Jason might have… A bit of a dilemma on his hands.
The dilemma is that Tim (but not Jason) is feeling Dick's absence… acutely. Tim ( but definitely not Jason) is worrying about how Dick is faring in his absence. Tim (but absolutely, positively not Jason) has been stress cooking. Overcompensating, to be honest.
"Jay?" Tim asks from his perch on the counter. "Are you stress cooking again?"
"I don't stress cook," Jason says as he actively stress cooks a feast for thirteen. He's halfway through making ketchup from scratch and feeling pretty stupid about it, but he can't stop now. "I just— normal cook."
"Is making enough food for all of your lackeys normal cooking?" Tim asks, and pokes the tip of his tongue out in concentration as he messes with the prongs of one of his little puzzles. Tim has about thirty of them, courtesy of Marco; they're little metal or wooden pieces that he has to figure out how to pull apart, and Tim absolutely adores them. When Jason winds down to read, it's often to the dulcet tones of Tim click-click-clicking the pieces together as he tangles them up and pulls them apart about a hundred times. He's pretty glad the noise doesn't bother him, or he'd have had to break Tim's heart.
"Last I checked, you were content to eat everything I made," Jason says, gesturing sternly at Tim with his sauce-coated spatula.
"We just ate ," Tim says pointedly, not looking away from his puzzle.
"Hush," Jason says, cracking the oven door open so that he can pull out two trays of biscuits. He nudges the door closed with his hip and turns to face Tim. "You're telling me you'd actually turn down these biscuits? Look how well they turned out!"
"They're really great, Jay," Tim says, without even bothering to look up. The audacity. "Are you gonna put them with—" He looks up, finally, and glances at the table, which is covered with mini quiches, brownies, and two different varieties of muffins. "...Everything else?"
"You know," Jason says, lowering the trays to the table with a clatter. "I don't think you're being particularly appreciative of all of my cooking, Tim."
Tim hops off the counter and pads over to Jason's side. "...You're really worried, aren't you?"
"No," Jason says with a scoff, and jerks when smoke billows off the peppers burning on the stove.
The thing is, Dick had respected Jason's wishes. But when Jason had asked Dick to leave, he hadn't figured Dick just… Wouldn't come back for a few days. And then it had him thinking— maybe Dick needed the space just as much as Jason did at that moment, for whatever reason. After all, his brother had been a little twitchy, so maybe he had his own shit going on. He could keep a secret just as well as the rest of them.
Dick will come back when he wants to, Jason maintains.
Tim looks at him like he's an idiot, which— he's fairly certain the kid picked that up from him. It's concerning to see his own arched, unimpressed eyebrow leveled back at him; is this how his lackeys feel?
"I bet Dick would really enjoy all of these muffins," Tim says mildly, picking one up and plucking at the blueberries in an almost birdlike fashion.
"You're not even being subtle about it anymore." Jason scowls, dropping a heavy hand over Tim's head and ruffling the kid's hair so it pokes up every which way. Tim had really embraced the long-haired look; Marco, a proud owner of fluffy hair himself, had braided a few strands on either side of Tim's head earlier in the week. Jason had taken one look at the delighted expression on Tim's face when he looked in the mirror and resolved to figure out how to do them himself, just so that he didn't have to keep telling Tim to wait for Marco when he wanted braids again.
He does kind of suck at them, though; he'd tried them out this morning, and Tim's right braid is a hell of a lot wonkier than his left braid. Even still, the kid had seemed pleased, and if he's happy, Jason supposes he's happy, too.
(He has this nagging suspicion that Tim could probably do it better than him, but the kid keeps asking him, and what's Jason gonna say, no?)
"You're not being subtle, either," Tim says, and leans in slightly to bump up against Jason's side. "Why not just text him?"
"Dick's a big boy, Tim," Jason responds, absently trying to tuck the edge of the braid he'd just accidentally ruined back under the rest of Tim's hair the way Marco had showed him. "He'll come back in his own time, and then you'll get to hang out with him again, okay?" And besides, he thinks, Dick's never needed an invitation before. He just comes.
Tim offers him a smile, something almost sly and a little too knowing, and fuck, Jason thinks, this kid knows way too much, and it's dangerous .
"It's not always just about me, Jay."
Dick's absence means that Jason's been taking Tim to the office with him more frequently than he would have before, and if it's because he's paranoid, then no it isn't.
Marco loves it; Jason privately thinks this is largely because Marco misses the days when his sisters were much, much younger and sort of projects that onto Tim, much to Jason's amusement. For the most part, though, Tim's favorite pastimes seem to be listening to the meetings, examining the visuals that Jason makes, and fiddling with the embattled spreadsheet corpses Jason leaves in his tyrannical wake.
Just like any other normal kid, Jason thinks fondly, having grown up in the most normal of circumstances himself.
The reign of I-7 continues, but Jason finds it a lot easier to turn his full attention to it now that he's brought a swift, bloody end to the fentanyl business, at least for now. Fentanyl never stays down, to his despair, but at least he'd been able to put the fear of— well, him into anyone he suspected who might still be thinking about dealing in it. Look, if those guys had an ounce of value for their kneecaps, they wouldn't have peddled fucking fentanyl to teenagers in Hood's streets.
And maybe it's the fact that— well, he's basically looking out for his own kid, now, but he's starting to take these cases kind of personally. Each one haunts him a little more than it had before, and he'd already had a hard time detaching; it's even fucking worse now. Knowing Tim's at home, doing his little kid things, hasn't exactly made him more merciful in any capacity; if anything, he's pretty sure he's gotten meaner, which kind of sucks, because theoretically, he's trying not to do things that he thinks Tim might find horrifying…
Then again, Tim isn't really thrown by murder.
"What was it like, then?" Jason asks the kid one evening after dinner. He's sprawled out on the ground and propped up on one elbow, and Tim's painting his nails black (to make him more menacing, apparently). "Back when you followed us around, I mean."
Tim pauses mid-stroke, his brow furrowing a little bit in thought. Today, his hair's pulled back in a ponytail that looks like a tiny pineapple at the back of his head. A good thing, too, because with the length the kid's bangs are getting, Jason would've ended up with nail polish everywhere but his nails. "Like… You know when you see superheroes in movies? And— you know they won't lose, no matter what… I guess it was kind of like that. It felt like you guys always won. There wasn't anything you couldn't do." Tim's hand pauses over Jason's thumbnail, and the strokes of polish stutter slightly. "I could've watched you guys fly all day."
