As a general rule, Jason really hates when things that should stay in the Alley… don't stay in the Alley. It's bad enough having to fend off the competition within the area, let alone dealing with competition from greater Gotham.
It'd actually been a decent day before he'd received the news about I-7; Tim's enjoying his last couple days of break before school starts again, and Jason isn't exactly sure whether Tim's more disappointed about this or he is. He's gotten so used to having Tim around like a shadow, suffusing the little apartment with chatter, that he's not sure if he's ready to go back to the silence. He compensates for whatever the fuck that feeling is by spending as much time with the kid that he can— and that means bringing him along to work again.
Actually, Jason hadn't planned to go into work that night at all; he'd given himself new hours to spend time with Tim, after all, and though he might have been working all through the weekend before, well…. That was pre-Tim.
Unfortunately, his Saturday plans nosedive when he gets a call from Marco as they're finishing up dinner.
As a general rule, Marco makes a point not to call for work outside of Jason's hours anymore, so it's already unusual for him to call; even weirder is that Marco asks him to come back to the office that night. He sounds a little stilted over the phone when Jason asks if there's anything urgent to attend to, and promptly tells Jason he'd gotten some important information that day, and— well, Jason had learned very, very early on not to ignore the alarm bells, no matter how faint they seemed to be.
So, here he is. Tim's hanging out with the lackeys, and Jason is, to his great despair, working on a Saturday night. It's his first one in a long time.
"We need to talk," Marco tells him quietly, shortly after he arrives. Marco had been reconning for most of the day to learn more about an upcoming arms exchange between two prominent crime families; Jason isn't always sure how Marco acquires information, but he's long past asking. Marco rarely tells him, anyway— only flicks a sly, nonchalant smirk at him before changing the subject. Today, though, he isn't smiling, and the uneasy feeling in Jason's stomach curdles.
"Roof?" Jason asks as he stacks his files into a neat sheaf and lays them down on his desk. Sometimes, when there's something particularly sensitive Marco wants to talk to him about, they'll rendezvous on the roof to have some privacy. It gives Jason time to digest the news and come up with a plan before the lackeys catch wind of what's going on.
"Roof," Marco confirms. "I'll head up first, if you want to tell Tim."
Tim's not too far away from Jason's desk; he's managed to gather the attention of a semicircle of Jason's lackeys and is animatedly telling them all about how crows can be taught to steal from people. Cory looks a little too invested, and Jason makes a mental note to make sure he doesn't go crow-hunting any time soon.
"He'll be okay," Jason says as he follows Marco out, and finds himself surprised at the affectionate surety he himself can hear in his voice. For the sake of some sort of restraint, he really should dial it back, but that feels like too much of an ask at the moment.
"Adelaide Shipton died from I-7 this morning," Marco says the second the door to the roof clicks shut behind Jason, and Jason buffers for a moment.
Fuck.
" Fuck," he says, and potent rage burns through his blood like fire through kindling. "Motherfucker. Henry's youngest."
"Thirteen years old," Marco confirms tightly, his voice pulled taut like a bowstring past its limit as he crosses his arms. Sprawling, blue-purple smudges line his dark eyes as he blinks past Jason at the unassuming, glittering skyline. "Someone sold it to her on a corner only a block from Gotham Academy. I expect this will hit the news in a few hours, at the very least, but… you know what this means, right?"
Adelaide Shipton. The younger of the two Shipton girls. Their father, Henry Shipton, is a well-known director in Wayne Enterprises, and to Jason's knowledge, by no means associated with Crime Alley.
This has officially crossed borders, which means—
"Batman's getting involved." Jason says, the coarse rasp of his voice lost slightly to the helmet's modulation. And the problem is, he can't even fault Bruce for it; a goddamn kid is dead. A child, on Jason's watch. He should have locked down I-7 by now, and he didn't, and now Adelaide Shipton is dead.
He wants to explode.
"You still have contacts at Gotham Academy?" He asks Marco, trying to stay at least mendaciously calm. The twist of Marco's mouth tells Jason he isn't exactly buying it; helmet or no helmet, Jason's stance on peddling drugs to children is commonplace knowledge, basically law. This death, the youngest to date, cuts deep, and the ripple effect is disastrous on every level.
"I do," Marco says, almost detached, the way he always gets when he's compartmentalizing the shit out of what's going on. Jason can't blame him.
"See if you can figure out who the seller was. Access tapes, any sort of security footage— anything," Jason says tightly, probably burning a hole into the concrete as he paces. "I want to know who the fucking seller is. I want to know who fucking sold I-7 to Adelaide Shipton."
"Larry Peters."
Jason, back to the ledge, goes still.
Marco, who's facing him, glances over Jason's shoulder and blanches. The reaction just confirms Jason's fears, and he lowers one hand to his gun as he turns slowly on his heel and reluctantly catches sight of the telltale cowl.
"I tracked him down this morning," Bruce says coarsely, no revealing inflection to his voice as they make eye contact. All of a sudden, Jason's entire body feels like a pressure cooker, set to blow. "We chatted."
No doubt they did, Jason thinks sourly.
"Not to keep kicking you out, Marco," Jason says tightly, and Marco actually laughs, sharp and mirthless.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm gone," he says. "That guy—" He points at Bruce, who's standing there like the fucking boogeyman, "—scares the fucking daylights out of me."
Bruce just stares impassively like he always fucking does, even as the door shuts behind Marco.
"Did you know he's double-crossing you?"
Jason doesn't even know how long it's been since they last spoke— fought, actually —but isn't it just fucking like Bruce to pull this shit.
"You must think I'm pretty stupid if you're asking me that," Jason says through his teeth, not bothering to let his fingers drift from the grip of his gun.
Bruce's jaw tightens, ever so slightly. "Just wanted to make sure you knew," he says, and then lapses back into silence again. With Bruce, awkward isn't the word Jason would use— it's more of a pregnant silence, and that fucker is due any day now.
"Stop looking into my guys," Jason says coldly. "I can take care of myself. And besides, N already checked on Marco."
"N checked in on this," Bruce echoes, not exactly a question, and Jason wonders for a moment exactly how much Dick actually let him in on.
Jason bristles. "Yeah."
Silence again. Jason's finger itches against the holster restlessly.
"This fear toxin issue," Bruce starts, so still he might as well have been a shadow, "It's spreading out of the Alley."
"I've gathered," Jason says hoarsely, and the pressure damn near threatens to swallow him whole. "I thought…" He grits his teeth. "I had it under control. It should never have been anywhere near the academy."
"These things don't usually tend to stay within strict boundaries," Bruce says, distracted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glances somewhere past Jason's shoulder. Jason resists the urge to turn around. "Peters isn't the only one selling to minors outside of the Alley. I've compiled a list of names and locations from what I gathered from the interrogation." From beneath the cape, there's a flash of beige; Jason stares as a clawed hand extends a manila folder toward him.
"What," Jason says.
Bruce's expression doesn't change. "I've compiled a list of names," he starts again, and Jason shakes his head.
"What? You're giving them to me? Just like that?" Jason asks incredulously, making no move to take the folder yet. "You're not going to run off, deal with it yourself, come back to me with results, tell me I should have done it some other way, like you ?"
Bruce's jaw tightens. "Do you want the names," he says stiffly.
