Jason figures it's the repercussions of Tim sneaking out to watch Jason and Bruce's patrols when he was younger, but he can hardly imagine what messed up, grisly shit the kid had witnessed during that time. Fuck, Jason remembers Bruce coming back from patrols looking wary, even unsettled.
"Jason?" Tim pipes up from beside him, rerouting Jason's train of thought. "Is it really okay if I come along?"
Jason's pace slows slightly. Tim's in his new jacket, red hood pulled up over his head, and he keeps pulling and loosening the drawstrings anxiously. His nose and cheeks, pink-flushed from the nippy breeze, are practically all Jason can see until he pulls the hood back again.
"The nice thing about being the boss," Jason says with a levity he doesn't entirely feel, "is that nobody's going to argue with me."
Jason's very particular about who he lets work for him, anyway; if he knew anyone around him would hurt the kid— or really, any kid —he would vanish them so quickly. Especially given Tim's past, he's absolutely unwilling to take any chances.
"Hm." Tim makes a thoughtful sound. "It's probably because you're also like, really scary."
Jason's steps stutter. "You, um. Is that how you feel?" he asks neutrally, playing it off as if Tim hadn't just verbally maimed him.
"Yeah," Tim says, almost shyly, and then peers up at Jason from underneath his hood and smiles. "It's really cool."
Oh.
Hm.
Jason's pretty glad Tim doesn't have x-ray vision, because he's pretty sure his chest just totally imploded, and that would've been embarrassing to see.
"'Cause," Tim continues, once again oblivious to the effect of his words. "You're the Red Hood, and you're your own boss, and you have all those lackeys, and. I dunno," the kid says, shrugging. "I mean, your spreadsheets are a nightmare, but—"
"Alright, that's enough from you," Jason says, warmth lighting him up like adrenaline as he reaches out to yank Tim's drawstrings all the way. Tim sputters out a surprised laugh as his face vanishes almost entirely behind the hood and flaps his arms at Jason uselessly.
"'S why I got the red hood jacket," Tim says, pushing the hood back over fluffy, frost-damp hair. "Cause, you know… You're brave, and nothing scares you. And." Tim buries his hands in his pockets and tips sideways a little, bumping up against Jason's hip. "I wanna be braver, too. This makes me feel braver."
Jason distinctly feels like he swallowed stinging nettles; his face goes all funny and warm and buzzy in a way that it hasn't in ages. He'd gotten so used to anger, so used to how all-encompassing his anger was, that he'd forgotten how all-encompassing other emotions could feel, too. He'd forgotten how all-encompassing affection could feel. Tim teaches him new and terrifying things every day, somehow.
"I'm not scared of nothing, Tim. Remember the department store?" he says. The picture of Tim in Robin colors digs its claws into him, unbidden, but he tries to wrestle it back down into its box. "I just try not to show it as much. It's okay to be scared." He ruffles snow out of Tim's hair, and sighs. "Sometimes you can use it, just like anything else. It heightens your instincts, you know? Makes you more alert."
Tim curls a finger into Jason's belt loop. "I just freeze," he admits, his voice small and ashamed. Jason's stomach twists. A kid as little as Tim shouldn't have to worry about how he responds to his fear, but here he is, a survivor surrounded by the ruins of childhood innocence. It can't be rebuilt; it can't be salvaged. All they have left to do is to deal with the damage.
"A lot of people freeze, Tim," he says gently, and pats Tim's back. "You're not alone. You don't have to feel bad about it." When Tim's glum expression doesn't waver, he hesitantly adds, "If you want, I could teach you some basic self-defense."
"Really?" Tim asks, his face brightening. "Will you show me how to do cartwheel kicks?"
"Like capoeira?" Jason arches his eyebrows and huffs out a startled laugh. "I think that might be a bit of an advanced style for you, dude." And, he doesn't say, there shouldn't be any reason for Tim to learn an actual fighting style outside of recreational purposes, if Jason has any say in it. He's not going to go full helicopter and force Tim to stay at home, by any means (mostly because he's positive Tim will go crazy with boredom), but he certainly isn't going to take any chances with Tim, either.
Besides, he rationalizes, it'd feel too much like training the kid.
"But it's so cool," Tim says, and bops up on his toes eagerly. "You use so many styles."
Jason finds himself unexpectedly flustered, and he isn't entirely sure why. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, averting his gaze from the full force of Tim's eagerness. "I just wanted to know more, I guess," he says. "And, by the way… do I even want to know how you know that?"
"I took pictures while you were training and sparring with Dick and cross-referenced them with search results in Google images," Tim says breezily. "There were a lot of results. Ninjutsu, Aikido, Krav Maga, Tae-"
"Oh, you little stalker ." Jason tugs one of Tim's cold ears playfully, and Tim grins up at him unapologetically. "I won't teach you anything that intensive, but I will help you be a little more prepared."
"I suppose that's fine," Tim concedes, and Jason looks down at him and his little red hood and hopes, inexplicably, that he isn't leading Tim right down the path to the wolf by agreeing to teach the kid how to defend himself.
Predictably, Jason's lackeys handle seeing a whole child with about as much grace as can be expected from a ragtag bunch of emotionally stunted criminals.
It isn't that they're mean— most of them have their own kids, after all —but none of them are expecting a kid to be trailing behind Jason of all people like an imprinted duckling. Jason, deeply entertained, determinedly acts as if nothing is out of place whatsoever as Tim takes a seat right beside him. The kid's turtling a little, tucking himself away into his red hood, but Jason figures that messing with his lackeys might soothe Tim's reticence a little.
Plus, he honestly just likes to fuck with his guys. Keeps them humble.
"Boss," Jeff is the first one to say. Brave lad. "Er. You. There's uh, a kid…"
Jason stares right at him. "What are you talking about?"
"You, uh…" Jason watches, straight-faced, as sweat trickles down the older man's forehead and trails down into his collar. His other henchman, Carlos, is fidgeting nervously at this point, looking between him and Tim like he isn't sure exactly what the fuck to do. "Er. Next to you…"
Jason turns, and then does a double take. "What the fuck?" he says loudly, gawking at Tim, and he can see a hint of a smile under the hood, now. "How did this kid get in here?"
Jeff blanches. "He… He isn't yours?"
"Jeff," Jason says, because he's decided to be insufferable, "Why on earth do you think I would bring a kid here? Genuinely, I'm curious."
Jeff's giving him a tired, thousand-yard stare at this point. Jason presses his lips together in an attempt not to laugh.
Of course, the torment lasts only until Marco arrives; the second Marco lays tired eyes on Tim, he makes a sound only dogs are capable of hearing and immediately ruins the charade.
" Tim!" he says ecstatically, crossing the room to take a seat beside the kid. Two pairs of petrified, wide-eyed eyes track his movement. "That is you, right?" Tim flinches back slightly from Marco's exuberance, but his expression remains curious enough not to send up any glaring red flags; Jason had been worried about exposing the kid to too many guys at once, given his past, so he had kept the first gathering small to let Tim get adjusted.
"Marco," Tim says after a moment of examination, decisively. "I've heard a lot about you."
Marco aims a dark glare at Jason over Tim's head. "Nothing good, I'm sure."
"Nothing good," Tim agrees candidly, and Jason hides a smile into his palm.