Jason swallows the lump in his throat, because fuck, he could've as well, at one point. Flying like that, it almost doesn't feel real, and especially not in hindsight.
"I have a question for you," he says quietly, "and you don't have to answer it." And there's that voice again, the voice going stop, go back, you don't want to know, Jay, you don't want to fucking know.
"Okay," Tim says, wary but curious. "What is it?"
"After I, uh. Died, you know." Jason waves his hand vaguely, and Tim's expression pinches. It's now or never. "What was it like? What was…" And there it is again, that feeling like he's trying to swallow a sharp-edged rock whole. "... He like?"
Tim doesn't need much more prompting to catch on. He starts in on Jason's index finger, pursing his lips for a moment before speaking.
"... I don't know all the details," Tim says quietly, and his expression pans out into something uneasy and almost anxious. Jason's stomach flips. "But I did follow him, still, for a while. It was different, I guess. Brutal." Tim absently rubs at his cheek with the heel of his palm, obviously trying not to get polish on his face. "Just— Brutal. That's all I can… You know Newton's First Law of Motion?"
Jason tilts his head. He's used to Tim's tangents, by now; somehow, the kid will connect this back to whatever he's talking about— it's just that this segue doesn't give Jason very positive thoughts.
"An object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by an external force. He was kinda like that," Tim says, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "Someone had to stop him every time, 'cause he was… out of control, kind of. Dick, Commissioner Gordon, and…"
Tim hesitates, and oh, Jason knows that particular brand of shifty.
"Tim…"
"He caught me out there once while he was beating someone up," Tim admits quickly, averting his gaze from Jason's. Jason tenses. "I don't think he knew I had been following him for— for a while, but… we talked. Just for a little bit. He asked me what I was doing out there… you know, the usual. He, um, took me back home, but he… he didn't kill that guy. I dunno if he really remembers. He seemed out of it, you know?"
Jason opens his mouth and closes it. He doesn't really know what the fuck to say, where the fuck to even start. Tim knew Batman was operating off-script, and he still went right out into the streets, as if…. As if.
As if nothing out there could be worse than whatever was going on in his own home. Right. That doesn't make Jason want blood whatsoever.
"I think he sort of stopped almost killing everyone he found, then, but I— I." Tim's voice drops in volume. "... I'm not sure exactly what happened. I think… Clark?"
"You know who Superman is, too?" Jason asks incredulously, because his brain needs something to focus on that doesn't make him feel like his internal organs are dissolving into ash, and Tim just blinks at him, puzzled.
"He looks exactly the same as both Clark and Superman, Jay," Tim says plainly, as if he's insulted by the question. "All he does is take off his glasses, basically. He was the easiest to figure out."
"Right," Jason says. Holy shit.
"I kind of stopped the night stuff, because..." Tim stops, and Jason's anxiety sharpens into pure, sharp rage at the look on the kid's face. "I didn't go out for a while." He swallows. "But I heard Superman spoke to him, but… I don't know, he kind of started to go back to normal, I guess. You— You might have to ask Dick. I think he was around sometimes…"
Jason isn't sure if he will, yet. He doesn't know if he wants to.
The kid's hand wobbles a little as he continues with Jason's pinky. Quietly, he adds: "But he wasn't the same, still. Not from when he had Robin , you know?"
Jason can't find the words to speak; his face feels like fire, like ice— both, somehow? Knowing this— it rattles him just as badly as he knew it would, and he isn't sure yet if he regrets asking or not. He hadn't thought Bruce would be unaffected by his death, but he sure hadn't thought he'd let himself go like that, either— especially considering the fact that Bruce had still backed off from killing the Joker. Had that been Clark's influence? Something's swarming in his head, loud and confused and irritated and anxious, and there's only one point of clarity left in the mess—
Now that he has Tim, Jason thinks he might have an idea of why Bruce was never the same as he was when he'd had Robin.
So, naturally, Dick shows back up when Jason least expects him to, as per his brand.
Jason honestly should've seen him coming; he'd had a little bit of a feeling on their walk back to his place, but … It hadn't been bad. It'd just been— a feeling.
Go figure.
"All I'm saying is this," Marco says, and Jason groans . "No, but seriously! You know it's a helmet, right? Why in god's name did you give yourself a helmet if your name is Red Hood?"
The reason for why he's Red Hood is complicated and messy, the way most things regarding Jason seem to be. But it's always hard to put into words why he'd gone with that name— to remind Bruce of his failure? To confront his own fear of the Joker?
As for why the helmet…
"Helmet's safer than a hood," he says with a grunt. It's only half of the truth, really; Talia had given him the helmet, with the insistence that he weaponize his greatest fear into armor to protect himself. It's not like he hadn't contemplated ditching the helmet for something more like a hood, but the thought of getting closer to a cowl doesn't exactly give him the warm fuzzies.
If he does ditch the helmet, it'd be largely for Tim, he thinks.
"Hard to put explosives in a hood," Tim says mildly, not even breaking concentration as he absolutely destroys his opponent in the trivia game he's been obsessed with. Poor Catboy420 never stood a fuckin' chance; Tim had picked Aquatic Creatures as his category of choice.
"This is why you're my favorite," Jason tells him. Tim looks up from the victory screen and grins brightly.
"You could rebrand yourself as Red Helmet," Marco says, unimpressed.
"Never do three syllables," Jason says in tandem with Tim. "Marco, look, if you can avoid it, you should never have a three syllable name. It fuckin' nerfs the emphasis. Batman. R—" He clears his throat. "Robin. Black Mask. What do you hear? That's right. Two syllables."
"Nightwing." Marco grins something malicious, and if looks could kill…
"Whatever. Him, too," Jason says, in not at all a waspish manner. "Point is, never do a three syllable name."
"You could just be Jason," Tim says thoughtfully, hopping ahead of Jason and wheeling around to face him. "But that would really ruin your branding. Plus, Jason isn't really an intimidating name."
" Please no," Marco says. "If I had to introduce him on the streets as Jason, it would trash my reputation. It sounds like I'm working for a frat boy."
"...You do know my name actually is Jason, right?" Jason says flatly.
"Don't remind me," Marco mutters. Jason's about to say something in response (or just kick him), but a telltale prickle skittering up his spine and over the back of his neck stills his words. He pauses, only taking a moment to evaluate the shape of the shadows falling long ahead of them, and then extends an arm to keep Tim from going any further. The kid stops in his path, glancing up at Jason, and Marco tenses at his side, reaching a hand down toward his thigh for his holster.