Jason still doesn't move. There's a catch; he knows there has to be a catch. Something, some sort of test for Jason to reveal himself as the weak link that can't take care of the I-7 issue. It can't just be this easy— it never has been with Bruce.
"Aren't you afraid I'll kill them?" Jason says before he can help himself, bitter.
But for the slightest twitch at the corner of Bruce's mouth, his expression doesn't change. "Will you?"
Jason reaches out finally, relieving the folder from Bruce. "Haven't decided," he says flatly, flipping through it. It's as meticulously thorough as Jason would've expected from Bruce.
Bruce stares at him, unflinching, and doesn't rise to Jason's obvious bait. "I think you have," he says, and Jason grinds his teeth together. "The way you've been conducting yourself lately—"
"What is that supposed to mean?" Jason interrupts through his teeth, his heart skipping a few trepid beats. He hadn't realized Bruce had been watching him so closely and kind of wants to kick himself for not noticing.
"It's … my understanding that you have a roommate now," Bruce says quietly, and Jason's hand stills mid-perusal. "One that has perhaps influenced your recent… change in behavior."
It's … odd. He'd been full of nerves over Bruce finding out about Tim, but in a way, he'd always known Bruce would find out. The man is the greatest detective Jason's ever known, even though he'd be loath to admit it. He'd known this day would come, despite how much he dreaded the interaction that he knew would follow.
His walls go up immediately.
"What exactly do you understand?" Jason asks him flatly, shutting the folder with his thumb and flicking his gaze up toward Bruce. He doesn't want to give out any more information than necessary, if he can help it. "And what changes in behavior?"
"You haven't been as … impulsive, lately. It's been quieter, the number of bodies has decreased. I wanted to see if something had happened to you, or…" Bruce trails off, and then clears his throat awkwardly. "I didn't expect it to be— this."
"The killing hasn't decr—" Jason starts hotly, and then stutters to a stop.
When had he last killed?
He'd kneecapped a few dealers selling fentanyl. He'd been on a time crunch to get Dick the hell out of the Pift situation before he even could deal serious damage. And after that….
He shuts his mouth. Bruce's expression doesn't change, but somehow, Jason swears he's complacent about it, somehow. He can't prove it, but it needles him. And wait a fucking second, who's Bruce to be concerned about him anyway?
"My roommate," he says, not backing down despite how badly he wants to physically step back, "is none of your business. And for your information, I'm having no less trouble keeping control of the Alley than I was before him."
"Right," Bruce says smoothly, as stoic as ever, and even though it shouldn't be patronizing, Jason somehow feels patronized. "I will be continuing the I-7 investigation outside of the Alley."
He's using the name Jason had created. Something prickles in Jason's chest, irritating and fierce. He's suddenly acutely aware of Tim, only a few floors below; does Bruce know Tim brought him here, to this fuckin'… central hub of crime? Is he here just to make it obvious that he knows exactly what's been going on? Or is he really here as a gesture of goodwill, extending an olive branch in the form of the dealers' names?
It could never be that easy.
Could it?
"I don't fucking need help," Jason says sharply, but tucks the folder under his arm anyway. "I've got a handle on it."
"Maybe not as strong a handle as you thought," Bruce says cryptically, and alright, what the fuck? That has to be a metaphor. A fucking shitty metaphor, considering Jason's doing fucking great with Tim. He's doing great.
"You," Jason says, and outrage bubbles like boiling oil behind his teeth. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
Bruce's mouth flattens into a tight line. "I-7 is a threat to greater Gotham, Hood."
"I know that's not what you meant," Jason blisters, and the wind lashing about his face like a whip does nothing to mitigate the blazing fury buzzing underneath his skin. "It's a fucking metaphor isn't it, it's a metaphor for Tim, and you aren't fucking fooling me. I'm doing great with the kid. He's happy and safe, and— and— happy ." He stops, because the corner of Bruce's mouth twitches again— this time, in surprise. Jason's had plenty of time to differentiate between the discrete twitches, and this one brings his words to a stuttering halt, because—
"Tim?" Bruce echoes, his tone taking on a strange, almost stilted edge. He goes tellingly silent for a beat, and then speaks again. "Timothy Drake?"
Jason's heart crawls up into his throat and explodes like the cotton bursting out of a stuffed animal.
"Fuck," he says. His last advantage, and it's gone, lost to a moment of anger. Fuck.
"Hm." Bruce hums, somehow managing to pack the weight of the entire world into one sound. He's managed to compose himself after the slip, but with half of his face mired in the shadows, Jason has no idea what he must be thinking. Tim's no run-of-the-mill stranger, after all; he'd been connected to the Waynes during the day and the Bats at night, and Jason knows Bruce must have already made the connection.
Suddenly, Jason realizes he needs to get the fuck out of there, actually.
He loses his footing when he steps back and away from Bruce, and stumbles. Bruce reaches out slightly, as if he's going to steady Jason, but Jason reels just out of reach.
Bruce stills.
"I— I'm leaving." Jason says harshly— or maybe hisses, he isn't sure —because autopilot officially activates and his legs walk him the hell away from Bruce. "Don't fucking come here anymore."
He thinks he hears Bruce murmur his name behind him as the door closes, but he doesn't look back.
"I need to commit more homicide."
Marco takes a deep, measured breath and looks up from his laptop where he's no doubt editing the spreadsheets. Jason had vengefully changed every cell to lime-green after seeing Bruce, which… he'd regret it, but he doesn't.
"What," Marco says.
Jason steeples his fingers, going for a sharp-edged smile that he thinks does a pretty decent job of smothering his nerves. Marco doesn't look convinced.
"Batman," Jason says, turning in his chair to aim a dart at the poster of Batman just above his desk. He'd put up one of both Nightwing and Bruce when he'd first decorated, and there's no shortage of holes riddling both as a result of his perpetual annoyance with both of them. "He thinks I'm going soft."
He waits with his hand raised, expecting Marco to protest. When he doesn't, Jason swivels around in his chair slowly.
"Marco," Jason says impatiently, "didn't you hear me?"
Marco purses his lips. "I heard you, but—"
"No. No." Jason points at him with the dart. "He's fucking wrong. I'm not going soft. I'm still perfectly murderous." And he needs to stay that way, lest Bruce take his allegedly diminishing temper as a sign that he wants to work with him or something ridiculous like that.
"You're not going soft," Marco parrots unconvincingly, and then goes back to clacking at his keyboard quickly.
Jason stares at him. And continues to stare, until Marco blows a harsh stream of air out between his teeth and rubs his temples.
"Your kill count is much lower. You ask questions first, shoot later. You actually threaten these guys and then let them go. You haven't yelled in ages." Marco ticks off his fingers. "I mean, it makes sense, right. You have—" He gestures vaguely to the glass window, and Jason glances over; in the room next door, Tim's actively making a flowchart on the whiteboard about crow thievery. "And when you have a kid, your morals and ethics are bound to change. You're thinking for two." He shrugs as if it's the most normal thing in the world, as if he isn't in danger of getting fired right this fucking minute. "If you train yourself not to yell when Tim messes up, you're less likely to yell when one of these guys mess up."
"That's not true. I'm great at compartmentalization," Jason says hotly, and it's not defensive what-so-fucking-ever. "I've gotten worse because of Tim. I get pissed off so much more easily, just— at the thought of Tim getting caught up in this Pift business. I have so much less tolerance for bullshit—"
"I believe that you believe that," Marco says like an HR representative, and Jason narrows his eyes. "But Jay, your behavior speaks for itself."