"So he … is yours?" Jeff asks tentatively, and Jason thinks he sees a slight tremor in Jeff's hand where it rests against the table. Jason relents a little bit, if only because he doesn't want Jeff's heart to give out right here at the conference table. That'd be kind of an embarrassing way to go out.
"Yeah, he's…" Jason bluescreens. Because, well— Tim isn't his child, not by blood, not by name, but Jason would argue that he's been more of a parent to Tim than Jack has been, for sure. He ultimately decides to take a page out of Dick's book. "He's my little brother, Tim. Say hello to the underlings, Tim."
"Hello, underlings," Tim parrots, the words slightly muffled behind his hood as he gives Jason a shy, pleased smile. Jason can see the wall start to come down, though; more of Tim's face is visible as he starts to adjust to the lackeys, and he's no longer twisting the drawstrings around his fingers anxiously. For the most part, Jason's underlings just stare back at the kid, a little starstruck, as if they aren't sure where to begin. All, that is, except Marco, who looks as if he's barely managing to hold himself back.
"Tim, your photography is great," Marco says warmly, and Tim immediately blushes, his expression nonplussed.
" Marco—" Jason says warningly, and Marco gives him a look of pure, gleeful malevolence.
"Jason shows me your pictures every day," he continues, utterly unafraid of his own impending demise at Jason's hands. Bastard. "I must've seen all your bird photos at this point, and all your photos of Gotham, and all your photos of Jason's cooking—"
"The photo of the sunset behind the buildings really shows some technical skill," Carlos pipes up from across the table, and then quails when Jason's homicidal gaze snaps from Marco to him. He cannot believe these guys are just giving him away. Where's the fucking loyalty?
"Really?" Tim scoots in toward the table slightly, eager, bright gaze fixed on Carlos now. "You know about photography?" And fuck, now Jason can't threaten murder with his gaze, because the kid is genuinely excited. He averts the scary eyes and definitively does not brood over his crumbling reputation whatsoever.
"I— teach some classes at a local recreation center, sometimes," Carlos says hesitantly, daring to glance at Jason before redirecting his gaze to the table in front of him. His hands are clasped as though in prayer. "You uh, have a good eye, kid."
Tim seems to mull this over for a minute, and then he turns his diffident, almost uncertain gaze to Jason. "You show them my pictures?"
"I—" Jason starts.
"Yes," Jeff says dryly.
"Every day," Carlos says to the table.
"He's adorable ," Marco adds, still with that easy pleasantness that makes Jason want to disrespectfully maim him. "Yesterday, he sat me down and showed me 234 pictures that you took of a robin on the windowsill."
Jason is suddenly, unpleasantly reminded of Dick, and he'd partially come here to escape his brother. Dick had become an absolute menace in Jason's apartment complex; he'd done this by befriending fucking. Everyone. It doesn't help that Dick's charming and charismatic and what-the-fuck-ever. Jason had managed to keep his head down and go largely unnoticed the entire time he'd lived there, but a couple weeks of the Golden Boy's presence and he's suddenly receiving cellophane-wrapped plates of cookies, muffin baskets, and— clothing. Ms. Pullett from upstairs had actually given Jason an intricate, blue and white handmade scarf to pass on to 'that Nightwing boy with the lovely smile, in case he gets cold.' Jason had so badly wanted to burn it, but he hadn't had the heart to do that to old Ms. Pullett with the frail hands and the trembly little smile.
He had made sure to wrap it nice and tightly around Dick's neck for him, though, with no intent at all to choke him. None whatsoever.
And it isn't like vigilantes usually stick around to exchange affectionate small talk and pleasantries— well, normal vigilantes, that is. But Dick's always been a fuckin' exception. He offers to carry boxes, he offers to taste-test, he offers to shuttle Ms. Pullet's fuckin' groceries from the first floor to the fifth like it's a fun, stair-hopping game, and look, it isn't as if Jason wouldn't have done it if he'd seen her struggling, but most people in his complex had been pretty deadset on steadfastly avoiding him. This, Jason suspects, is due to a combination of his often unpleasant, broody countenance and the fact that there's no shortage of weird sounds always coming from his apartment.
His aloof reputation is taking massive damage from both Dick and Tim, though.
Dick's been roaming around introducing himself as "Jason's older brother" which always pairs, somehow, with calling Jason his "baby brother," and he's got the smile and the eyes and the easy, boy-next-door charm that practically bleeds off him like he's a universal donor. It'd taken him about two days to completely defuse the misunderstanding-filled tension between Jason and his neighbors; Jason's pissed that he'd managed to convince them that he was Nightwing's fucking brother, somehow, but it'd somehow ended up endearing him to the entire building. He hates it. It'd taken Dick another two days to learn everything about all of Jason's neighbors, befriend them, and get in on the apartment's group chat.
He's currently in there, reminding everyone of their housing rights.
Frankly, Jason's glad they haven't told him that Tim knows, yet. He fucking deserves it for infiltrating Jason's complex. If he hadn't already been thinking about upgrading to a two-bedroom, this certainly helps.
As for Tim, Jason's pretty sure everyone had just assumed Jason had kidnapped Tim at first— and, well, if it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck —and he's sure some of them haven't yet determined otherwise. The situation messes with Jason, because he's pretty sure his neighbors had been too terrified of Jason to actually report him to any sort of authority, which is good for them, so to speak— but then, he can't help but think, what if I had been a really fucking bad guy who'd gotten hold of a kid?
Exactly one CPS officer had come by to check, and Jason had— entirely on accident —answered the door in full gear. The guy had practically pissed himself in fear, yelped "Hood? Th— This must be a mistake, I'm so sorry," and then skedaddled off so fast he nearly fell down the stairs in a panic. Jason had just watched him go, bemused, only learning in hindsight that the guy had been there to check on the kid.
Tim had found it much funnier than either Jason or Dick; Jason hadn't been able to shake the unpleasant, nagging feeling that Tim had had some hand in the entire affair, but he hadn't been able to prove it. It has him wondering what Tim had done to chase CPS and other authorities away from Drake Manor; had he ever seen them as viable help? Had he ever wondered what it'd have been like to reach out, to actually confide in one of them about his situation? How much had Tim trusted his father, despite it all, to protect Jack from anyone who might've been able to help?
"Jason?" Tim asks, now partially leaning himself up against Jason's arm. "Can I go to one of Carlos' photography classes?"
Jason just blinks at him. For one bizarre second, the answer on his tongue is, well shit, kid, I'm not your dad, do whatever you want, but then— he's certainly Tim's guardian, and the kid is asking for his permission. It still doesn't feel real, sometimes.
"Maybe," he says, even though the thought of sending Tim off somewhere with a bunch of strangers makes him want to break out into hives. "But only if I can come along too."
Carlos goes white. Suffer, Jason thinks, pleased.
"That's a good idea," Tim says cheerfully, little legs bouncing up and down so energetically that Jason thinks he sees a whirlwind whipping up around the kid. It's another thing Jason swears the kid picked up from Dick and his boundless energy. "Your pictures are very blurry, so maybe Carlos can teach you how to take some good ones." He adds, cutting his gaze toward Jason slyly.