"Show yourself," Jason says coldly into the darkness, and four generic-looking dark shapes emerge, all equipped with rebreathers. Great. That's what Jason had been looking forward to tonight, getting a face full of Pift in gas form— or whatever the hell it is that they're wearing rebreathers to protect themselves from. Then again, he surmises, it could always be run of the mill fear toxin, too, because that's always an option in this fuckin' city.
"You really fucked up our ops, Hood," Generic Bad Guy Number One calls out; Jason assumes he's the leader, because he talks big and stands in front and all the other guys kind of make some scattered sound of assent in response to his words.
"And now I'm going to fuck you up," Jason says mildly, brushing Tim behind him lightly. "I hope it's worth it, fellas." If it had just been him alone, he wouldn't have thought twice about throwing himself right into this; as it is, Tim's peering out from behind his elbow curiously, and Jason honestly can't even fathom the idea of Tim and fear toxin. Like, his brain literally won't even go there. It's bad enough the kid had to live through it— having to live through it again? Not a fucking chance, Jason thinks. Not in his fucking lifetime.
"Marco," he says, unlatching his helmet and firmly plopping it down over Tim's head. Just in case.
"Yeah." Marco says immediately, moving his hand away from the holster. "Come on, kid. Let's go."
"But," Tim starts in protest, his voice muffled, and Jason raps his knuckles against the top of the helmet.
"No arguments on this one, kid," he says, going for stern and hoping he doesn't sound like— well, Batman? "Listen to Marco. Go on."
Tim reluctantly peels away from his side and potters after Marco, glancing back only once more; Jason's chest does something funny and stuttery at the sight of the red helmet on Tim's head. Kid looks like a bobblehead.
"Is that— a fucking kid?" The leader sputters, actually pausing with his hand on the canister out of shock. Jason takes that opportunity, that sliver of an opening, and closes the gap between himself and the leader in just one stride.
"Nah," he says loosely, landing a hard strike with his elbow that sends the leader stumbling back with a sharp curse. "You must be imagining things." The guy lunges forward again, and Jason twists slightly to the side, slamming his boot against his knee and sending him sprawling onto the ground. The canister hits the ground with a hollow little thunk, but thankfully doesn't break— yet.
"Hood, you got a kid, now?" one of the other guys crows, and there's something just a little too gleeful in his voice that makes Jason's skin itch for a beatdown. He rests his boot against the back of the downed leader and stares, unimpressed, at the speaker. "You should introduce us!" There's a couple hoots of laughter in the wake of his statement, as if he'd said something profoundly funny. Honestly, if Jason rolls his eyes any harder, they might get stuck in his head; why are these guys always so fucking predictable?
"If there's anything left of you when I'm done," Jason says pleasantly, "I'll be sure to do that."
It's a relatively quick clean-up; these guys are rookies, and clumsy on top of that. A sloppy fist here, a halfhearted kick there, and seriously, where do these guys get the confidence? Should've taken up marketing with that sort of bold-faced conviction instead of fighting— or, well losing to —Jason in the middle of the Alley.
One of them, though, takes that confidence to a whole new level of stupid.
"You shouldn't have brought a kid out here, Hood," one of the guys croaks. He makes a garbled, incomprehensible sound of pain as Jason twists his arm back, but surprisingly doesn't let up on saying stupid shit. "That's all kinds of stupid. You know what they do to greasy little kids like that around here? Little shit's good as dead, maybe worse —"
He squeals like a stuck pig as Jason gives his shoulder a nice, sharp tug. There's a satisfying pop.
"Here's what you're not gonna do," Jason says, cold like a barren tundra. "You're not gonna threaten any kid around here, and you especially aren't going to threaten that kid, unless you want to be spitting up your own teeth for the next month and half out of a feeding tube. Now do I make myself clear?" When the guy just gurgles, Jason gives him a sharp shake. " I said—"
"Oi, Hood!"
Jason jerks his head up to look at the leader, who'd somehow hobble-crawled his way over to the canister while Jason had been occupied with the idiot writhing underneath him.
"Forgot about this one, didn't you?" The leader says through a blood-filled mouth, and Jason just stares at him blankly, because— no, he didn't forget, but the fucker's rebreather had cracked when Jason had all but body-slammed him into the dirt.
"You really don't want to do that," Jason says flatly. "Your rebreather is—"
Except he doesn't get the warning out, because the moron shatters the canister against the nearest damp brick wall and pitches it, full-force, at Jason's face.
Jason turns immediately, slapping a hand over his face, but— the canister doesn't hit him.
Because it hits Nightwing, instead.
"Oh, what the fuck!" Jason exclaims furiously through his hand, his voice coming out nasally as he claps his free hand over Dick's shoulder and tries to pull him back. Dick just cocks a grin at him and doesn't fucking budge , because he's a goddamn martyr, and fuck, Jason is going to kill the absolute life out of him when they get out of this. The gas hisses out of the shattered remains of the canister, billowing up into fumes, and even Jason ends up getting a tiny whiff of the putrid gas while he's shoving Dick toward the fire escape. The leader vanishes behind the screen, and his wailing scream follows Jason as he half-drags, half-carries Dick up the stairs.
"You're a goddamn— fucking— idiot, Goldie," Jason sort of wheezes, one hand still over his mouth as a thrill of cold, ice-sharp panic shudders up his spine. He still doesn't know if it's pure fear toxin or Pift, but the way Dick is already starting to go limp like a cooked noodle in his arms doesn't exactly inspire hope in him. "You're fucking heavy," he tells Dick, because he has to say something, he has to keep talking to battle away the chattering of his teeth, the shake of his hands. God, he fucking hopes Marco's at the apartment when he gets back, because if Jason's about to start freaking out, he has no idea how Tim's gonna handle it.
Unless Marco abandoned him—
Abandoned Tim?
Maybe they both—-
No, fuck. It's the fear toxin, Jason, get a grip, he tells himself. It's the fear toxin.
"Jason," Dick stutters out, and Jason can't see Dick's eyes behind the domino, but he just fucking knows those pupils are probably blown to hell and back right now. "Jason. Jason."
"Three times. Now I have to show up in a mirror like Bloody Mary," Jason says, slicing the words off like a joke. They come out a little too hysterical to really land, and Dick jerks under his hand. Jason presses his hand flat over Dick's chest, and he can feel the unsteady jackrabbit of Dick's pulse practically vibrate under his gloves. Not fucking good, he thinks, absolutely the opposite of good.