"Then I have to change my behavior," Jason says through gritted teeth. "There's gotta be some trafficking ring I can eviscerate. Not like there's a shortage of scumbags around."
Marco swivels his gaze up to the ceiling as if he's trying to avoid eye contact. Jason sighs.
" What?"
After a moment of hesitation during which Marco looks as though he'd rather not be there, he reluctantly says, "Er— you don't have time."
"I— what?" Jason sputters, driving the point of the dart down into his desk. "What do you mean I don't have time?"
"Tim starts up school again on Monday," Marco says idly, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalant shrug. "You can't run these stings during the day, and you don't spend your evenings or nights here anymore. I can check for the weekend availability, but last I saw, you were thinking about taking Tim to an amusement park, or for a weekend trip… really, we've been outsourcing the ambushes lately. You're a busy man, Jason." He says lightly, and rubs his eyes.
Jason opens and closes his mouth, like a fish. "But…" he starts wanly.
"It's not a bad thing," Marco says hastily. "You have… bigger priorities now." A quick flicker of a smile flashes briefly over his mouth. "A little big priority, I suppose you could say."
"That's hardly a reason," Jason says, and he isn't sure when he actually started pacing, but he's now doing it with enough fervor to blaze tunnels into the ground. " You managed to keep a rep even with your sisters, and you've got— three of them!"
Marco's expression shutters.
"Well, that was easy," he says darkly. "They grew up into this world. I didn't exactly have work-life balance, you know? I didn't have the reputation, not really— I wasn't feared, I didn't have the wherewithal or resources to decapitate someone — several someones — to kickstart my career, so it's not like anyone kept their distance. I got my in through sex work, and you can imagine that people sure respected my boundaries," he says, voice heavy with sarcasm.
"Right," Jason says quietly, chagrined, and grips his pen between his fingers. "I remember you mentioning that."
Marco drums his fingers against his desk restlessly. "They were there the first time I killed someone. Some john followed me home one night, and I beat him to death with an old baseball wrapped in barbed wire when he tried to snatch Marisa. Not even a bat. That was our anti-burglar deterrent. I was 15." He snorts mirthlessly. "My sisters helped me get rid of the body, because they didn't want me to go to jail. Fuck, I couldn't go to jail. But if I could've kept them out of it, I would've . It wasn't a choice I got to make. But you have a choice. It'll always be dangerous , but you have enough of a reputation and the resources to keep a strong separation between this life and that one."
"I don't want to have to pick ," Jason says as he watches Tim wave his arms around energetically, and he can feel stress creep into his words, weighted enough to fracture them. "I started this stint to do what Batman wouldn't. To make the decisions he won't make. To punish the monsters he won't punish— properly, beyond some stint at fuckin' Arkham that teaches them jack shit." Black hatred, venom-pure, suffuses his voice at just the thought of him, his eyes, his unhinged, wretched laugh—
"Well, you don't have to," Marco says, not unsympathetic, his face awash in the glow from his computer screen. "You can make him a bigger part of this as he gets older. But there are consequences, Jason, just as there are advantages, and you know that. No matter how much Tim's seen— no matter what he's been a part of —it's hard to walk this shit off once you're deep into it. But…"
Marco's shoulders tilt into a shrug, and he smiles, not unsympathetic.
"If you don't want him entrenched into all of this, that vendetta of yours may have to take the backseat."
Actually, Jason does already know the answer.
In fact, he may have known the answer from the moment he first brought Tim back to his place, even if he hadn't yet known the question.
The question being— is Tim worth giving up time for his vendetta, and the answer being a resounding, somewhat terrified yes. Bruce had been a three-man army when he'd taken Dick on board, but Jason has an entire empire of his own to— well, outsource, even if that comes with the abrupt realization that Jason's getting— soft.
He doesn't even know if he can disprove that anymore, not after Jeff had pointed out that Jason had once spent an hour and a half of a three-hour meeting complaining about the parents of Tim's school friends.
However, it's with no small amount of horror that he realizes the one person standing squarely in his way is the one he least expected to be standing in his way.
"What do you mean, join the family business?" He blanches, and Tim has the audacity to arch confused eyebrows at him.
"Well, if you are going to be my legal guardian, and you have a business, wouldn't it be considered a family business when I join?" Tim asks impassively, shuffling the letters on his little Scrabble tray. The heating's positively amped up in the little apartment, but Tim refuses to take his jacket off, no matter what. "I think it makes perfect sense."
"I don't—" Jason says, and his voice comes out strangled. "There is no family business, Tim."
" Yet," Tim says, pointed, placing his letters down to spell knock and snagging himself a triple-letter score. "Like I said, it'll become one when I join, obviously." He adds, picking the pouch of tiles up off the floor and fishing through it blindly.
" Join and do what?" Jason demands, hardly even able to thread the letters in his tray into anything conceivable considering his brain keeps going what the fuck? on repeat.
Tim waves his hand around dismissively. "You know, fighting bad guys, busting crime rings, keeping dangerous drugs off the streets and away from kids… Whatever you usually do." He twists the red strings of his hood, pulling until it tightens around his face, and tilts his head at Jason. "Maybe I'll drop out of school, then I can do it full-time! And I know that the legality of hiring underage workers is dubious, but I can probably do something about that—"
Jason lifts his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're not dropping out of school, Tim. And you're especially not dropping out of school to shadow a crime lord, what the fuck. Your life is going to be—" He verbally flails. "Fucking respectable, if I have any say in it."
"What you do is respectable, in the scope of morality as a whole," Tim says briskly, like he's negotiating a business deal. "You attempt to protect the vulnerable, though your methods may be more extreme."
Jason stares up toward the heavens despairingly, as though they'll save him.
What the fuck.
"Tim, you—" he says once he's composed himself, "You're free to make any decisions you want when you turn eighteen. And until then, you are going to school."
"But I can be helpful," Tim argues with a little frown, his eyebrows knitting together. "I've been keeping tabs on the GCPD cases that I've been able to find so far, and I don't mind seeing violence, I mean, you know what I used to do before, so—"
Jason tucks away the first part of that sentence for the moment, mostly because he isn't actually sure of either what he wants to ask or whether he actually wants to know the answer, and focuses on the second. "Tim, it…" He pinches the bridge of his nose and leans his back up against the front of the couch. "I know what you've seen. That doesn't mean you should have to keep being exposed to it."
"What does it matter?" Tim asks, brows still furrowed.
Jason studies him for a moment, and then sighs, gesturing at the space next to him. "C'mere."
Tim clambers over the board and scoots up beside Jason immediately, then hesitates for just a beat before tilting his head slightly to rest it against Jason's upper arm. Jason smiles a little and winds his arm around the kid, choosing his words before he speaks.
"I know you've been through a lot, Tim," he says, and Tim shrugs one shoulder almost dismissively. "I think you kind of forget that you're a kid, sometimes, because you've…" He hesitates, navigating his next sentence carefully. "…Experienced a lot of adult situations, not all of them by your own volition. But you should still have some semblance of a normal childhood. You deserve that."
There's silence for a moment, during which Jason can feel Tim puzzling over what he said.
"It's not like all that stuff can be undone anyway," Tim murmurs, partially into Jason's shoulder. His socked feet, cold despite, push up against Jason's thighs as he tucks in closer and pulls his knees up.