Marco's lips press together so tightly in an attempt not to laugh that Jason fears he'll need some kind of tool to pry them open again. He briefly considers the merits of firing the man, but alas, Marco is too good a double agent to lose. He's on thin fucking ice, though.
"See if I bring you to work with me again," Jason threatens, tugging on Tim's drawstrings warningly, and laughter bubbles out from behind the hood.
"There are some things Jason just isn't good at," Marco says mock-regretfully, shaking his head. Jason casually starts to scout around the table for something to throw at him.
"Yeah," Tim says, his words slightly muffled into one red sleeve as he rests his chin in his hand. "Like spreadsheets."
Jason groans. Marco looks up toward the ceiling as if the heavens just brought him an angel.
" Validation," he crows, and Jason rolls his eyes, finally locating a small rubber-band ball that he can lob at him. "I never thought the day would come that this bastard would have to answer for his color-coding crimes." Marco continues, and doesn't even bat an eyelash as the ball bounces off the side of his head.
"It's really tragic," Tim agrees, and his smile is so bright and mischievous, as if he's coming alive all over again. Jason finds himself at a loss for words for just a moment, despite being the subject of the teasing, and has to clear his throat before he wraps an elbow around Tim's head.
"I'll show you tragic," he threatens with narrowed eyes and a shit-eating grin, and Tim shrieks out a laugh as he tries to wriggle free. "Might I remind you that I'm letting you stay in my house, rent-free? You have a lot of nerve—"
"You wouldn't get rid of me," Tim chirps back, his voice chock-full of glee and surety in a way that fills Jason with a sort of elation he never thought he'd feel again. "I know too much."
Marco's eyes gleam dangerously. "Oh? Like what?"
"Like when Jason showers, he listens to—" Tim starts, and Jason immediately plays dirty, twisting the hood around Tim's face entirely in an effort to silence him. Tim trembles with laughter underneath his arms, and Jason hadn't even realized it but he's laughing too, helpless; he's laughing at this fucking silly kid and his antics and— and. And it reminds him, actually, of— it reminds him of the way unexpected joy would carve through the dark shadow in Bruce's expression when he'd laugh at him, at Robin.
He pulls his arms back, letting Tim wriggle his way free from his fabric prison, and looks up to see his lackeys staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
"Anyway," he says, aware that he's a little red in the face at this point. This shot at his street rep was entirely self-sabotage, but when he glances over at a wild-eyed, ecstatic Tim, he has a hard time actually caring all that much.
"This is amazing," Marco says, absolutely beaming at Jason, looking back and forth between him and Tim as if he's about to adopt them himself , and knowing Marco's track record, Jason isn't positive that that's entirely off the table. The guy has a couple years on Jason, so he's a real threat, to be honest; the others don't even really know how old Jason is, and Jason hasn't bothered specifying. It's fun to watch them speculate. "You almost seem like a real person, now."
Jason scowls at him. "Keep that up and I'll bring the Nerf gun back."
Carlos, who'd just started to regain some color in his face, pales once more. "Not the Nerf gun," he says miserably, and Jason's answering grin is ferocious.
Marco rolls his eyes. "I'm not scared of your foam pellets, Jay," he grumbles, leaning back in his chair. "Yesterday, Sionis threatened to reach down into one of his guys and twist his insides around with a pair of scissors."
"Are you saying he's scarier than I am?" Jason demands darkly, brow furrowing in displeasure. "Because I can think of many scarier things to do to get everyone in peak performance around here." He doesn't really have any intention to lower himself to Sionis' standards of torture and persuasion, but a little fear goes a long way in Crime Alley.
"I mean—" Marco says.
"Shut up, Marco," Jeff hisses.
"Oh!" Tim startles, and Jason immediately finds himself on the defensive. It's still hard to get himself to stop overreacting to any sign of potential skittishness from Tim, even though there hasn't been an incident in a little while, now; Jason's learned his lesson about letting his guard down, though. When he glances over, though, Tim's expression is more curious than tense, and he's staring straight across the table at Carlos. "Is it your birthday?"
Carlos jerks as if he's been tased. "How did you—"
"It's your birthday?" Jason echoes, slightly uncomfortable. He hasn't celebrated a birthday in a while, and the joy of having celebrated it in the past is a wound that leaks the bad blood between him and Bruce. On top of that, outside of Marco, his lackeys don't even know his age, let alone his birthday. "You— You should go home to celebrate," he says, a little stilted. "Er. Happy birthday."
"It's not…" Carlos purses his lips, looking a little embarrassed. "I don't really… Have anyone to celebrate it with here, so, uh. If it's alright with you, boss, I'd rather stay at work."
Oh. Fuck.
It's not that Jason doesn't value the company of his lackeys, but he'd never found it particularly easy to lower his defenses. Marco had more or less had to carve out a spot for himself despite Jason's contrariness, especially at the beginning, and after that, Jason had just assumed that some combination of fear, loyalty, grudging acceptance, and sheer curiosity had drawn the rest of his lackeys under his command. At this moment, he's kind of regretting not setting up at least one workplace bonding exercise or something, even though the thought is a little ridiculous.
"I'll order a cake," he says meaningfully despite being a little strained, and Carlos' eyes widen slightly. "I mean. Might suck to have to celebrate with me and the rest of these fuckers in this conference room, but—"
"No, I mean." Carlos says a little too hastily, the poor fucker. "I— No, that's. More than what I'm used to, so. It's nice. Actually." He glances at Tim with a helpless little laugh. "But actually, how did you know it was my birthday?"
"Tag on your shirt," Tim says, his gaze narrowing as he studies Carlos critically. "You never took it off. I figured you might be in a new shirt for a special occasion. You got a little bit of chocolate icing in your collar, and some crumbs, so I knew you ate something with icing, like cake, or…"
Jason arches an eyebrow. Carlos blushes. "I bought myself a mini cupcake," he admits, swiping at the collar of his shirt frantically.
" And," Tim finishes, "there's a coupon tucked in your shirt pocket for one free movie at the theater, and." He flips his phone around. "I just looked it up, and the local theater sends you a coupon for one free movie on your birthday in the mail, so."
"Little detective," Jason says with perhaps a little too much pride, and when he lifts his fist, Tim immediately reaches out to knock his own against it. He becomes acutely aware, though, that his men are gawking at them again— well, this time, largely at Tim, who shrinks a little under the attention.
"Sorry," the kid says, lowering his gaze with sheepish chagrin. "I just. Notice things, sometimes… I don't always mean to. It's a—" His voice drops to almost a whisper. "—Habit." And the back of Jason's neck prickles, because he hears ' habit' and his brain translates it into ' survival mechanism' almost on autopilot.
"Very useful skill to have, if you ask me." Marco says cheerfully, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Tim doesn't immediately look up from the table, but the tension in his shoulders seems to melt away, thankfully. "That shit'll keep you alive around the Alley, kid. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise. Your wits are your most important asset. Just look at what you could become if you have none." He says, gesturing to Jason, who levels his best bitchface back.
"Keep that up and you're going to get acquainted with my other assets," he threatens.
"Whatever," Marco says, unimpressed, and taps his knuckles against his binder. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we actually do have business to get to. Uh…" His gaze flicks skeptically from Jason to Tim, and he arches an eyebrow at Jason questioningly. Jason drums his fingertips over the table in thought before glancing at Tim.