Dick sort of gurgles out some mangled little sound. "I'm f— f."
"If you try to tell me you're fine, I'll fucking throw you off the stairs," Jason tells him quietly, and then tries to take a deep breath when he feels his brother shudder. "Everything's going to fucking suck for a while, okay, Dickiebird? It's really going to suck, but I'll be here. I'll—" His heart leaps up, smacks the roof of his mouth, and gibbers out an unsteady beat. "I'll be here. So come on."
It's easier at the beginning to move Dick, but by the time he drags him to his apartment building, up the stairs, past a startled Mrs. Pullett ("Oh, dear, is Nightwing quite alright?" "He'll be perfectly fine, Mrs. Pullett ." ), and finally to his peeling green door, Jason's exhausted. His pulse is still jacked, still rabbiting along a little faster than normal, but judging by the way Dick is absolutely rattling in his arms, his brother's faring far, far worse than he is. Worse is the fact that it starts raining during the last two minutes of their half-walk, and Dick makes a sound low in his throat that makes Jason's teeth fucking hurt.
"It's not right," Dick keens, swinging a hand out as Jason and Marco wrestle him into the bed. He would've absolutely clocked Marco, too, if Jason hadn't caught his wrist midair. Truthfully, Jason thinks, he'll never get used to this. It doesn't matter how many times he's seen Dick injured, or down for the count, or in emotional distress; he'll never adjust to seeing Dick like this. "It isn't right. I don't—"
"Marco, listen," Jason says quietly. "Fear toxin gets personal, so—"
"You don't need to say anything more," Marco says lightly, already heading down the hallway. "If you need any help with—" His gaze flicks to Tim, who's peering into the bedroom with quiet watchfulness. "—Anything, let me know."
"I will," Jason says, and tries not to think about how cold his chest still feels, how his hands still tremble slightly. When he glances back at Tim, he wills himself to see only red. No yellow, no green. Just Tim and his red jacket. Only red. It's okay.
"Jason," Tim says, his voice unusually small in the echo of the door clicking closed, "Dick is— breathing wrong, I think."
Jason's heart doesn't just fucking sink; it plummets.
When he gets back to Dick's side, he's all but freaking out properly, now. He keeps trying to sit up and go, to where Jason isn't sure, but he keeps trying to lay him back down effortfully— he has a bad feeling it'll be a rooftop, and Jason can't let that happen. It isn't exactly easy to push Nightwing around, after all; he may not be quite as broad as Jason post-Lazarus, but he's still fucking jacked and ready to use every ounce of that strength under the influence of the toxin. Water trickles down from the planes of his costume where it's gathered in tiny pools, leaking down into the bed beneath him; a towel appears in Jason's periphery, and Jason wills himself to take it from Tim gently instead of just ripping it out of the kid's hand in a panic.
"Thanks, kid," he says quietly as he tries to dry off as much of the water as he can. Seriously , fuck fear toxin, he thinks as he gently peels Dick's mask off.
Dick's on the verge of hyperventilation as Jason's finishing up, and Jason grips his wrist and yanks his hand up to press it against his own chest, so Dick can feel his heartbeat and breathe in time with him. Jason's own pulse is still a little thready, but the grounding technique at least gets Dick breathing a little normally. It's something Bruce had done for them, before—
"You're not— alive," Dick says, his words blurry, a little soft at the edges. The darks of his eyes practically swallow his irises whole at this point, and Jason tenses at the sight. "It should've." He chokes, and his fingers curl up like shriveling petals against Jason's chest. "It sh-should've b—"
Jason barks out a mirthless laugh that isn't nearly as sharp or derisive as he would've liked it to be. "What, you were gonna die in that warehouse with my mom? Fuck's sake, Dickie, don't be ridiculous."
Dick bleats out a little wheeze. Where Jason's free palm rests, he can feel Dick's heartbeat going absolutely buckwild.
" He was so little," Dick says, and the grief in his voice wraps its snarled fingers around Jason's heart and grips it like a vice. Dick isn't talking to him anymore, not in any way that counts. "He was so little and now he's g— gone."
"Dickie," Jason says again, his grip tightening on his brother's trembling wrist. His eyes sting. He can feel Tim in the background, retreating back into the dining room, and he lets the kid go, because firstly, this is fucking terrifying, and secondly, he's positive Dick wouldn't want Tim to see him like this. "Dick. I'm back. It's okay. I'm not dead anymore."
Dick shakes his head; his little, hitching gasps, jagged-edged and trembling, don't subside. "You left," he says, and it's so small, so childlike. " I d— didn't know. And th— then you," he stops. The next breath he heaves out all but shambles apart into a wail immediately. " And then you came back d— dead."
Fuck. The prickle under his skin is back, needling at his blood. He feels almost faint at this point, but he can't even go curl up on his sofa-bed and crumble into dust in peace.
"I know," he says, and every other word just piles up in his throat like rocks in a landslide. God, Dick's heart-rate isn't fucking subsiding, it's not going down. "I'm alive. I'm alive, okay? Look at me, Dickie, I'm alive, and I'm right here."
Dick warbles. "You were so small," he whispers, and the words crack like glass under immense pressure. "Just— like." He jerks up, and Jason pivots just in time to catch Dick's full weight as he tries to crawl out of the bed in a panic. " Tim? Tim," Dick calls, his voice breaking in distress, and Jason grunts as he tries to maneuver Dick back down. "Is he g— Is he gone? Is he d—"
" No," Jason says, a little too harshly. Fuck. He needs to be gentle. "No, Dick, Tim is fine. Tim is fine, okay? He's—" He exhales sharply. "He's alive, Dickie. He's okay. Tim, can you— can you come here for just a second?"
And fuck. He doesn't want to bring Tim into this, but Dick is absolutely losing his mind at this point, scrabbling his hands all over Jason and trying to squirm out of Jason's arms, and— and Jason doesn't know what the fuck else to do to calm him down. He's not calming down.
The door slides open; the second Dick lays eyes on Tim, he practically goes dead-weight in Jason's arms. This doesn't make him much easier to move, but Jason's at least able to get him to lie back down, even if the new position is a little awkward. Jason grinds his teeth together as he glances at Tim, who swallows audibly.
"...I've— I've seen Batman get hit by fear toxin," Tim says quietly, his expression shaken. "Nightwing was there that night. Batman was screaming. I— I'd never heard him scream before." He glances at Jason meaningfully, and the stress in Jason's stomach condenses into a knot that weaves thorny tendrils up into his lungs.