Jason takes a measured breath. "You're right. It can't be undone," he says tightly, but hears the tension in his own voice and tries to unravel the knots just a little. "It should never have happened to begin with. But just because it— just because that happened, it doesn't mean you have to throw yourself into this full-force."
Tim purses his lips and sits up, pulling his hood back and away from his face. "But isn't that what you did?"
Jason's little smile freezes at the corners. "Huh?"
"You died," Tim says carefully, "and then came back, and threw yourself into this. Right?"
Jason just stares at the kid for a moment, lost for words, his brain buzzing vaguely.
"I— I wasn't still a kid when I came back," he manages to say, and a cold, aching sort of numbness spreads out from his chest and threatens to consume him. He finds himself unexpectedly longing. "It felt like it was too late for me." He sighs. "But it isn't too late for you, Tim. You can still have some— semblance of a childhood, where you don't have to see— all of that."
Tim traces little shapes over Jason's pockets with his pinky diffidently.
"Is this about me being scared or… traumatized?" he asks a little mulishly, and pulls back. Jason manages not to flinch at Tim's nonchalance, but only just. "I can deal with it. I won't get in your way or hold you back or anything." His voice pitches slightly, and Jason winces internally. "I won't make mistakes. I know how to be useful, too, I can—"
" No , it's not about that at all. It's about how you don't have to be useful," Jason says on a sigh, scrubbing his free hand over his face. Somehow, he's sure Tim's sudden eagerness to be useful stems from his father's influence, and he only just manages to grab that thread before it unravels completely. "You don't have to prove anything to me, Tim." The TV runs in the background, mute; news about Adelaide's death is on almost every channel, unavoidable and haunting, and Jason doesn't need sound to be able to hear Henry's muffled howls; his throat tightens at the silent anguish. "I just don't want you to get caught up in something that could kill you," he says, distracted, and Tim follows his gaze to the TV.
"I know how to be careful," Tim says as he adjusts one of his braids, but doesn't sound as if he's putting up as much of a fight at this point— at least for now. "Batman only ever caught me once."
Jason's shoulders draw inward momentarily at the mention. "That was after I died, right?" He keeps his tone light, careful, but he's not entirely sure whether he's doing it more for himself or Tim. "You said he took you home."
Tim scoots a few of Jason's Scrabble tiles around on the floor, spelling out nonsense words, and purses his lips. His throat wobbles when he swallows.
"He was nice," Tim says, distracted, as if he's recollecting the events in real time. "I remember— I was a little surprised. Like, I knew he was a hero. He was, like, beating that guy up, I thought he'd kill him. But then he saw me, and he just stopped when… When I didn't think he would. He pulled back, and he looked down at his hands, and— stopped. Like he didn't know who he was." Tim's expression pinches. "I think I was always… A little scared of him, because he was … tall, and dressed in all black, and… Not Robin, though," Tim adds almost shyly, and nudges Jason's arm with his own. Jason's mouth tilts up, but he's also half-frozen in place with what he's pretty sure is fear. "But Batman was nice, that night. He gave me candy. He said it wasn't safe for me to be there."
"So you were a little scared of Batman? But you knew he was Bruce Wayne, right?" Jason prods gently.
Tim smiles, but it's not exactly a smile so much as a baring of teeth. Jason tenses, keeping a side-eye for any cues that Tim might be checking out; they're approaching landmine territory, after all, which means something very different for the both of them.
"Mr. Wayne was scarier."
He says it so fucking offhand, too, like it doesn't reach right between Jason's lungs and twist his insides like a mixer.
"What do you," Jason starts, and then comes to a halt so abrupt he practically trips. Oh.
Because of course Bruce Wayne the Businessman, with his suits and his practiced smiles and that careful, restrained laughter would have blurred together with every other businessman Tim might have seen in his home. Jason's teeth snap together, and he feels blood rush red-hot and furious up into his face. He averts his gaze, not keen for Tim to see the expression on his face.
Eager to move on, Tim quickly says, "it's stupid." And when Jason glances back at him, Tim's expression is uncertain, almost frustrated. "I— I knew he was Batman. I knew that I liked… or. I guess, that Batman was good. But it was so hard to— yeah." With a quick, sharp movement, he scatters Jason's tiles, and then tentatively wiggles over to sprawl over Jason's outstretched legs with a small huff.
"You're right," Jason says quietly, after a moment. "It is hard. I also— knew he was good. I know he's good," he amends. "A hero, and all of that. But the man— the monster who killed me— when I think about the fact that he's still out there, I doubt everything. All of it." He's never said it out loud; Tim is silent underneath his hand, breaths quiet and steady, but Jason knows he's listening. And, well— the world isn't ending.
Jury's still out, though.
"And sometimes," Jason says, curling his hand into a fist between Tim's shoulder blades, "I'm not nearly as brave as you think I am. I'm—" And that hitch in his voice, it's stress, it has to be. Nothing else. Stress from seeing Batman, that's all. Just stress. "Sometimes I actually wish I could— go back to the Manor. And it'd be normal. Like I'm not … a dead guy, whose killer is still— out there."
Tim turns onto his back so he's peering up at Jason, and Jason blinks as his cheek is lightly poked.
"You don't feel so dead to me," Tim says with a grin, braids spread out like a halo around his head.
Jason smiles, helpless. He's aware it's a little wobbly. "Don't I?"
"Nah. You're the coolest-looking zombie I know." Tim says. "I mean, you're the only zombie I know, but I guess I'm biased."
"You'd better keep that brain of yours on the down-low," Jason says, amused, tapping the back of his hand lightly against Tim's forehead. "If I were a zombie, I'd come right for it."
Tim huffs out a bright laugh, shy and pleased; he's silent for a moment before he rolls his gaze up to Jason's face again. "Do you think you're ever gonna go back to the Manor?"
Jason shrugs, plucking idly at the little bands in Tim's hair. "I dunno. It's intimidating, kind of, but … I know I still probably have a room there. I know A—" He stops— chokes, slightly. "I know Alfie would… be happy to see me, just like I'd be happy to see him. Dick, too, and…" Well. Bruce, he isn't so sure, but … "I think sometimes I miss it as much as I want to leave it in— a past life." He clears his throat. "Robin's life."
Tim hums. "Seems like there's still a lot you care for at the Manor in the Red Hood life, too."
Jason tilts his head, bumping his knee up slightly, and Tim laughs at the motion.
"Maybe," Jason says quietly, "but not everything."
"So, what on Earth did you say to B?"
Jason sighs, tilting his head to cast an unimpressed bitchface at Dick. Dick grins as he twists a spindly finger around a curl of cotton candy and plucks it free.
"Just saying. He was hardcore brooding," Dick says gleefully. "It was Grunt Central all evening. Think you hurt his feelings."
Jason grunts.
"Just like that," Dick says, with all the triumph of a validated older brother. At least on this front, Jason can't blame him— it is funny to watch Bruce brood himself to oblivion.
Or. Well. It had been funny.
" I didn't say anything," Jason says sharply, like a liar. "He's the one who deduced on his own and upset himself, or whatever. Besides, what the fuck does he have to brood about? I should be brooding. I'm the one who's apparently going soft."
"Right, right," Dick says. He snatches up another tuft of the cotton candy and chews contemplatively, then gestures the stick toward Jason. Jason considers for a moment before plucking a wad off for himself. "Did you figure that crisis out?"