He knows he has a choice here; he could send Tim away, but at least for the foreseeable future, Jason's in this business. And fuck, he wants to be transparent with the kid about what he could see, despite Jason's best efforts— despite everything. Because sometimes, bad shit fucking happens, something Tim knows firsthand, something Jason knows firsthand.
(Sometimes, it doesn't fucking matter how far away you are from evil; evil finds you, anyway. It finds you burrowed beneath your covers or in a warehouse, miles from home, with laughter and a crowbar—)
Maybe he's fucking up here, but if trying to equip the kid with information— Tim's favorite shield, no less —means he's fucking up, then maybe Jason will bite the bullet on this one.
"If I tell you to do something else for a little while, you're going to eavesdrop, aren't you?" he asks.
"Most definitely," Tim says agreeably, gaze fixed intently on his phone.
Jason sighs. "You can stay," he says grudgingly, but taps his knuckles lightly against the side of Tim's head. "But I reserve the right to tell you to cover your ears if I think it's getting too rough."
"Okay," Tim says with a little shrug, and looks pleased with himself.
The kid had trailed around Batman and Robin for apparently years, so Jason's positive that very little is actually going to rattle—
Something occurs to him, then. Had Tim been trailing around Bruce after Jason died? Had Tim seen what Bruce had been like in the wake of Jason's death? What had Bruce been like? The curiosity is only outweighed by something in the back of his mind saying you don't want to know, it'll fuck everything up and make it even worse, Jason, but even still… He makes a note to broach the topic with Tim later, maybe.
Either way, the kid seems perfectly content to learn more about drugs, probably for some reason only known to Tim himself. Jason wouldn't be surprised if it's pretty much morbid curiosity, knowing the kid; he's almost certain that he and Dick are going to be hearing a lot of facts about drugs over the next week or so.
Marco also shrugs, unbothered; Jeff looks a little concerned, but doesn't say anything, and Carlos mostly just looks resigned (Jason figures he might be having Nerf-gun related flashbacks and largely isn't tuned into the conversation). "Well, that's fine with me. It's just some information related to the latest batch of …" He makes a face, glaring at Jason over Tim's head. Marco had never actually accepted the name. Jason actually might've changed it if Marco hadn't made it clear it had annoyed the hell out of him; now he has to keep it on principle. "Iteration Seven of Pift."
"Unlike Iterations Four and Five," Jeff cuts in smoothly, sensing a burgeoning argument, "this one has a fuck of a lot more fear toxin and barely any pollen. The victims are a little suggestible, but the fear is near-paralyzing. There's the usual hallucinations and massively increased heart-rate, but most of the victims end up freezing within a couple hours of consumption. Compared to Iteration Five, where the victims experienced much less fear but were much, much more…" He clears his throat, face going a bit ruddy with anger. "... Suggestible. This one isn't being used as often for—"
"Yeah," Jason says carefully, winding his arm through one of the armrests of Tim's chair and drawing the kid slightly closer. Where he's gripping the chair, his knuckles go a little white. It's impossible not to think about what the two fuckers the other day had said to him, impossible not to think about what had happened to Tim. He's already in half a mind to send the kid away, but Tim's expression remains open, even curious as he glances down at a picture of the pills, and Jason strangles the urge back down.
"This one is especially vicious on the heart, though." Marco says, running his thumb along the edge of one of the laminated sheets. "The fear toxin really does a number on heart-rate. Apparently— as with all versions of Pift," he says, long-suffering and grim, "A lot of kids have gotten their hands on it. They want to try it out, experiment with it because of the adrenaline rush from the fear. The body count is rocketing."
Jason grits his teeth. "How many labs have we taken down?"
"To my knowledge? Seven so far," Marco says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "But they keep popping up like fucking whackamoles," he grumbles. "I got a tip from one of Sionis' guys, though, saying that production's slowed a little bit because there's been a rise in fentanyl-laced MDMA again, and it's tearing through the Alley."
" Fuck me," Jason groans into his hands. " Again? When will these people fucking learn not to fuck with fentanyl? "
"Most of the usual places I checked are completely out of fentanyl strips," Marco says glumly. "We may have to get on that, too."
"I'll make a call," Jason says largely into his hands, massaging his fingertips into his forehead to ward off a burgeoning headache. If he wants to get ahead of the fentanyl, he's going to have to be a real bastard about it, he can already tell.
Tim reaches out, turning Marco's folder to take a look. "What do these bar graphs mean, Jason?"
Jason glances down and purses his lips. "It's uh, the proportion of fear toxin to pollen in each iteration," he says quietly, sliding one finger along the long, yellow bar next to the Iteration 5 label.
Iteration Five had been the worst one to date; the working girls had been terrified to seek clients, and Jason had fielded dozens and dozens of assault cases that had poured in. Iteration Four's cursed brother, with less fear toxin and much more of Ivy's suggestibility pollen, had absolutely haunted the Alley like a serial killer. Every day brought another glassy-eyed, barely-legal (or straight up underage) kid with not the foggiest idea of what had happened to them the night before, even though the proof lay stark and chilling in the bruises and blood between their legs. Fewer people had died, then, but more than half of those who'd survived had told Jason they'd have rather died.
It was one of the most harrowing periods of Jason's life; stamping out I-5 had aged him what felt like about twenty years, and he'd been certain Marco would quit; at least six of his guys did, by the time I-5 ran its destructive course.
Tim's staring down at the pictures of the light blue Iteration Five, and he hums low in his throat. "This one looks like it was really bad," he says carefully.
"Iteration Five," Marco mutters, and Jason can see the goosebumps from where he's sitting. Jeff stares, determined, at the table in front of him, and Carlos, who hadn't worked with Jason at the time but still well-knew the effects of the drug as anyone in the Alley did, swallows audibly. "It was really bad. We went all hands on deck to stop its production. Jason was his scariest— "
"Anyway," Jason says quickly, not particularly keen to divulge any more details about I-5 to Tim despite the kid's inquisitive gaze, "I'm going to get on the fentanyl strips. Marco, you get the word out that I'm cracking down fucking hard on anyone who thinks it's a good idea to cut MDMA— actually, fuck that, anything with fentanyl, and Carlos, you and Jeff tell everyone else to keep intercepting any other I-7 labs. I want at least one week around here where I don't have to hear the words fear toxin or pollen, fuck's sake."
As they hop to it, Jason realizes that something's bugging him. He isn't sure what it is; it's just a twinge, now, a flutter, like the barest beat of butterfly wings in his stomach. Something that pulses out little waves of dread, like a heartbeat. It's unsettling, and as Jason stares down at the binder, he can't help but think he might be missing something bad.
The Carlos situation ends up getting a little out of hand.
Mostly because the second the other lackeys find out that Jason ordered Carlos a cake for his birthday, there's an uproar. Apparently, Jason's now obligated to get a cake for every lackey whose birthday he'd missed, which is fucking… well… all of them.
So now he's throwing some sort of crew-wide birthday party, or something. And fucking everyone wants a different flavor, on top of that. Jason's meanest scowl deters absolutely none of them once they've got the notion of cake in their crosshairs.
He blames this on Tim, who refuses to let Jason in on how many of them might be lying.