Bringing Tim into the fray results in two things; the first is that Dick stops muttering about Tim dying, thankfully ( Jason isn't sure how much of that he'd be able to take), but the second is that Dick starts muttering about something else entirely, and when Jason catches on, his blood goes cold.
"...isn't fair it isn't fair it isn't fair," Dick whispers, and Jason has to duck his head to hear him. " You should have known. He's so little. It's raining."
"Dick," he says like he's programmed to keep repeating it. "I'm ali—"
He stutters to a stop. There's something different about this string of words, something different about the terror in Dick's expression, and— what the fuck did he just say?
It's raining.
"Tim," he says, around what feels like a mouthful of glass. "You— You should go to the next room and stay there for a while, until I call you. Actually, why don't you watch something? You can, um. Finish Matilda , how about that?" Anything, he thinks a little desperately, anything to get you out of here before Dick accidentally triggers you.
Fortunately, Tim doesn't question him much. He looks none too happy about having to leave Dick, judging by the pinch between his eyebrows, but he backs out and closes the door without much protest. Some of the tension leaks out of Jason's shoulders, and he hunches over Dick with a shaky little sigh.
"Fuck, Dickie," he says quietly, burying his face in his palms.
" It's raining," Dick whispers again, and his voice breaks. " Why is it always raining?"
Wait.
Always?
Jason straightens, hands falling away from his face, and he's pretty sure he can feel the blood physically drain from his face. Wait just a fucking second.
"Dick," he says, and he's trying to be gentle, he is, but the words come out low and strained because he has to absolutely force them through his teeth. God, he's fucking petrified ; he isn't sure if it's remnants of him breathing in a little bit of the gas, too, or— "What— What do you mean, always?"
He should've known better than to try to get a straight answer from Dick in his present condition; Dick doesn't answer, doesn't even look at him. He's staring out past Jason, out at the windows, where the rain's picked up from an almost soundless drizzle to an actual downpour. Jason gets up to close the blinds, but Dick scrambles to grasp at his wrist sloppily.
"Don't go. Don't go," Dick pleads, and the raw insistence in his voice just about guts Jason. "Please, don't go. "
Jason and Dick, they don't use formalities. Dick certainly hasn't since they've fallen into some semblance of familiarity with each other again, and even during their earlier awkward stages, they'd never had much of a please and thank you sort of relationship. To hear Dick ask him, to hear Dick say please, don't go like that— It's practically a plea for mercy, and it makes Jason feel viscerally ill.
"Okay. Okay, I'm not going anywhere," he says— well, chokes, really, and lowers himself back down to the edge of the bed. "I'm not leaving you, Dick."
Dick's not really all there, though— he's murmuring again, this time, Jason swears he's speaking in Spanish. Jason doesn't understand most of it; unsurprisingly, most of it comes out a blurry, fear-spurred mess. He doesn't know what to do, what to say; all he can do is rest a hand over Dick's heart to gauge his heartbeat and make sure Dick doesn't try to bolt.
"It's raining," Dick croaks, this time in English, and his eyes, glossy and black, swivel up toward Jason.
"I know," Jason says. "I know, Dick." The wave of fear that grips him feels almost unreal.
(Fact: Dick's restlessness with rainy days predated Tim's official entrance into their lives.
Fact: Dick had seen Tim, and he'd recalled something. He'd locked up that night— and then again, when he'd talked about how this would haunt Tim forever, if he didn't get help.
Fact: Dick went through something terrible, and Jason's terrified it's going to come out now, when Dick is vulnerable, when Dick can't control himself, when Dick isn't in his right mind.)
Underneath his hand, Dick's pulse picks up again, thundering out a storm of its own against Jason's skin. He feels it practically vibrate through him as Dick's breaths all but punch out of him in short, staccato bursts.
"Dick, deep breaths. It's not r— "Jason stops. He'd been about to say it's not real, but it is— it was. It had been real. Whatever Dick had been through, it had been real. The lie sticks behind his teeth as Dick twists fretfully beneath him, his fingers still gripping Jason's wrist almost bruisingly tight. "Okay. Deep breaths. I'm right here, come on, Goldie, we'll get through this."
Dick's fingers, clammy and cold around Jason's wrist, only tighten. Jason had removed his gloves in the hopes that the skin contact would ground Dick, but whether it's working or not, he has no idea. The way Dick's heart is absolutely pounding— Dick's one of the strongest fucking people Jason's ever known, even though he'd have to be waterboarded before admitting it, and this won't kill him. Fuck, it probably won't even leave any lasting injuries, but still, still.
Dick's eyes swim, and Jason realizes everything's going blurry.
"Fuck," he says, because how could this have happened? Not to Nightwing, he pleads, even though it's long past, in all likelihood. Not to Dick. Not to my brother.
"Tim," Dick says— or more like sobs, really. Jason flinches. "Is—"
"He's okay," Jason says again, and he'll say it as many fucking times as he needs to. He's always worrying about the kid, even when he's in his right mind; he can hardly begrudge Dick for asking after Tim's wellbeing, especially under the influence of the fear toxin.
" Am I," Dick says, like he's speaking through a weed-choked throat. " Am I okay?" He twists his head and tries to move again, but he's sluggish and easily intercepted. It's the suggestibility kicking in, Jason thinks, because Dick's heart rate drops and his expression settles from openly distressed into something almost dreamlike. "Jason?"
"Yeah, Dickie, it's me," Jason whispers.
" You were dead," Dick says. It's no less agonized than it was the first time. Jason's breath hitches. " Please don't be mad, Jason. Please forgive me. Please don't go." He grasps at Jason again, even though Jason had long-since abandoned any plans to move more than a few inches from Dick's side. He doesn't want to hear the word please ever again. "I'm here now. I'm here n—" He chokes, and his voice pitches higher, more frantic, loud. "Please don't go, I'll be there this time. Please, take me instead, please. Don't hurt him."
" Shh, Dick I'm not gone. I never even blamed you to begin with, Dickie, please ," Jason pleads. He doesn't know if Dick even hears him. He doesn't know what version of him Dick's even seeing, now, but he doesn't have to be a genius to guess; in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if the Joker was making an appearance at this point, with the way Dick's eyes keep swiveling around in their sockets wildly. "I don't blame you now, either. I was just h—" He pauses. "I was just hurt. I still—"
Fuck. This is getting to him, too.