"Uh—" Jason tenses as a small gaggle of children nearly slams square into his legs and twists exactly at the last moment, half-stumbling into Dick. They'd happened to luck out on the last day of Tim's break; carnival booths had cropped up along the boardwalk of the harbor, a rare treat, and— Jason isn't exactly a fan of crowds or garishly dressed employees, but one look at Tim's cloudy face when they'd passed the harbor earlier spoke volumes.
It'd been painfully clear that Tim had never been to one of the boardwalk carnivals before, and, well… Jason decided, then, to put his squeamishness aside to the best of his abilities. He could've sent Dick or Marco with Tim, but it's the last day of Tim's vacation, and Jason's….
Well.
Gotten soft, perhaps.
Marco had shooed him out to spend the rest of the weekend with Tim, because he'd felt bad about calling Jason back to the office. Jason feels a little unsettled over it, largely because spearheading the I-7 shutdown based on Bruce's information is kind of exactly the thing he would've been doing, if he wasn't— well, hanging out with Tim. It's pretty much an undeniable confirmation of exactly where his priorities lie, at this point.
Jason can't exactly bring himself to have a crisis about it, though; after all, Tim is having an absolute blast. He'd managed to hover around Jason restlessly for a maximum of exactly two minutes before Jason had given him the nod to run off on his own, and he's been flitting about like a hummingbird since then.
"I don't know if … there's anything to figure out," Jason says, a bitter taste in his mouth despite the sweetness of the cotton candy. "Maybe … I just get soft. Maybe I just …" He scrubs a hand over his jaw, glancing ruefully at the churning waters of the bay ( not to avoid looking at a clown, thank you very much; unrelatedly, though, he doesn't know how any single Gothamite can see a fucking clown and not cringe). "The trade-off… he's worth it, even if I have to tone down that part of my life."
Dick lobs the empty stick into a trash bin and flicks an indeterminable look at Jason. "And you're okay with that?" He asks, but it feels less like he's playing devil's advocate and more like he's genuinely curious.
"I'm—" Jason hesitates. The urge to keep this to himself is as strong as ever, and especially from the brother he'd spent a good part of his life looking up to. He'd never wanted to feel like he was losing himself into Dick's shadow, but … then, it's like, if he doesn't break the cycle, how can he expect Tim to? And it isn't like talking to Dick is unpleasant, though Jason isn't about to admit as much. "— I don't know if okay is the word. I'm coming to terms with it, but I'm … uneasy." He curls his palms just above his elbows, irritated by the sight of goosebumps prickling along his arms. It always fucking happens when his skin catches on that the clown's gonna come up in conversation; Jason may have trained his mind to some extent, but his body has its own vendetta, its own memory. "It feels like I'm letting myself down, somehow, if I do the— other job, less. Not me, right now, but the me that the—" He lowers his voice. "—Joker killed."
Dick breathes in, quick and sharp. "Yeah," he says, and there's that expression again, the one Jason's now come to recognize as grief. It's hard to remember, Jason thinks, that Dick had had to grapple with his death as well. Dying had understandably induced tunnel vision for Jason, but he's not so naive that he truly believes his death wouldn't have affected the people around him.
(Batman's violence in the wake of his death, Alfred's gestures of kindness from afar, Dick's continued presence— and Tim, who'd said, "I like it when everyone lives.")
"Just— stop me if I'm wrong, right?" Dick says, and he's now unwrapping a rainbow lollipop the size of his head. Jason rolls his eyes.
"You're always wrong," he says heatlessly, and Dick elbows him.
"I didn't— get close enough to you before you died, not as close as I wanted to be. But just based off what I know about— you, both of you, I—" He gestures the lollipop vaguely toward where Tim had scampered off. "—I think Robin you would be really fucking proud, Little Wing. I mean, you're still out there, looking out for people, looking out for— the kids. All of them. Not just all the kids like Tim, but." He lightly bumps his shoulder against Jason's, grin softening at the corners into a smile. "—All the kids like you , too. You look different, and your methods are— different," he says tactfully, and Jason snorts. "But I'd say that's pretty heroic of you, and I think you— Robin — would be pretty fucking pumped about that."
Jason swallows the lump in his throat. "Maybe," he says gruffly, and beelines for a food stall so he can shovel popcorn into his face instead of verbally choking up.
Dick trails after him, entertained. " Definitely." He says cheerfully, and then glances around. "Where did Tim run off to, anyway?"
"He's probably torturing the trivia guy," Jason says, and grins.
If there's one thing about Tim that Jason's long figured out by now, it's that the kid knows exactly how to find his preferred niche in a world full of options.
By the time Jason and Dick track Tim down, he's half-hidden in a rapidly proliferating pile of plushies, his head partially poked out from between a stuffed koala and what looks like a life-sized octopus.
"Oh. Hi guys," Tim says when he catches sight of them, his voice muffled. "Jason, do you want me to win you a stuffed animal?"
Jason examines the growing pile, fascinated and a little worried about how they're going to cram all of them into his apartment. A few kids off to the side are watching the spectacle in awe, and the guy behind the counter kind of looks like he wants to die, or possibly strangle Tim.
"You this kid's dad?" The teller asks flatly, flicking his gaze between Jason and a tremendously amused Dick.
Jason smiles, and it's pretty fucking smug. Sue him. "You could say that," he says, and reaches underneath all the plushies to ruffle Tim's hair.
"What the fuck, man," the teller hisses at him quietly. "Is this kid a goddamn ringer? I'm going to run out of prizes if he keeps this up. Can't you take him somewhere else?"
Jason sets his forearms on the counter and leans in. "And that's my problem… how?" Really, he isn't actually planning on letting Tim bleed the prize well dry, but he also kind of hates this guy's attitude.
"I'm not going to keep them all," Tim pipes up owlishly from underneath the fluffy mountain. "I just like answering questions."
"There you have it," Jason says, and taps the counter. "You aren't gonna take away a kid's happiness, right…" He examines the guy's name tag. "… Mike?"
Mike grinds his teeth together. "What category would you like to do next?" He asks Tim tightly, pulling each word out like he's pulling teeth.
"Jason?" Tim asks again, wrapping his arms around a cream-colored bear to keep it from falling. Its head is easily the size of Tim's torso. "Want me to win you one?"
"I don't really…" Jason starts hesitantly, but at Tim's inquisitive head-tilt, he backtracks so fast he nearly injures himself. "Alright, how about you get me that uh." He scans the rack above Mike's head. "How about that giant mountain lion?" It's about as big as Jason, and … even Jason can't deny that it's very fucking fluffy. He'd always wanted one of those guys as a kid.
He elbows Dick. "If I'm getting one, you're getting one."
"What, like I'm going to argue?" Dick says with a grin. He leans in to rest his elbow on Tim's shoulder lightly and points, and Tim follows his finger curiously. "I want that Red Hood plushie."
Jason sputters; he hadn't even noticed it where it had been hidden behind a large stuffed crocodile, and neither, apparently, had Tim, who lights up when he spots it.
"They have a Red Hood plushie, Jason!" Tim tilts his head back, and Jason, who'd been trying to scald an unrepentant Dick with his glare, grunts.
Gotham's always been a bit … unusual about its commodification of its local costumed weirdos; Jason's always found it jarring to see merchandise of the rogues, at the very least— the Riddler, Bane, fuck, even the Condiment King, a few times. The worst of them all is seeing the Joker, whose wretched grin is always a staple of his merchandise. Gothamites really are a different fuckin' breed, desensitized to hell and back with what the city's put them through.