At first, most of his lackeys don't even notice Tim, which Jason assumes is because their brains just gloss over the idea of a child because it's too ridiculous to even reckon with. Once they start noticing, though, and noticing that he's with Jason on top of that, they start to get a little twitchy. None of them seem to recognize the kid as Tim Drake yet, but Jason figures it's only a matter of time before someone puts two and two together. A problem for future Jason, he figures, because he doesn't want to call even more attention to the kid now that Tim's only just started meeting some of the members of his gang.
"So… He's just gonna, like. Be here?" Srishti asks around a cigarette, kohl-rimmed eyes examining Tim skeptically. "I mean, isn't that a little dangerous?"
"Not all the time," Jason concedes. "And you don't know this kid like I do. A little crime is nothing to him."
"I'm terrified by all of this crime," Tim says monotonously, looking around at the thirty or so cakes piled on the tables around them. Marco snorts.
"We can get pretty gruesome," Leo says with a frown, and hilariously looks Tim up and down like he's fuckin' sizing up the kid. Jason would've been worried, but Tim just blinks up at Leo, unmoved. Jason figures this is probably because Tim's quietly trying to figure out everything he humanly can about Leo as a person, and he has to hide a smile into his fist.
"Gruesome doesn't really bother me," Tim says, and his shoulder bumps up against Jason's hip when he shrugs.
Leo narrows his eyes. "... We kill people." At his tone, Jason prickles defensively and straightens, resting a careful hand against Tim's shoulder.
"I gathered that," Tim says with a sort of detached politeness. Jason makes a sound like the air being sharply squeezed out of a balloon; he supposes he should be glad that the kid isn't terrified of his henchman, but there's a sort of practiced disingenuity to Tim's words, as if he's choosing his words carefully. That's never a good sign, in Jason's experience; he knows what the kid actually is like, and this… This just feels like a protective barrier. "It's not really a problem."
"Shit, if the kid says it doesn't fuckin' bother him, it doesn't fuckin' matter!" Liam calls impatiently from one of the tables where he's already flicked open a couple boxes of cake. So help him god, if he starts reaching in with his hands, Jason's gonna start throwing cutlery. "Who fucking cares. Fuck, half of us got into this shit when we were sixteen, didn't we?"
Srishti leans over Tim, gesturing at him with a wave of her hand. "Does this kid look fuckin' sixteen to you, dumbass? He looks like he's six."
"No fuckin' way," Cory says incredulously. "He's at least fifteen."
" Fifteen? Have you ever seen a human child, Cory?"
"Have you ever seen my gun, shooting you?"
Jason sighs. "Calm the fuck down," he says, annoyed, and they settle with assorted grumbles and rude fingers aimed at one another.
"They're bad at guessing ages," Tim says mildly, just for Jason's ears. "It's why they've never been able to guess yours."
"How—" Jason starts, and then once again asks himself— Do I really want to know? "Seriously? None of them?"
"They have a betting pool in one of the folders on the server," Tim says sagely, tapping at his phone again. "Marco keeps giving them the wrong ages. Cory thinks you're 64."
"Hn," Jason grunts, not for the first time considering the merits of replacing all of his lackeys with robots.
Actually, once the party properly starts, Tim blends in alright. Jason tails the kid as Tim hops from table to table, consuming enough cake to satiate a small country; for the most part, his underlings either give the kid a wide, careful berth with wide, careful eyes trained on Jason behind him, or they chat with him a little bit out of what Jason assumes is a combination of bemusement and curiosity.
Once the drinks start rolling in, though, Jason realizes the environment's getting a little much for a kid, even a kid as precocious as Tim. Seriously, Jason's seen what these guys get like when they're drunk, and there's no reason for Tim to be seeing any of that.
He gets Dick to come pick a practically-vibrating Tim up, figuring they can bounce off the walls together for a while; that's a whole trip in and of itself. Of course, Dick shows up as Nightwing, but there's no fucking chance Jason's letting Nightwing within ten feet of his lackeys lest it become a shootout. Instead, he has Dick wait outside and sends the kid out to meet him.
Naturally, the one person who Jason had been hoping wouldn't see Dick does see the gleam of Nightwing's blue and black melt back into the shadows— and that's when he makes the worst discovery of his entire life.
"You're a fucking Nightwing fan?" he hisses, appalled.
" Look," Marco says, flushed bright with embarrassment as he glances back toward the alley, and if that's fucking longing in his expression, Jason's going to kill him for real. "It— it was— I don't know, okay! He saved my life once, I think, and then I was totally freaked out when he was following me that one day, but then I thought about it, and it was kind of cool to have Nightwing's attention, and then it just— I don't know. Fuck off, Jason, I can't help it ."
"This is, by far, the worst thing I have ever heard," Jason says incredulously. He thinks he needs to sit down. "This— this is an actual betrayal. I can't even fuckin' look at you."
"How was I supposed to know you're his brother until he said it? You don't exactly talk about your family! " Marco hisses through his teeth quietly, face radiating a heat so intense that Jason's surprised his skin doesn't melt off.
"It's not better if he isn't!" Jason hisses right back. "He's still fucking Nightwing!" Oh, he's going to make Dick wear his costume for a month for this shit.
"A lot of people like Nightwing!" Marco exclaims.
"A lot of people aren't Hood's right-hand man!"
"Pay me like I'm your right-hand man, then," Marco grumbles, and Jason just makes a noise of pure appall. He can't fucking believe this. A fucking Nightwing fan, right here under his own roof. Next thing he knows, Marco's going to be walking around with food from Batburger or something.
The party's shaping up to be a bit of a cake-shaped disaster, but in at least a manageable, almost endearing way. Leo and Srishti have started up a game called "splat," where they drunkenly try to stick chunks of cake to the wall. Cory's apparently challenged himself to eat one whole red-velvet cake by himself, and he's starting to go a little green at the edges. Jeff's coordination is utterly shot; by this point, he's dropped his fourth slice on the floor and is circling back for a fifth like a goldfish stuck in a loop. Jason's been watching him with steadily-increasing morbid fascination, knowing this is going to haunt his dreams.
Carlos, who passed tipsy about an hour ago and is now much more bubbly than Jason's ever seen him, actually gives Jason a hug. It's weird. Jason stiffly pats him on the back and arches an eyebrow at Marco, who just gives him an amused shrug as he tries to keep Leo and Srishti from eviscerating each other over who won their game.
"This is the best birthday I've ever had," he says, practically glowing. It's the saddest thing Jason's ever heard; they're in a chilly warehouse, surrounded by the ravaged remains of cake corpses and criminals. He doesn't have the heart to say this to Carlos, though, because the guy looks so fucking happy. "You— You and your kid. You guys are great. Tell Tim I said thank you."
"Sure. I will." Jason says mildly as he extricates himself from the hug, but for some reason, summoning an albeit little smile isn't as much of an effort as he'd thought. "I'm glad you're having a good time." Maybe it isn't exactly what he'd expected when he'd entertained the thought of starting a crime empire, but fuck, criminals deserve cake too. Whatever. Let them have this.
He hopes they don't expect this to become a frequent occurrence, though. He's a crime lord, after all; too much cake could really mess with his reputation.
From: Me
How's the kid?