(Fear toxin, fun for the whole family.)
Dick's heart rate leaps again. This time, he whispers " don't touch me," and Jason wishes he could curb-stomp the demons haunting Dick into dust, he wishes he had something to direct his rage (fear? sorrow?) toward. He doesn't know what Dick is alluding to specifically, but it makes the uneasiness in his stomach twist up like a creature from the depths, sharp-toothed and sludgy. He's left with more questions than answers as the hours drag by.
He isn't sure if it's the nature of the toxin, or the fact that it's not as concentrated in this form as it'd been in tablet form, but he's just really fucking glad Dick isn't actively fighting him. Jason's gotten walloped by a confused, afraid Dick before, and it's not exactly his idea of a good time. The most that happens now as Dick battles the toxin is that he tries to escape the bed, but the suggestibility leaves his instinct to actually fight somewhat dulled. It's enough that Jason never actually has to push him too hard to get him to lie back down again, but he feels fucking awful every time Dick actually listens, because he knows it's the suggestibility, he knows he can't help himself. It feels dirty and wrong and awful and he fucking hates it, and he hates Pift, and no amount of angry faces is ever going to be able to get his fury across.
He uses the towel to dab away Dick's tears. He hides his own into the palms of his hands as he lowers his head down into the covers. He listens to the sound of Matilda saying, "Why don't you run away?" and Miss Honey saying, "I've often thought about it, but… I can't abandon my children." He thinks about how Dick had shown up— coincidence? Not fucking likely —because he'd been keeping an eye on Jason and Tim. He gives himself one more minute to absolutely lose his shit. Just one.
(Maybe two).
A fitful hour passes. Dick's tears subside. He stops gurgling out those helpless, wounded sounds, like an animal injured in the woods. He quiets, but he doesn't release Jason, and that's fine, because Jason doesn't let go of him, either.
And finally, his heart rate slows to something steady.
Something safe.
Tim kindly doesn't comment on Jason's expression when he finally leaves the bedroom. The kid's pulled out the sofa bed and is sprawled over it, halfway through How to Train Your Dragon, now— another favorite of Jason's.
"Is Dick okay?" Tim asks quietly as Jason joins him, and Jason wordlessly tilts slightly to rest his cheek against the top of Tim's head.
"He will be," he says, because he has to fucking believe it, too. He feels Tim turn his head slightly.
"Are you okay?"
"Me?" Jason echoes humorlessly. "I'm not the one who got— who—" He stops, because no, he isn't fucking okay. If he'd just swallowed his damn pride and texted Dick, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Now he knows too much, so much that it's pushing at the walls of his head and banging and causing a riot, and he doesn't know what the fuck to do about it. "I'm not—"
And now he's choking up in front of Tim, too. The world is spinning. His chest is so tight, he can barely breathe, and everything's going black at the edges, black and fuzzy and soft—
Tim studies him for a moment, and then claps his hands together. "Do you know about Ladon?" he asks lightly, tilting his head toward the TV. "He's a dragon in Greek mythology."
Despite himself, Jason's mouth twitches. He takes a deep breath and leans back, well aware that he's about to have his own tactics used against him to keep him from freaking the hell out. He shakes his head anyway, because it's about all he can manage. "Tell me."
"Well," Tim says quietly, not shifting out from under Jason's weight; Jason's careful to hold himself up slightly, so that he doesn't crush the kid by accident. "He guarded the golden apples in the Garden of Hesperides. The Hesperides were the ones who tended the garden, but Ladon protected it. He might've have had one hundred heads."
"Might've?" Jason echoes, amused, and wonders if Tim can hear the lasting tremble in his voice. "What, did he lose count?"
Tim huffs out a quiet laugh and elbows Jason slightly. "Don't be mean," he says lightheartedly. "Maybe he can't count. It's the least of his problems, anyway, 'cause. Heracles was told to steal the golden apples by King Eurystheus, and then he killed Ladon with a poisoned arrow to get them."
"Damn," Jason murmurs, snaking an arm around Tim's shoulders, and Tim pats his hand lightly. His chest doesn't feel like it's collapsing anymore, at least not as much as it had earlier; he can almost parse out what's happening on the TV, now. "Ladon really got the shit end of the stick, huh?"
"Not in every version," Tim says quietly, tracing the shape of an apple on the back of Jason's hand. "In another version, Heracles tricked Atlas to get the apples for him… and Ladon lived."
Jason hums. "I like that version more."
"Me too," Tim murmurs, and curls himself close to Jason. "I like it when everyone lives."
Predictably, Dick, despite being the victim, acts like he was the fucking villain or something the next morning.
"I must have freaked you guys out," he keeps saying. "God, and I left the bed all sweaty, too. I'll clean it up, I promise."
"Shut up, Dick," Jason tells him flatly, and Dick, master of compartmentalization, just smiles a little. It doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm doing the laundry today, anyway. I'll just toss the sheets into the washer, so stop worrying about it."
Tim tucks himself into the armchair next to the window and cocks his head. "Are you feeling better, Dick?"
Jason disguises his laugh as a cough. So it begins, he thinks.
"Yeah, don't worry, Timmy," Dick chirps, maskless and completely unaware of the fact that Tim just called him Dick. "I'm so sorry if I scared you, I— I never meant for you to see me like that. Serves me right for following you guys around, huh?" His face smooths over into something flat as he stares down at the bed, and something twists in Jason's stomach at his expression. "That uh— Pift, was it? No joke."
"Yeah, that's why it gets angry faces." Jason says, resting his elbow on top of Tim's head. Tim blinks up at him. "Which is why I find it unfair that everyone hates my naming conventions. I get to the point!"
"You're like, the only one who even calls it Pift, Jay," Tim points out. "Everyone else calls it the iteration with its number. Marco doesn't count, because you make his life miserable if he doesn't call it Pift."
"Look, he can either stand with me or against me," Jason says, picking at his nails with a grim little smile, "And he knows he's better off standing with me. Since he's supposed to be loyal."
Dick tilts his head. "Would he stay loyal to you?" he says pleasantly, and Jason narrows his eyes sharply at him. "Because I heard from a little birdie that he has a preference—"
Jason tenses. "First of all. How dare you come into my house and make bird puns—"
"Wait." Dick bolts upright like he's been shocked, his face draining of blood so quickly that he's left looking like a corpse. He pats his hands over his face frantically, and then looks between Jason and Tim with obvious bafflement. "You— Did you just call me Dick?" he says, and Tim presses his lips together. " Jay, did you take off my mask?"