He doesn't really know what to make of the plushie in his likeness, other than the fact that they got his outfit a little wrong; Tim, however, looks like it's his birthday come early. Jason's chest tightens at the excitement on the kid's face, and he hides a smile into his hand.
Mike grunts. "The categories are animals and Gotham."
Tim grins.
So, suffice to say, they get the plushies.
Tim ends up giving a whole bunch of them away to the other kids who'd been standing around, ogling, much to Mike's ire; Jason quickly herds the kid away before he faces certain death at the hands of an underpaid temp.
Carrying seven gigantic plushies around a boardwalk is more exhausting than Jason had originally expected; he'd reached down to scoop Tim up at some point, only for Tim to go "Oh, thanks, Jason," and hand him two more of the animals.
"Aw, look how cute," Dick says, wiggling the Red Hood plush at Jason enthusiastically. "His scowl is exactly like yours."
Jason studies the blank helmet on the plush and scowls at Dick.
"Yep. Just like that," Dick says cheerfully, and then gestures the plushie toward Tim.
"Huh?" Tim shifts the bear he's holding into one arm and takes the plushie from Dick carefully. Jason presses his lips together, because he's positive he'll be really fucking embarrassing if he opens his mouth right now. "But I thought you wanted him."
"Tell you what," Dick says, and smoothly relieves Tim of the dog draped over his shoulder. "I'll trade you for this one. After all, I got the life-sized one right here." Dick nudges Jason with an elbow, and he's pretty fucking lucky that Jason's arms are too full of plushies for him to be able to smack him. Jason still makes sure to aim a non-verbal IOU at his brother in any case, just so Dick knows what's coming later.
Tim frowns contemplatively. "But I also have the life-sized one."
"It's like a bonus," Dick says, tossing the dog over his own shoulder deftly. "You know, like when you go to school, you can keep him in your backpack. To give you company, or look out for you."
Tim stares at the Red Hood plushie for a long moment, and then back up at Dick, starry-eyed.
"Okay," he says, a little breathlessly. "Thank you."
"No problem. Besides, I love dogs," Dick says, and winks at Jason as he wheels nimbly back around.
Jason bites at the inside of his cheek and nudges Tim with his hip. "You think you're ready to head home now, kid?"
"Okay," Tim says absently, still laser-focused on the Red Hood plushie. Jason's anticipating a sequel to Tim's red hoodie, right about now; he would honestly be surprised if either leaves Tim's vicinity for the next month, at least . "Are we still going to make mac and cheese?"
"From scratch. None of that boxed shit," Jason confirms with a grin, and manages to free a hand long enough to tug on Tim's little ponytail. "Hey, Tim?"
"Hm?"
Jason doesn't know where it comes from— his own messy feelings toward the matter, the abrupt quiet he knows is waiting for him when Tim does start school again… none of the above, maybe, or all of the above —but a rare sort of longing suffuses his words when he says, "You ready to go back to school tomorrow?"
Tim hums, gaze not yet straying from his new prize. "I don't really like school that much," the kid says candidly. "I feel like I don't learn the stuff that I'm interested in. Like— it's okay, and I think I do okay, but … honestly, I have more fun learning from documentaries, and reading encyclopedias about— things I like."
Jason hadn't exactly expected the honesty, but it makes sense; Tim's always known exactly what he wants to learn about.
"But like, before?" Tim furrows his brow. "Like— when I was at home? There wasn't anything to come back to, not really. It was kind of like, school was boring, and then I came home, and I was— alone. And it was boring." His grip tightens around the plush, and he tips sideways slightly to bump his head up against Jason's side. "But I like coming back from school now. There's something to look forward to."
Jason manages to school his expression just as Tim glances up at him.
"I look forward to it too," he says lightly, and is immediately rewarded with a bright smile from Tim. "After those slow, boring work days, of course." His work days are neither slow nor boring, and Tim's eye-roll says he knows as much, as well, but the sentiment remains.
"A slow, boring day of ruining the spreadsheets and tormenting Marco," Tim says idly, flashing Jason a cheeky grin, and Jason arches an unimpressed eyebrow.
"No Marco loyalists allowed in my house," he tells Tim, winding a hand around the hood and tugging playfully. Tim pulls back to try to free himself from the grip with a laugh, and Jason immediately drops all plushies on hand to hoist Tim up.
"You'll get to run free when you denounce him," Jason declares, and Tim sputters out a laugh as he dangles like Simba in Jason's grip. "And you have to mean it."
"I'm a double agent, of course," Tim practically hiccups through his laughter, bopping one foot harmlessly against Jason's stomach in a rather unmotivated attempt to free himself. His voice lowers to something solemn, even though his eyes glitter mirthfully. "But my loyalty is always with you, Jason, of course. 'Cause you're my…" He hesitates. "Actually, I don't know. What are you? Brother? Guardian? Uncle?"
Jason feels his expression soften a little as he lowers the kid back down and endeavors to collect all the plushies he'd strewn over the boardwalk. "Well, that's easy, Tim," he says steadily, tossing the octopus over his shoulder and turning back to flash a reassuring grin at Tim. "I'm always gonna be whatever you need me to be."
"Okay, so." Jason reaches down to adjust Tim's elbow, and then his knee. "The most important thing to know if you end up facing down someone who wants to hurt you, is that you should never just stand like a stick." He takes up position next to Tim, bending his knees slightly, and then gestures down. "Distributing your weight and standing at an angle makes it harder for someone to knock you off balance."
Tim adjusts accordingly. Watching him standing like that, even in the most basic of self-defense positions, with his loose, easily breakable fists, gives Jason fucking chills for some reason.
Still. He made a promise.
"I can't believe you roamed around Crime Alley with fists like this," Jason says, tsking as he pulls Tim's thumb out of his clenched fingers. "And do not keep your thumb inside your fist like that, unless you want to break it when you punch something."
"Me neither," Dick says, head pillowed on the giant stuffed dog. For some reason, he's wearing one of Jason's sweaters, and it practically hangs off of him. Sometimes, post-dying, Jason feels like an upside-down trapezoid standing next to his brother; he certainly can't wear any of Dick's normal-fitting t-shirts, not unless he accidentally wants to turn it into a tent. "Do you even know how many times you could've died?"
"I had— different self-defense methods," Tim says, stilted, as Jason rushes to go check on the bubbling cheese sauce. "I made a pepper spray out of cayenne pepper and alcohol. And uh, I kept keys between my fingers … I dunno." He trails off, chagrined.
Jason exchanges an incredulous look with Dick. Swear to god, he's going to have a heart attack just hearing this.
"If you're aiming just to paralyze your attacker and run— which you should be, for the most part — always aim for the groin. It's cheap and dirty, but very useful," Dick says casually, scooting out to the edge of the sofa bed and deftly hopping to his feet to demonstrate. Tim mulls over the information, and then clumsily mirrors the movement. "Okay," Dick says encouragingly, "that's pretty good, but make sure you really drive your knee up, full-force…"
Jason's pulse goes a little thready for a second. He feels like he's seen this picture— when Bruce and Dick would prepare to spar with him. He focuses on dumping a fuckton of elbow macaroni into the pot so he can not think about the way his stomach just hit the ground at full force.