From: Dickface
Just as good as the other three times you've asked :) we're watching Finding Nemo and Tim is explaining to me that when female clownfish are eaten male clownfish switch genders and lay eggs so I guess finding Nemo is completely scientifically incorrect but at least Tim isn't letting that stop him from enjoying it
Jason won't concede to most niceties about his brother; the fact that Dick always gives him tiny summaries of Tim's antics, though, is considerably one of his best aspects.
They still haven't actually revealed to Dick that Tim knows Nightwing is Dick Grayson, which makes it even more gratifyingly hilarious that Dick keeps showing up in full gear. Jason hopes it's at least a little bit inconvenient for him to fully dress up when he shows up at Jason's apartment. Serves him right for fuckin' getting into it with all of Jason's neighbors and now fuckin' Marco .
"Party's winding down," Marco remarks as he makes his way back over; Jason glances above Marco's shoulder to see Srishti and Leo handcuffed to two separate pipes that run the length of the walls. They're still trying to claw at each other, but with only about a fraction of the original ferocity given the restraints.
Eh, they'll figure their way out.
Maybe this counts as a bonding exercise.
"For the best," Jason says, tilting his head until he hears a satisfying little crack from his neck . He still hasn't forgiven Marco for being a Nightwing fan whatsoever, but he's too tired now to get his revenge. It'll come; Jason's had years and an older brother to guide him through the art of scheming, and judging by Marco's wary expression, he knows he's not off the hook. "I'm not really much of a party person to begin with, but I think leaving would've made me seem like even more of an asshole."
"You're right," Marco says, and yawns. "Maybe I'm getting old, but I'm ready to go the fuck to bed."
"You're 25." Jason feels the need to remind him.
"You age me, Jason," Marco says, drier than the Sahara. "And you're fucking one to talk, Mr. I'd-Rather-Be-at-Home-With-My-Kid."
Jason ponders this, and shrugs. "Better than Mr. Decapitation," he says, his grin almost wolffish, and Marco rolls his eyes so hard that Jason's surprised they don't get stuck in his skull.
"I didn't get a chance to say this earlier." Marco says, then, and his tone takes on a rare sort of severity that has Jason tensing almost reflexively. "I'm behind you all the way, right? Follow you into the fire despite your spreadsheet bullshit, whatever. And I trust you. God help me, I trust you. But Jason, I'm behind that kid first." He leans up against the table and keeps his steely gaze fixed right on Jason's face with an uncommon intensity. "We see too many fuckin' kids die around here, and you've made the mistake of letting me get attached to this one. If I think something you do is putting him in danger, I am going to say something about it—"
Jason blinks at him, and then folds his arms, relieved. "Good," he says simply, lifting his shoulders into a shrug.
Marco blinks back at him quizzically, his stance shifting from tight to loose in a single beat. "Good?"
"Good," Jason repeats, and means it. "I think I can count the number of advocates Tim's ever had on one hand. His parents are the fucking worst, he's trained himself to chase off CPS and any other authority, and he's only just learning how to trust some adults. Sometimes, on really bad days, he's barely even able to look me in the eye. I need people to help me figure out how to do this shit, because, man…" Jason trails off and rubs at his eyes. "Sometimes I think I'm fucking up the worst with him. And it fucking sucks, because all I want is for that kid to do kid things and just." Fuck, and maybe it's this environment, or recalling I-5, or Robin, still undealt with and hurting underneath. Maybe it's the thought of Tim at home, watching a kid movie for the first time, possibly. Maybe it's all those things and none of them at all, but Jason's voice breaks ever so slightly as he says, "I don't think anyone knows how hard I'm trying to not fuck up."
Marco's expression cracks, and there must be something in the water, because Jason gets his second hug that day.
"Um," he says, not sure what to do with his arms. By the time he's awkwardly lifting them, Marco's already pulling away. "Weren't you just giving me a shovel talk?"
"Fuck, I was," Marco says, and sighs. "But you know I'm weak to emotional vulnerability, Jay, it says so in my files! Fuck. I'm sorry." He says, and it's so easy. Marco apologizes enviously easily, with doubtless sincerity, and Jason wishes it'd ever been that easy for Bruce, or even him. "I got so overwhelmed by seeing Tim, and … I guess, all the I-5 stuff just, it just... I kind of forgot how young you were when all of that went down, Jay. I kind of…" Marco looks at him, really looks at him, and Jason feels like he's been laid bare and surgically sliced open. "I kind of forgot how young you still are," Marco says, voice quiet with regret. "I shouldn't have gone so hard on you. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Jason says like a reflex, keeping his words short so nobody but him can hear the slight chatter of his teeth. He thinks about Tim in Robin's clothes and bruises— like a necklace, Tim had said. "I'm not that young. I want you to be hard on me. I want to do it right."
Marco furrows his brows and shakes his head; when he turns away, Jason thinks he might not be all there anymore. Like he's miles away, in a different home, in a different life.
"It's easy to lose sight of this, Jay, but sometimes, the answer isn't being hard on yourself," Marco says quietly, almost as if he's speaking through a dream. "Sometimes, it's about being very, very gentle."
It's a little too quiet when Jason returns home.
He's exhausted from the party and entirely ready to crash, but his hackles immediately rise at the silence as he makes his way into the living room. It's a little too early for Tim to have gone to bed already, he thinks; the movie shouldn't even be over yet.
It's dark, save for the light from the paused TV. Dick's sort of tucked against the armrest on the couch, his forehead cradled in his fingers, and he tilts his head toward Jason.
Jason knows it's not an emergency; Dick would never drag it out if it was. But it's bad enough that there's a pinch to Dick's posture— it's bad enough that the silence feels almost pregnant around them. Jason's stomach curdles uneasily.
"He was doing okay," Dick says quietly, readjusting so his hands hang loosely between his legs. "And then Bruce smiled."
"Bruce?" Jason echoes, and determinedly doesn't let his expression change. Dick winces a little, his expression flickering with something regretful as he gestures to the TV with his chin.
"The shark," Dick murmurs, and his voice is heavy. "I didn't remember that part…"
Jason examines the frozen image of the grinning shark, and unbidden, his mind chooses this moment to remind him of another grin— another face— green, white, uninhibited laughter. With effort, he turns away from the TV and clicks it off, unwilling to glance down for fear that he'll see his hand shaking. If Dick notices, he thankfully says nothing on the matter.
"He's in his room?" Jason asks evenly, even though he feels entirely the opposite.
"He asked if he could be alone," Dick says affirmatively, and the words are muffled; he's speaking partially through his hands. "I'm sorry, Little Wing. I just wanted him to have a fun night, see a cute movie. I hadn't realized that fucking Finding Nemo…"
And fuck, maybe it's because Jason's tired, so his guard is down. Maybe it's because of what Marco had said, or just the sight of his older brother, looking so fucking guilty— recognizably guilty — over an accident. Whatever it is, he can't bring himself to snap. Dick's always been the most emotionally astute of all of them— whatever Jason says can't be any worse than how hard Dick must be lambasting himself.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Dickie," he says gruffly as he tosses his helmet onto the couch and thumps his arm against Dick's shoulder lightly. His brother jerks, surprised. "Sometimes Tim just has bad reactions, and no one sees them coming… Especially him."
He doesn't even bother removing his jacket or dropping his bag as he makes his way to the bedroom door and knocks lightly.