"Had to," Jason says, mock-sadly. "To check your eyes, Dickie."
Dick opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks between Jason and Tim. Jason's pretty sure he can see steam pouring out of Dick's ears with how fast the gears are spinning. It only takes a moment for it all to click together with an almost obvious snap.
"You already knew!" he exclaims, and Jason dodges the pillow that comes hurtling at him with a shit-eating grin. "How long?"
"Oh, you know," Jason says with a shrug. "A week… Maybe more… Maybe less… Who really knows?"
" Fucker, you had me— dressing up in my full gear this whole time?" Dick sputters. "Do you have any idea what a fucking pain that is?"
"I can certainly imagine," Jason says brightly, and his grin only stretches wider across his face as he ducks the second pillow as well. "That's what you get for hijacking my fucking apartment, Goldie. And for Marco."
"I didn't even do anything!" Dick says, face flushed, but there's a little gleam in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and Jason recognizes the way he purses his mouth, as if he's trying not to smile. Jason's glad for it; he knows they're going to have to have the conversation at some point, but it's hard to watch Dick castigate the hell out of himself. He'd prefer this any day. "How is it my fault they like me more than you, Mr. I-Look-Like-a-Serial-Killer?"
Jason tsks and glances down at Tim. "What do you think? Doesn't have the same ring as Mr. Decapitation, does it?"
Tim shrugs. "My favorite is still 'Mr. I'd-Rather-Be-at-Home-With-My-Kid.'"
"I never should have told you about that," Jason grumbles.
" Et tu, Tim?" Dick asks sourly, his focus shifting from Jason to Tim. "I know why he would keep stringing me along, but you too? Now that just isn't fair. I've been good to you, haven't I?"
Tim shrugs almost mischievously, and fuck, Jason thinks, I gotta keep an eye on this kid . "I did kind of think it was funny. You kept trying to be really careful. It was a good effort, really. I just … Kind of already knew. I figured out a while back."
"Two words, Dickie," Jason says, barely able to keep the gloat out of his voice. " Quadruple. Somersault. You and your fuckin' flips, huh? Shouldn't have joined the world record, Boy Wonder."
Dick actually blushes at that, so fiercely that Jason's surprised the room doesn't just about go up in flames. "How— How did you—"
"You're one of the only people in the world who can do a quadruple somersault, Dick," Tim points out with a little smile. His shoulders tilt up almost shyly. "When I saw the video, I just— it made sense. And, and you were living with… You know. So, I just knew that he had to be Batman… It all… Made sense, I guess."
Dick looks mortified . "I— I can't believe you figured out when you were so…."
And then he pauses, and his expression shutters into something almost blank.
"...You…" Dick swallows. "You knew that Batman was next door to you, Tim? This whole time?"
Tim tilts his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "Yeah, I— I suppose. Why?"
Dick seems to realize he doesn't want to continue down this vein of questioning— at least for now — and shakes his head with practiced neutrality, but he's looking at Jason as he does it. Jason doesn't need to be a mind-reader to know what he's thinking, though; the same thought pops in every hour or so to grip Jason's brain like a vice.
"Anyway," Jason says, because if he doesn't, Tim's going to think himself into an aneurysm. "You must be hungry after all that fear toxin business. What do you think, Tim? Should we try malt powder in the pancakes today? I bought some earlier this week."
Tim blinks, glances between them, and hops up to his feet immediately. "I'll go get the batter ready," he says, and even though his tone is innocuous enough, he closes the door behind him when he leaves.
With the momentary space they've been granted, Jason turns to Dick. "Just so you know," he says awkwardly, and Dick stiffens slightly. "I— I'm not going to hold anything you said against you. You know that, right?"
His brother wilts a little. "I never thought you would, Little Wing," he says quietly. "I shouldn't have—"
"Stop. Just— Stop." Jason thumps down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I know what it's like, okay? You haven't been Robin unless you've gotten your ass handed to you by fear toxin. I just—" He clears his throat, hating this, hating the trapped expression on Dick's face as he stares, determined, at the sheets he's twisting in his fingers. "Look. I know you probably didn't want me to hear some of that, so— consider it erased. It's gone. I don't need any explanation, any—"
"Jason," Dick says, and looks up at him. "It's okay." He takes a deep breath and presses a hand against his chest as if steadying himself. "Honestly, when … everything with Tim happened, I sort of saw this coming. I knew it might— I knew I wouldn't be able to—" He stutters to a stop.
Jason doesn't move. He doesn't think he could, even if he wanted to, because his heart is roaring in his ears.
"I don't think I can share all of it, now— Like, I literally don't think I'm capable," Dick says with a soggy little laugh. "But she— she took advantage of me when I was in a bad place. I didn't— I should've been more clear."
"Bullshit," Jason says venomously, his words twisting into a snarl. "She shouldn't have fucking manipulated you. Being vague isn't consent."
"I know," Dick says almost like a plea, and Jason's jaw snaps shut so hard his mouth nearly goes numb. Everything rings bright and clear like an alarm, and Jason so badly wants to just shut his brain off. But he can't, and now all he can imagine is— is— Nightwing, Dick, his brother— "I know, I know. Just—" He takes a deep breath, and even though his mouth pulls up at the corners, it feels more like a grimace. "I almost had to be… Gentler on myself because of Tim, in a way. Like… I imagined telling him some of the stuff I'd been telling myself… like, I shouldn't have put myself in that situation. I should've been more clear. I should've… " He breathes out sharply. "I'd never tell him that. Because the responsibility should never have been on him, and—" Now, he just looks a little sad. "It shouldn't have been on me, either."
"Dick, who —"
"She's in jail now, Little Wing. For something else that I'll— I'll tell you about later." Dick moves in slightly, leaning over slightly to nudge Jason's shoulder with his own. "So— I don't want you to feel like you have to fight this battle for me."
Jason scoffs furiously, but he hasn't stopped trembling for a whole ass minute, and he's positive Dick can feel it. His heart's going fucking crazy, skipping beats and pulling Olympic-level flips. "I would call it, more… taking out the trash," he says coldly, and his voice goes a little hoarse at the end. Oh, he's so angry, he's so fucking angry that there isn't even a word for the white-hot whatever in his chest, and he doesn't know what to do with it, what to do with all of this boiling, simmering rage—
He bites it back with monumental effort, so sharply that it almost feels like a wave of blood slamming against his teeth, because— Dick is asking.