"When is Marco coming?" Tim asks as Dick shuffles him around and corrects his posture. "Is he gonna bring a cheesecake?"
"Cheesecake?" Dick echoes cheerfully, and Jason furrows his brows.
"Why does he need to bring it? I make a great cheesecake." He says, frowning across the room at Tim.
"Er— sure, Jason," Tim says, distracted, as he drives his knee up; he would've accidentally neutered Dick, too, had Dick not been one agile fucker. "I mean, it's great."
"That's your insincere voice," Jason accuses. "You're being insincere."
"No, no, it's great," Tim says hastily, even though he sounds like he's trying not to laugh at this point. Jason narrows his eyes. "It's just— Marco's is really good. You should— I dunno, ask him for tips or something."
Jason balks, insulted. "Me, take tips from him?"
"Yeah, then yours will taste better, too," Tim says brazenly, and Jason isn't sure where he got The Audacity. Dick smothers a laugh in his throat as he adjusts Tim's hand for a heel-palm strike. "I mean, you're always looking to improve, right?"
Tim's words have no bearing on Jason; in fact, they have such little bearing that when Marco arrives, with a cheesecake, in fact, Jason does not spend most of dinner glaring at him.
"Why is Jason glaring at me?" Marco asks Tim, resigned.
"'Cause your cheesecake is better than his," Tim says matter-of-factly, shoveling down macaroni between words. "And now he has a complex."
"I do not—"
"So, Marco, was it?" Dick says with a smile that suggests that butter wouldn't melt in his fuckin' mouth. "What do you do?"
Jason sighs.
"Uh, freelancing, I guess ? " Marco says, and curiously waves his fork toward Dick. "Have I met you before? You seem familiar."
"Nah, I just have one of those faces," Dick says, with the kind of grin that makes Jason want to kick him under the table. Actually, nothing's stopping Jason from kicking Dick under the table, so he does . Dick kicks him right back, but doesn't break composure for even a beat. It's his own damn fault; if he hadn't told Marco, as Nightwing, that he was Jason's brother, none of them would be in this fucking mess of a situation.
Marco squints. "Uh-huh. I didn't know Jason had friends, let alone someone who'd want to hang out with him for more than a couple hours . Can you imagine putting up with him for much longer than that? My condolences."
Jason kicks him, too, for good measure.
"It is quite difficult," Dick says dramatically, slumping back against his chair. "He really is such a terror."
"Right," Marco says, making no attempts to hide his delight. Jason groans. "I'm surprised Jason hasn't mentioned you, is all."
"A man of many secrets, this one." Dick says with chagrin, shaking his head. "Did you know that Nightwing is his brother?"
Jason's fork hits the table instead of the macaroni, and Tim pauses with his food halfway to his mouth. Dick doesn't break character whatsoever, even though the twitch of his eyelid suggests he knows exactly what he's doing, the fucker.
"I— yeah," Marco says, and glances at Jason almost pleadingly. Jason doesn't notice, because he's too busy trying to kill Dick with his eyes. "He's, um…" His ears go slightly pink, voice strangled as he pokes at his macaroni. "Cool?"
"I think he's fucking annoying," Jason says darkly through his teeth, stabbing through his macaroni so hard that his fork clangs against the bottom of his bowl. "Giant pain in the ass."
Tim looks tremendously entertained. "He's cool."
Jason will address that betrayal later, even though he knows he'll cave quickly. Unlike Dick, Tim has a face that can be easily forgiven.
"All words that have been used to describe Nightwing." To anyone else, the solemn set of Dick's mouth would've suggested total gravitas. Jason, however, knows better; Dick's almost certainly holding back laughter. "Amongst many others."
Marco looks like he wants to flee. "I don't— Er, I wouldn't run into him during my day job or anything, but he did save my life once, so he's pretty cool in my book. I mean, I did get stuck with the worse brother, but I'm not bitter," he adds mildly.
"Go work with Nightwing, then," Jason says acerbically, "if you feel so strongly about it."
"I bet Nightwing would give me dental."
" Jason," Dick says, scandalized, and Tim, at the same time, says, "you really should get on that, Jason."
If Jason's being honest, there's a lot of stuff he hadn't necessarily thought about when he came back from the dead— employee benefits being one of them, mostly because his big revenge plan hadn't exactly accounted for other people wanting to join his somewhat reckless cause.
Struggling to keep track of the lies and hidden identities, Jason says, "Er— well, it's not like safety and welfare is really a top priority in our workplace." He scowls meaningfully at Marco. "So sue me if I forgot about— fucking dental."
"Nightwing wouldn't forget," Marco says flatly, and Jason groans, beleaguered.
"Oh, for fuck's s— okay. Fine. The second I get a chance, I'll figure out a dental plan, okay? Fuck."
"I'll help you," Tim says casually, chasing the last piece of macaroni with his fork. "I looked into it a while back, along with retirement plans. Did you know that Cory's retirement plan is to invest all his money in duck racing?"
"Cory has a weird obsession with birds," Jason grumbles, not at all surprised that this eleven-year-old is looking up retirement plans. He'd frankly be more surprised if Tim hadn't looked into it. "Which is why you need to stop teaching them about thieving with crows, Tim."
"I bet Nightwing would love to work with you, Marco," Dick chirps, grinning innocuously at him, and then Jason. "If Jason would be okay with that, of course."
"I would not."
Marco's brow furrows as he studies Dick.
"Are you sure we haven't met?" He starts, but Tim reaches out to grasp at the corner of his sleeve.
"Cheesecake?" Tim asks hopefully, successfully diverting Marco's attention. Frankly, Jason's positive that everyone knows Dick's identity, because for the life of him, he absolutely cannot fathom how people don't put two and two together. All Dick does is slap on a domino and suddenly, it's like people go blind. Well, Jason isn't fucking buying it.
"Oh, right." Marco says, and retrieves it from the fridge. Despite all of Jason's scowling, he has to admit that nobody makes cheesecake quite like Marco. It's a dulce de leche masterpiece, and it's absolutely divine, and Jason hates that he cannot get enough of it.
"Holy cheesecake, Batman," Dick mutters, lowering his head down into his elbows with a content, sated groan. Jason can hardly move himself, and Tim's facedown on the table like a rock. "Did you put crack in that?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?" Marco asks casually, looking pleased at the reception. "Stole it from the GCPD evidence locker. Really boosts the taste."
"I didn't know crack tastes like caramel," Tim says sleepily, clearly on his way to a food coma. It's getting late; Jason doesn't want any hiccups the night before Tim goes back to school, so he quietly starts clearing plates so he won't be too noisy later.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Jason says lightly, reaching down to ruffle the mop of black hair. "It's the closest to actual crack that you're ever going to get."
Tim yawns, sleepily glancing back toward the bedroom, and Jason bites back a smile.
"Can I have something to drink before I go to bed? I'm kind of thirsty." Tim says around a yawn, and Jason, as if on reflex, moves to heat up a glass of milk. Marco's watching him buzz around in fascination, while Dick, who's long gotten used to Jason: Parenting Mode, is busy scouting after the last bits of cake that he can find.
Jason sets the glass down in front of Tim, and Tim's smile wilts. He doesn't move for a long moment as he just stares at the milk.
Jason pauses, setting the dish towel down onto the table. "Is everything okay, Tim?"