"Tim? You okay, buddy?" he asks, resting his forehead against the door. There's not much of an answer from inside, and he doesn't hear anything. It's not a particularly positive sign.
Don't go busting in, Jason tells himself uneasily. Give the kid a second. He has to have learned something, after how much he'd fucked it up the last time.
"Tim?" he asks again, and even though he keeps his voice as light as possible, he can already feel fear, lurking ugly and heavy beneath like a creature in depths unknown. "Can I have a sign of life? I won't come in unless you say so, I just want to make sure."
There's a more pronounced shuffling sound from inside, this time; through hitching little breaths that verge on sobs, Tim manages to say "sign of life" before falling quiet again.
Jason's starting to realize that he really fucking hates seeing this kid in pain, in a way that makes his teeth hurt and his skin crawl. He especially hates being on the outside of it, even if he knows it's for the best. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck to just let the kid go through it. Not for the first time, he can't fuckin' understand how the adults in Tim's life could've let him down this badly.
Tim had been happy.
(His joy always feels so temporary.)
"Okay, that's good," Jason praises, and then lowers himself to the ground with a thump , back to the door. "I'll just be right out here, okay?" He rests his head back against the gouged-out wood, wracking his brain for something light to talk about, and then tilts his head toward Dick. "You know what scared me as a kid? That fuckin' alien in E.T…"
Dick's head pops up like a meerkat. " E.T., Little Wing," he says incredulously. "His name is E.T. The movie is named after him."
"Whatever, it was a long time ago," Jason says, and waves his hand dismissively. "That fucking creepy ass little dude. I thought he was going to come out of my closet and try to drag me to space with him."
"I remember," Dick says, and his grin blooms like the sun peering out from behind the clouds, almost cautiously. "Once, as a prank, I wrote a letter pretending to be E.T. and threatened to take you to space. And then I put little alien figurines in your room—"
Jason sputters. "Motherfucker, I knew that was you—"
"Who else would it be?" Dick says with a snicker, dodging Jason's flying backpack easily. "E.T.?"
"I'm playing the long game, Fingerstripes," Jason threatens, and Dick gleefully raises one eyebrow at him in response. "I'm gonna fucking get you back for that one. I know how you felt about the Grinch—"
Dick's expression shutters with surprise, and then goes blank. "You wouldn't."
"Oh," Jason says gleefully, "But I would."
"He was a naked furry sock puppet with a creepy-ass smile!" Dick says, teeth bared into a rictus of loathing as he extends one costumed foot to kick Jason's shoulder. Jason doesn't budge at all. In fact, his malevolent glee only amps up when he once again imagines Dick having to completely suit up, unaware that Tim knows his identity. "He was freaky!"
"More freaky than that wrinkly fuckin' alien ?" Jason barks out a wry laugh. "Not a fucking chance, Goldie."
There's a little click behind Jason, and when the door cracks open, he nearly goes through the doorway. He extends an arm to catch himself and glances back to meet Tim's white, tear-streaked face; the sight makes his chest snap taut like a rubberband, but he manages to school his expression into something reassuring just in time to prevent the stress from bubbling over.
"I—" Tim starts, and then just crumples like tinfoil next to Jason. He's dragged the comforter all the way from the bed to the door and wrapped it around himself, and the hood of his jacket is pulled almost halfway down over his face. It makes me feel braver, the kid had said. Jason's throat prickles. He looks like a little cocoon as he scoots closer to Jason and nudges up against his side, and Jason splays one cautious hand across where he roughly thinks the kid's back might be through the blanket. "I don't know what happened. The eyes, and th— the," Tim says through chattering teeth. "S— Smile, and— I don't know."
"It's okay, Tim," Jason soothes despite the reflexive twitch of his fingers, and Tim tilts his head slightly to rest it against Jason's knee. "You don't have to explain everything if you don't want to."
"I don't like not knowing," Tim sobs, drawing the blanket tighter around himself and all but burrowing himself into Jason. "I don't like not being prepared." And he sounds so exhausted— the way no kid should have to be —and it fucking digs under Jason's skin like a knife and carves him up inside out. "And N-Nightwing just wanted to do something nice and I. It w— was." Tim's breath hitches. "It was a good day, and I ruined it."
"No— hey. No." Dick says immediately, folding himself into a pretzel on the floor and leaning over to rest his head against Tim's. Tim hiccups. "You didn't ruin anything, Tim, we had a good time hanging out. And you taught me about clownfish."
"You know, Tim," Jason says quietly, his hand stroking gentle circles over Tim's shoulder. "You aren't the only one who gets freaked out by that kind of stuff. It freaks me the hell out, too. I— Uh, there's just…" His voice sticks in his throat, the surest sign yet, and fuck, being vulnerable is difficult. At one point, he'd have rather died again than showed anyone, especially Dick, that this was still under his skin, just as present as blood. The Joker, his eyes, his fucking grin, his evil fucking laugh, it's all twisted up into Jason like it's part of his genetic code. But there's a kid who needs him, and Jason's learning that that shit takes precedent, every time. "Sometimes, I think I'll never be free of that shit. But fuck that, right? 'Cause I'm still here, and you are, too. We already beat it once, and we can fucking beat it again."
Tim's silent for a moment; Jason can almost hear the kid thinking, can hear the gears turning. "Okay," he hiccups after a minute, a tremble beneath his words. "I— I guess that makes sense."
"Mhmm." Jason hums. He'd kind of been expecting Dick to interject by now with something sappy and kind and very much Dick, but when he looks over, Dick's expression stills Jason's words in his throat. He's staring off toward the kitchen, apparently lost in thought, but something about the— the way the shadows fall over his face, or way his mask belies nothing, it—
Dick blinks, and he's back. "He's right, Timmy," he says affectionately, and something uneasy sits like poison on Jason's tongue. It isn't that Dick isn't being sincere, because he knows he is; it's just— something. "You're one of the bravest kids I've ever met." His gaze flicks up to meet Jason's. "And so are you, Jay."
Jason opens his mouth and closes it. Warmth burns up into his face and beats like a pulse, like wings.
Fuck.
He averts his gaze and focuses on Tim's absent little doodles over his knee until they fall away, until Tim's weight slumps almost entirely against Jason's leg. It must be exhausting, Jason thinks as he gathers Tim and his little blanket cocoon up into his arms. Even when Jason can see the triggers coming, even when he's trained himself to bite back the reactions with as much force as he can afford, even when he's made an art out of schooling his expression when he sees a green wig— chalky, made-up skin— a crowbar…It's still exhausting when he knows what to look out for, let alone when he doesn't see them coming.
Tim's still wearing his red jacket when Jason tucks him back in, a few fingers curled loosely against his hood.
Jason doesn't take it off.
Dick's sat at the windowsill in front of the table, lost in thought, by the time Jason's stripped off the armor and gear, washed the remaining dishes, and packed away the leftover cake. Dick's sweet tooth is legendary; when he doesn't even blink at the at least four cakes that Jason basically puts on the table right in front of him, he knows his brother is miles away.
He slaps a dollar on the table in front of Dick once he's put it all away; Dick jerks slightly at the sound and blinks up at Jason quizzically.
"Your thoughts. Seemed like they were worth more than a penny," Jason says dryly, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.
Dick offers him a shallow smile. "I was thinking about Tim's jacket. He picked it, didn't he?"