"Fine," he says (snarls, perhaps), but tries to dial back his tone into something manageable. "But if you ever—If you ever need to—" And it's clumsy and a little messy, because Jason is clumsy and a little messy, but Dick's never needed much of a manual to translate what Jason's trying to say.
"Yeah," Dick says, and thumps the heel of his palm lightly against Jason's back. "I know. I never had any doubts."
Jason nods and gets to his feet. Dithers, because what the fuck is he supposed to say, now? There's no guidebook. He doesn't know what's right. All he knows is that he hates the look on Dick's face— a little lost, a little hurt, a little uncertain.
"You, uh. Want to join us for breakfast?"
"Not now," Dick says quietly, and there's a slight shake to his voice as he takes a deep breath and looks down at the covers again. "I need to— I just need to."
"Yeah," Jason says, and feels his fingers curl into a fist against the back of his neck almost reflexively. "If you need to shower, or— You know. Cat's out of the bag, anyway. You might as well borrow some of my clothes so you don't have to wear that all day."
"Thanks, Jay," Dick says quietly, and the expression on his face isn't exactly a smile, but it's warm nonetheless.
Dick had told him not to seek revenge, and Jason listens.
Even still, the rage doesn't go anywhere. It just builds up inside of him like a pressure cooker, and doesn't at all subside when he joins Tim out in the kitchen again. The kid's squinting at his phone, which he's propped up on the table, and is just covered in flour at this point, somehow. And— for a moment, Jason can almost imagine that everything's normal in Tim's life. He's just a kid, on his holiday break, hanging out and making pancakes (with a crime lord, for some reason, but look, in this hypothetical, it makes sense).
And then he remembers, and the fragile semblance of restraint he'd built up just about crumbles to dust.
"I really think we might be onto something with the malt powder, Jay," Tim says as he cocks a bright grin at him, and the kid Jason had first found in the Alley is practically an echo at this point— but even still, when Tim has his nightmares, when he goes so quiet and still like a shadow, Jason remembers. He remembers, and he can't let it happen again. "Did you know th—"
"Tim," Jason says, and the surge of emotion he suddenly feels practically lays waste to his insides. "Do you want to officially move in with me?"
The egg slips out of Tim's fingers and cracks open on the countertop. He opens his mouth wordlessly, but snaps it shut just as quickly and just stares at Jason like his whole world's being upended.
Jason makes sure to give the kid his space and moves back slightly, leaning back against the fridge. "I know it's a little sudden, but… your dad will be back soon. I don't know when, exactly— but. When he does come back, I know… He's probably going to want you back." He grips his forearms tighter— so hard he'd be surprised if he doesn't bruise himself —and Tim goes a little white in the cheeks.
"I— I thought the same," Tim says, hushed, and he already looks haunted. "But he w—" He stops, and fuck, god, he looks so afraid. Let Jack fucking try, Jason thinks, let him just fucking try. "He won't be okay… with you."
Yeah, I bet, Jason thinks, acidic. Why would he be?
"That house isn't safe for you, Tim," Jason says quietly. "I can give you a safe place. I'll look out for you, I'll—" He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves, and goes for reassurance. "I won't let you get hurt like that again. Neither will Dick, or Marco, or— anyone else."
Tim's hand creeps along the counter as he reaches for one of his puzzles, and he scrambles at the metal prongs nervously. "Maybe if I'm good, Dad'll— he'll let me… He won't—"
Jason tries to keep his expression level, which is no small feat considering his heart fucking breaks. It's clear he doesn't do a good job, because Tim's mouth wobbles tellingly.
"He's still my dad," Tim says, almost like an afterthought. "Doesn't that … count for something?" And he says it like he needs Jason to convince him, like he needs Jason to assure him that it does. But he can't. He doesn't know what to say.
"It should," Jason says, and when he reaches a hand out, Tim moves forward almost instinctively. Jason smooths back the flour-dusted hair affectionately, and sighs. "I'm sorry, Tim," he says regretfully. "I want to be able to tell you it'll be okay, but— I can't. And I can't… I won't send you back there, knowing…"
And fuck, kid, he thinks, it's taking my goddamn all not to track him down now—
"I— I'm braver now," Tim says quickly, peering up at Jason, and Jason's hand stills. "And you're teaching me some self-defense, so."
This kid is fucking killing him, and Jason can't even keep it off his face.
He thinks about the way Tim had said "he said no!" to Dick despite how upset he'd been with Jason. He thinks about the way Tim had asked him, "is it okay if I'm still upset?" despite his fear. He thinks about the way Tim had stood toe to toe with Leo and said, "I gathered that." He's never needed proof of this kid's bravery. Not once.
"You are brave, Tim. But you're still a kid," he says heavily, and crouches so he's at about Tim's height; Tim's mouth flattens into a tight line. "And kids still need protection, even if they're brave and strong. They deserve to be kept safe, they—" He takes a deep breath. "They shouldn't be scared in their own homes."
"I'm not scared here," Tim says quietly, reaching out to curl his fingers into Jason's sleeve.
"That's good. That's good, Tim," Jason says gently, and means it. "You shouldn't be scared anywhere. And if here makes you feel safe, or— if being with me makes you feel safe —then I want you to…" He swallows, because god, he's fucking nervous. "I want you to stay. With me."
And who would've fucking thought, he thinks, who would've thought that when he returned to Gotham, full of vengeance and fury—
When he first crawled out of the grave—
When he died in that warehouse, young enough to have deserved protection himself—
"Can I, um—" Tim hesitates, bringing him back. "Can I have some time to— to think?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Jason says easily, unfurling back to his full height. "Take all the time you need to think, kid."
"Oh, I don't think I need that much time," Tim says with a shaky little laugh, gathering up the broken eggshells. Jason cocks his head. "I mean, I'm— I'm happy. I don't think I've ever…." His eyebrows furrow. "I don't think I've ever been this happy before. I can actually sleep. I like waking up. This makes me happy. You make me happy," Tim says, and Jason's heart does something medically catastrophic. "I just… I'm just a little overwhelmed, but— I want to be here, because now I know— it can be nice. Having— Having a family, I mean."
Jason stares at him soundlessly for a moment, and… thinks that he knows exactly what Tim means, maybe.
And of course, there's so much to worry about in what Tim had just said— so much that Tim deserves help for, so much that they'll need to work on, work through. But there's also hope.
There's hope, and Jason can work with hope— for all three of them.