Tim startles, as if he'd forgotten Jason was there, and he's a little pale, now. Uneasy, Jason crouches slightly beside Tim's chair so he's more on the kid's level.
"Um—" Tim says shakily, and when Jason reaches out to rest the back of his hand against Tim's forehead, it's clammy. "Have you— ever given me milk before bed?"
Concerned, now, Jason makes a gesture toward Dick to take the milk away. It's gone from Tim's sight within the second, but Tim's breaths still come out shallow as he stares at the table where it'd been.
"Actually, I don't think I have," Jason says quietly, after mulling over Tim's question for a beat. "You don't usually ask for something to drink before bed. But you're not allergic, right? I mean… I just fed you a fuck ton of mac and cheese, so I hope not." It's meant to be light, but it comes out a little strangled, and Jason winces when he hears it.
"It's just— my dad used to, before bed," Tim says almost woozily, and his nails brand tiny crescents into Jason's wrist. Jason hardly feels it, considering he's too focused on the blood roaring in his ears like an ocean storm. The world narrows around him to just them, just himself and Tim, and when Tim's words stutter, when his eyes roll back slightly, Jason braces himself for the worst.
"It's okay, Tim, it's okay. It's okay," Jason murmurs as soothingly as he can humanly manage, bracing one hand against Tim's back as Tim starts to list slightly. The kid's battling consciousness to the best of his abilities, by now; his eyelids almost seem to flicker as he grips Jason's wrist like a blood pressure cuff.
Jason draws Tim close, guiding the smaller hand up against his chest.
"It's okay, Tim," he says, practiced at this point, even though he wishes he didn't have to be. This isn't a common occurrence, but Tim beats the hell out of himself when they happen, especially on what he calls good days. This happening the night before Tim goes back to school is a total fucking disaster; it's going to absolutely wreck the kid, and it makes Jason want to fucking gut Jack. "Can you count the beats with me? Come on."
To Jason's surprise, Tim immediately obeys; or— at least, Tim's body obeys before Tim seems to catch on. His chin jerks into a nod a good few seconds before he actually speaks, and it's— odd.
"I can— feel it," Tim sort of gasps, still clutching Jason's wrist like sand clutching at an anchor.
"Good, that's good," Jason says, distracted, because he's fucking uneasy. It's one thing to learn about all of Tim's quirks when he's having fun, when he's puzzling over something, when he's asking hundreds of questions. It's another thing entirely to learn about new traumatic responses that Jason's never seen before— case in point, the one Tim apparently has in reaction to being given milk before bedtime.
"I think I'm— I can breathe again," Tim says, and sort of coughs. "I'm sorry, I didn't— I didn't know—"
"Don't, don't apologize," Jason says, and he swears there's a little tremor in his voice when he rests his forehead against Tim's. "It was my bad. I had no idea that—"
"Me neither," Tim says quickly, miserably, and Jason can tell the kid is embarrassed. It's fucking awful. "I just— I've had milk during the day, but it's… before bedtime, my dad used to… I don't know why I'm so afraid. It's just milk." Tim shakes his head, and then hesitantly winds his arms around Jason's neck. At this angle, Jason can well hear Tim's heartbeats, quick like those of a spooked rabbit; he folds Tim into his arms without hesitation, because for sure the kid is terrified, and so is Jason, for that matter. One of them needs to lock it the hell down, though, and it isn't Tim.
"Can I—" Tim says, and then hesitates. "Can I sleep— er, or. Can you sleep with me tonight?" His arms tighten around Jason's neck. "Please?"
Okay, so now Jason's really worried. Tim has never asked Jason to sleep with him— not at the beginning, not after that night, and not since. Tim values the hell out of his personal space, and while Jason doesn't mind, he's never, ever heard the kid make this request. But with the way Tim's sort of rattling, now, teeth chattering quietly, Jason isn't about to ask Tim if he might want to reconsider.
"Okay, sure, sure," Jason murmurs, patting Tim's back lightly. "Yeah, Tim, I can do that. Lemme just." He glances up at Marco and Dick's grim expressions. "I'm just gonna toss these two out," he jokes weakly, "and then I'll be—"
"I— I wanna say goodbye, too," Tim says shakily, and pulls back from Jason almost fully, save for one finger curled into the waistband of Jason's sweatpants. "I'm sorry, I just…"
"What've we said about apologizing?" Dick asks gently, extending a fist that Tim bumps after a moment of trepidation. "Don't worry about it. What matters is that you're okay." He straightens, and then nudges Marco. "I'm gonna need that cheesecake recipe, though."
"Yeah, sure. And he's right. We're just glad you're okay, Tim," Marco says almost absently, and ruffles Tim's hair; for the most part, he looks relieved, but there's a small groove between his eyebrows, as if he's puzzling over something. When Jason tilts his head questioningly, Marco just shakes his head, mouthing a later at Jason before following Dick to the door. It doesn't exactly inspire confidence in Jason, but he's got a kid to direct all his attention to, for now, so he sets the unease aside.
"You're not… mad at me, right?" Tim asks after they've left, rubbing his eyes, and fuck, the question never fails to wedge itself like a knife underneath Jason's ribs. He knows why Tim asks, but fuck, he hates that Tim feels like he needs to ask.
"'Course not, Tim," Jason says lightly, plucking his pillows up off the floor beside the sofa. "I— I should apologize. I didn't know about the milk."
" I forgot," Tim says, and blearily watches Jason head to the bedroom to dump the pillows on the bed. "It's just that I started to see it as a sign. I knew that if he— gave it to me. It meant..." He pauses, looking ill. "I don't, uh, want to talk about it… if that's okay."
Jason comes to a stop so hard he almost jerks, because please, Jesus fucking Christ, no. And yet, just as much as he wishes it weren't the case, he knows that it's exactly as bad as he'd expected— worse, in fact.
"I won't make that mistake again, Tim," he swears quietly, largely because if he speaks any louder, he's at a real risk for losing his shit at the pillow in his hands. He still manages a reassuring smile, fucking somehow , even though his ears burn something so fierce that he's surprised his hair doesn't catch fire. "C'mon. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
Tim offers him a pale smile and vanishes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Jason sits on the edge of the bed and scrubs his fingers through his hair. He's not a fucking professional, he can't just— make Tim open up, and he doesn't want to push the kid, either. Actually, he's pretty fucking unequipped to deal with it, because his solution is to go on a castration spree or something generally homicidal; he's positive that will help Tim exactly none, though— the kid needs someone to help him unpack what happened to him. Jason wants him to fuckin' be able to drink a goddamn glass of milk before bed, wants him to be able to see someone in a suit without flinching, wants him to never have to ask "is it okay if I'm upset?" The kid fucking deserves as much.
Why the fuck should Jack Drake get to live, unaffected, when he's made it so that Tim has to fight so many little battles every day just to survive?— it feels just as unfair as every breath the Joker's allowed to take, after everything he's fucking done.
He can still hear Dick's words from that night: he needs help beyond what you and I can give him.
Before Tim, there were so many difficult questions that Jason never thought he'd be able to answer— is this vendetta worth everything else? Will I ever stop killing? Will the Joker control me forever? Will I ever be able to ask Bruce for help?—
(—Tim whispers, "Goodnight, Jason, thank you for today," nudges Jason's fingers with a little hand, wraps himself around the plush Red Hood—)
—and just like that, the answers come to Jason as easily as breathing.