Jason scowls, but doesn't dispute it.
"You know," Dick says idly, "I was watching him roam around here earlier. I saw the way he shut the cabinet door with his hip. How he rubbed the back of his neck when he was thinking. And— when we watched the movie, Little Wing, before it got bad. I just. I looked over, and it was like looking at you. Folded up, face all scrunched up like you do when you concentrate, elbows squished between your— his legs." He breathes out, and it's ever-so-slightly shaky. "And his little red hood."
Jason stares at him. He thinks about the way Tim hops up onto his feet like Dick, the way he pretzels himself into chairs like Dick, the way he hop-skips at Jason's side— like Dick.
Maybe, he thinks with a little ache in his chest, he'd seen so much of Dick that he hadn't noticed himself.
He sighs, but can't hold onto the scowl from before after Dick's words. "Spit it out, Dickie," he says flatly. "The problem, I mean . I can hear you overthinking from all the way over here."
Dick pulls himself up slightly, angling himself to face Jason. "Tim needs professional help, Jay," he says gently. "You and I, we're equipped for a lot of stuff. Not this."
It isn't as if Jason hadn't seen it coming; it isn't even that he disagrees. But he waits anyway, because he's positive Dick has more to say.
"And it can't be just run of the mill help," Dick continues with a sort of tense gravity to his voice. "He needs— more. It's bad, Jay. It's serious, it's… It's stuff that'll haunt his nightmares forever. It's." He opens his mouth and closes it, and Jason knows the feeling, because that shit— some of the shit the kid's been through, it's impossible to describe. It's just evil. It's just fucking evil.
"I know," Jason says quietly. "I— I've already thought of how to do it, but… I'm worried about what the legality and confidentiality battles will do to Tim. Jack Drake is returning— probably soon, and somehow, I doubt he's just going to accept me stealing his kid. His travel plans are always fucking inconsistent, so I have no idea whether he'll actually be back, but fuck, Dickie, fuck. That's his fucking dad."
"Only in blood," Dick says coldly.
Jason makes a sharp, angry sound low in his throat. "I know. But he's gonna throw a fucking wrench in all of this when he gets back. And the kid isn't some— unknown. He's a public figure. I've been keeping him low profile around here, but the second I take him back out there? Into society? He's not just some kid. He's the kid of one of the richest fucking men in Gotham. And I look like a goddamn serial killer. Any therapist worth their salt would call CPS on me the second they see me. And I could fight. I could go in, guns blazing, I could make it crystal fucking clear that anyone who tries to take him has to do it over my dead body. But I can't put Tim through that. Not after what he's been through."
"You think it'll be even more traumatizing for him," Dick murmurs, looking out toward the dark windows, and it isn't really a question that either of them needs to answer.
"And that's still his dad," Jason says again, through his teeth. "A piss-poor excuse, barely human, but I can't just— I can't just waste him like I so badly want to, because what if that fucks the kid up even more? He deserves closure. He deserves to decide, even if all I want. All I want, Dick…" he says, and the rage that seizes at his lungs turns his words black. "If I had my fucking way—"
"Jay, there is someone who would help you." Dick says quietly.
Jason's jaw tightens. "No."
"And I'm not saying you have to talk to him—"
" No."
"Just hear me out," Dick cajoles, and Jason tries, he tries not to take it personally. He tries not to hear it as you aren't good enough. You have to go running to him to solve your problems. You can't do this in any way that counts . Dick trusts him, or he would've stepped in weeks ago. It's all Jason has to hold onto. "You don't have to say yes, but hear me out, at least. B has a different kind of power. He has connections. He knows people. Under his temporary wardship, or even just name, nobody would ask questions. Tim could get quality care—"
"Dick."
"It could be totally under the radar —"
"Dick, for fuck's sake, I've already thought about it, " Jason says, a little louder than he'd intended, and he can tell the volume startles Dick. He lowers his voice slightly and sighs, aggravated despite himself. "I— I know. I know what he can do, what he's capable of. But Dick, I— if anything, I understand him even less, now." Jason gestures toward the door where Tim's sleeping, and he's fairly certain he can't keep the slightly hysterical edge out of his voice. "I would do fucking. anything. for that kid, Dick. Less than two months, and I'd do anything. Don't make me say what I'd do to someone who hurt him. And if someone killed him—"
His voice stutters to a stop. Dick stares at him, stricken, and even with the mask, the unexpected grief in his expression is so palpable that it corrodes at Jason's heart like acid.
"If someone killed him," Jason says quietly, and his voice breaks.
There's a beat of silence. Dick swallows audibly.
"Okay, Little Wing," he says, still with that tenderness that aches something vivid. "Okay. If never talking to B again is the best thing for you, I— I'm behind you. All the way, I'm behind you. But just…" He sighs shakily and leans back, and there's a little tremble to his hands where he's gripping the table. "I just want to make sure that's what's good for Tim, too. That's all, okay?"
It's too much— it's too much to handle. Dick's expression, bleeding concern like an open wound, is too much in its sincerity, especially when Jason knows Dick's struggling with the split loyalty. It's a thin line, he imagines, to try to be a prominent part of both Jason and Bruce's lives, especially when they aren't fucking talking, but even still… Even still, he has to fight, and really, really fight to tell himself that his fears of Bruce stepping in and taking over are unfounded— and sometimes, when he remembers how close Dick still is to Bruce… He wonders. He wonders if their tentative balance will ever shift, and Dick will see Jason the way Jason's positive Bruce sees him— unfit, as Robin, as a caretaker, as a symbol.
Every one of Jason's nerves feels exposed and raw and oversensitive, and he knows, he just knows that if this continues, it'll end in shouting— mostly from him. Why is this what's good for Tim? Why do all roads have to lead back to Bruce? Why does it hurt like it did when I first crawled out of the grave, Dick, why does it hurt like it did the day I died?
But there's a kid who just managed to cry himself to sleep only a room away, and Jason can't afford to yell. He doesn't even know that he wants to yell, particularly, but he sure feels like a fucking pressure cooker, trapped inside of himself, and everything's getting fucking warm and blurry like a mirage.
"I think you should leave," he blurts out, and Dick takes it in stride.
"Okay," he says simply, his expression unsurprised, and cracks open the window. "Just… Think about it, Jay. That's all I'm asking."
He's gone between one second and the next, phantom-quiet, and it's what Jason had wanted— what he'd needed, maybe —but he feels the absence like Dick left a hole behind, shaped like him.
His chest hurts. The next breath comes out more of a wheeze than he would've liked.
It hadn't been this bad— for a while, that is. The first days after he'd died— his first days back in Gotham. Every time he'd heard that fucking laugh. Then, he'd found some sort of rhythm. He hadn't had so much to fear for a while— or at least, that was what he'd told himself.
But it's impossible to avoid his biggest fear, now; Tim had upended the hierarchy easily, perhaps from the moment he'd stepped into Jason's life.
Breathe, Jason, breathe, he tells himself until he's calmed down, until the roaring wave in his ears retreats back into a manageable tide, until his heart rate's subsided back to something normal.
And just like every time he does it, the voice that he hears is Robin's.
That night, Batman returns to his nightmares in full form.
Jason supposes he should consider himself lucky that Tim isn't there.